Once they were young and shined .....
And just like the incredible blue of his eyes
the beauty only slightly jaded
He picks up the old boots from out
of the old chest worn then faded
His hair now white though once
Irish raven black
He thinks of the dress blues
in the clost ...way in the back
He would someday toss them with
ribbons and medals in the pocket
The same way a lover hides away
her rings necklace her locket
The last time he wore those boots
Da Nang nineteen sixty eight
"Happy valley.."the rock "...."hill fifty- five"
all of them ....his fate
But the boots hold his attention
for a little too long
As in the back of his mind
the music to a song
Whats the name of it ? He tries
remembering the words
Whispering ...."puff the magic dragon"or
"what a beautiful world"
He snaps his fingers and the sound
makes him more aware as well
One day he's in the "bush"with the devil
then "twenty four and a wake up "
he came back to his own hell
Yet its not the music he remembers as much as the smells , napalm and diesel in the burning privy trenches , the physically and mind altering yet invigorating chop-wop sounds of the" Huey " helicopter blades , the first taste of his own blood and then someone elses muscle tissue soaking into his own gungle camos' , those images , the smells and kodak visions in his head that appear out of no where , like a monsoon rain in the 'bush'.....you know ! the ones they told him to "just forget about them " in sixty -nine........Have you hugged a veteran today ?