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Who Am I?

I am a white, heterosexual, cisgender male. Some might say this makes me an oppressor.

I am the son of a working-class family, the first to go to college. Some might say this makes me a bootstrapper.

I work with my mind and a keyboard is my most valuable tool. I enjoy learning, thinking, the arts, and the sciences. Some might say this makes me part of the elite.

I served my country, in the way that I could.

I am a husband, trying to be the best that I can.

In my genes I am a neither a father nor a son, but I am both in my heart.

I am a man.

I am a human.

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Missing Inaction

I. Vietnam

 

“No church today, colonel.”

Said the man who rowed

Him across the river.

 

An explosion, deafening,

Even to an Infantryman.

Clapboard, pews aflame.

 

Of 4 years of combat,

This is the only story

My grandfather told.

 

One man,

One sentence,

Saved his life.

 

He walked with God

And water buffalo,

And the Vietnamese.

 

He spoke 6 tongues.

And had many names.

Grandfather. Dad. Colonel.

 

 

II. Vietnam, Basic

 

A colonel’s 2nd deployment…

His daughters dreamed

he’d be killed in action.

 

But the colonel went,

like soldiers before him,

kissed the states goodbye.

 

He refused bad orders,

saving most of his unit,

but he was killed.

 

Grandpa in tears.

Why did I tell him?

I said I was sorry.

 

He said, “We were

in basic together.

I didn’t know.”

 

His friend had died

Half a world away,

Half a century ago.

 

 

III. Japan

 

Grandpa sent his brother

In the Navy, a note,

A 1948 Japanese yen.

 

Ripped in half. Written.

The names of six men,

As lost as the other half.

 

Officers? Operatives?

Men’s faces blur. Time.

Saki-smoke-laughter.

 

No one knows where,

Why it was sent,

or who the men were.

 

Important enough

To write, to save

for 60 years.

 

 

IV. Home

 

These men were.

Missing inaction.

Solid but never still.

 

We cannot pretend

cannot convince me

one doesn’t matter.

 

One sentence.

One man lost.

One man saved.

 

When the border is gone.

And the mission is over,

Enemies, tremors defeated,

 

It’s what they built.

Third culture kids.

Bridges and bonds.

 

I am not a soldier

It’s not my story.

But nor am I separate.

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An Introduction

Without even realizing it was happening, here I am, a contributor. One should really be careful what you say to James Burns, it usually results in action. I am not of a deep intellectual bent. I am simple and pragmatic. My perceptions are shaped by seeking others and trying to connect to their experience. Empathy. It’s a powerful driving force. It makes change in the world.
So in keeping with the others, my poetic introduction.

Anger of my father
Fears of my mother
Smoke and grime
Of the blue collar city
Prejudice and arrogance
Of proud mountains
Irish blarney
German practicality
Child of poverty
Companion of shame
Woman who grudgingly
Bears their name
Third generation
First with education
Genetically primed
For addiction
Forged in the crucible
Of my parents contempt
Reaping the fruits
They would resent
Washing away
Their history
In faith
Writing
My own story

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Redonculous

National Cathedral

There was a young man from a farm,
Who saw the whole world filled with harm.
While people can be great, in groups they learn hate,
And resort to violence- Oh Darn!