Dusty blood lands under
breezes too near to dare want to calm winds or nerves - severed by blows, steel - igniting under cover of missile. Wits have stolen the flank, the studious, those who see enemy blood in hills, lit by fire, khaki by this name means war and blood, then the sergeant. Night peels into day, the heat of napalm, curls orange toward friendly fire, run for life, for pilots measuring by dust and trails and lines drawn with bodies. They are too many for training - for the cavalry so fast, so light, so carrying blood and guts and artillery fire, flanking not or Moore is not, and walk, run - into nothing but courage. Yes, it does not relent, this smell of steel, shavings against skin, easily daring life to begin or end for those who dare to look at it, facing the battle plan that becomes nothing. It is one that was won, was honored as a tribute to skill, tenacity, but bags were filled with the fearless - they cover blood and sweat with soft dust, they wait for a new day. © 2013 Larry Ingram
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Welcome to the poetry web site of Larry Ingram. Larry is a poet, writer and observer of our culture. Categories
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