MIA--Missing in America

by Matthew Davison

Poem


Ella's Submarine

by David Ludlow

Prose


Why We Stand

by kimberly green

Poem


Veteran’s Day

by James Breitweser

Poem


Control

by Trina Mioner

Prose


Infinite Infinities of the American Legion Preamble

by CJ Reeves

Poem


His Limbo Soliloquy

By Carl Palmer, Army

Writing Type: Poem

By Carl "Papa" Palmer

--University Place, WA

                                    

"Actually, I like lockdown. I already was before COVID anyway,
but now I’ve got my privacy. No family feeling forced to visit
or hold vigil in my netherworld, he confides through the phone."

Both of us former Army soldiers placing us on common ground
made introductions easier with the usual “where were we when”
comparisons of duty assignments all military members embrace.
 
Though sharing multiple telephone calls these past seven months
since my assignment to be his companion as a hospice volunteer,
I have yet to meet him face-to-face due to pandemic restrictions.
 
Using his bedside number at the nursing home I can call anytime,
not worry about visiting hours, ask if he’s busy, got time to talk.
 
His answer’s most always the same, "Just busy here being alone,
too close to death to complain." Clicking me to speaker, he begins
what he calls “me-memories from a time when when was when.”
 
Mostly musing of being anywhere but there, lost in an actual
   place,
blurring “what was with what is” behind and in front of his
   shadow,
recalling dreams as a younger man, of a future in past perfect
   tense.
 
And times talking of present times from his no man’s land
   outpost,
"All days end as they begin in purgatory, today recopying
   yesterday,
cared for by hosts of faceless masked angels not letting me 
  
   die alone.
 
"Forgive me for only thinking of myself; I just need you to
   hear I’m here.
Inside I’m your age, the two of us sharing a brew at the NCO
   club,
years ago and oceans away, comrades-in-arms talking of our day."
 
To me he’s the sergeant with permanent change of station orders
in transition for his final mission, ending his time on active
   service,
in hopes his God is religious and his terminal assignment is
   good.
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

     

Notes: The 90-year-old veteran on Hospice, diagnosed with PTSD and advanced dementia residing in the assisted living facility on pandemic lockdown allowing no visitors other than me through his bedside telephone.

Daddy's Hand

by Dan Yates

Poem


Endeavor

by Penny Deere

Art


Light the Way

by Michelle Pond

Photograph


Lonely Soldier

by Jason Bartley

Array


Respect

by Lawrence Langman

Poem


Ride 'em Cowboy

by Dan Yates

Prose