Alone in loneliness, his mind travels back, again.
Candles flicker-dance in the semi-darkness of the room, 
Life in shadows on walls…horror-stricken from it all.
A boy, eighteen, a hostile jungle in a foreign land,
The camouflaged warrior. That killer is now a man.
 
Whoop, whoop, whoop, gunships pound the air, drop in low,
Mini-guns ablaze, fire rockets, killing more NVA as they go.
Still outnumbered thirty to one, NVA plans to overrun;
Small arms fire, rocket-propelled grenades hit the mark.
Wounded-dying call for mother, medic, lost in the fight.
 
Suppressive fire their only chance to save the Team,
Ra-tat-tat bullets whiz by, pierce flesh, more cries, medic!
RPG, death rains from the sky; shrapnel tears deep within.
Gushing blood must be stopped; he needs morphine fast.  
Stay the course, drift in and out, never die, keep up the fight.
 
Silver-winged angels from on high fly Air Force F-4 Phantoms. 
Pilot identifies smoke, verifies coordinates as they roar by.
Like eagles, they fly low, dropping canisters as they go. Napalm!
Ear-spitting sounds, destruction, burned-burning 
dying all around. 
Fires ablaze, smell the Napalm, taste the death, 
forever it will remain.
 
Medivaced, boys wounded, dying, no memories, living in a fog.
Pinned with medals, Purple Heart, Valor. He recovers fast.
So surreal, to the jungle he goes, but with Uncle Ho; 
the war lasts.
Monsoons, mosquitoes, malaria, more blood and guts, and battles.
Pushing through the jungle, slaughtered like cattle. For what?
 
Freedom Bird flies high to take him back to the World, his home.
Parents’ joy, now dismay, who is this man: 
what is wrong, leave us.
Mother says, “I don’t know you! You’re not my son.”  
Fighting tears, he goes.
Alone again at just nineteen, the bars become his friend; 
the drinks flow.
A death wish: come one, come all; he’s primed and ready 
to fight them all.
 
Years pass, so do women and jobs until he meets her, 
the right one at last.
She helps him and takes him to the VA hospital; he’s diagnosed: 
PTSD.
Years of therapy begin; continual flashbacks and nightmares 
never end.
A new diagnosis, Bipolar Disorder; for him one more gift 
from Vietnam.
Many more hospital trips, shackled, four-points, strapped 
to a bed. 
 
Age forty, another surprise gift arrives: Type II diabetes.
Agent Orange.
A new diet must begin, but he likes his beer, ice cream, 
and cake. 
He does not heed the warnings until the needle becomes 
his fate.
The warrior’s strong body gave way to the roly-poly man 
at the gate.
He worked his body hard, got off the insulin, and life 
became great.
 
As more years passed, his nightmares and flashbacks 
did not subside.
The therapist, who had never known war, said, “Look on 
the bright side;
Although disabled, battle-scared, PTSD, and diabetes, 
you’re still alive.”
He wondered if that were true for brothers killed; the war 
ended too soon.
A song, an odor, fireworks, he’s back in the jungle, 
and his war starts over.
 
Years mount, grey upon the beard, and he begins to walk 
a little slower.
Blood work and a trip to the VA brings a new special delivery 
from Vietnam:
Agent Orange returns. His prostate and more must go, 
a lifesaving surgery.
To a nurse, the surgeon says, “His loss is not good news, 
but at least he’s alive.”
With his eyes closed, he thinks of making love and wonders 
as he cries.
 
After recovery, she wants him to end the isolation 
of all those many years.
A psychiatrist and a friend, Dr. Rob, suggests he join a group, 
men with PTSD,
Sharing, caring for one another, good times and bad, 
a move forward,
And two steps back when the Facilitator left, and the group 
came to an end.
Dr. Rob called on him to become State Certified and volunteer 
to lead again.
 
Things were going well; he took the position, and years 
of isolation came to an end.
Another new gift from Vietnam arrived: bladder cancer. 
Agent Orange once more.
More surgery, infusions into the bladder, more blood work, 
finally remission.
Giving all to the veterans he serves, teaching therapeutic writing 
to the survivors,
Veterans’ Voices, an outlet, a means of publishing heartfelt 
stories for many.
 
Grateful for all things, good and bad, that have happened 
in his life.
At 71 years of age, he knows God was there by his side 
in that horrid jungle.
And now another gift from Vietnam long since passed: 
Agent Orange again.
Parkinson’s disease: no smell, no taste, a failing gait, 
and tremors abound. 
Keep going, serving our nation’s veterans, and he knows 
God is still around.
 
Twilight, again in his room; candles flicker-dance 
shadows on walls. 
He wonders. What’s next, Agent Orange? 

Writing group: Cincinnati VAMC