Blooded and Passport by Charles H. Johnson

«In Flanders' Fields» - published & illustrated in 1918
Originally uploaded by jbrichter_de

Hey kids - read these poems for tomorrow. Please copy and paste them into a word document and bring it with you to class.

BLOODED

A half hour after the shots
the calls came through loud and clear.
My RTO handed me the receiver.
Congratulations. I was blooded.

The 1st and 3rd platoon leaders
radioed their approval. No longer
was I green like the jungle
in which I was buried.

Congratulations. I was blooded.

My platoon had recorded its first kill.
North Vietnamese regular. Pith helmet,
uniform, rubber-tire sandals
adorning a lifeless body.

One bullet cleanly through his forehead.
Congratulations. I was blooded.
The enemy was dead,
ambushed from behind a tree.

Odd there was no blood visible
draining from the body. Existence fled
when the bullet hit its target
but the only thing that bled
all over the jungle floor
was my innocence.

Congratulations. I was blooded.


PASSPORT

Poetry is news that happens

every time it’s read.

- Clayton Evans

A harvest of trees from Canada
brings news from around the world.
It arrives each morning on my doorstep –
my passport to other lands.

Sipping coffee I’m blinded
by the flash of a terrorist blast
in Israel. Blood runs everywhere.
My cup too slippery to hold.
I cradle it in my hands
to steady the quaking shaking
me awake. The Holy Land welcomes
me with its own brand of salvation.

Back across the ocean
I slip into Northern Ireland
unnoticed by Protestants and Catholics
who keep the same day holy
while believing the other side is wrong.
The IRA apologizes
for hundreds of civilian deaths
during 30 years of bombings.
Cries of "Why?"
drown out any celebration.
Coffee scalds my tongue.

Ink rubs off onto my fingers
but not enough fades to erase
my entrance into Iraq
where civilization’s parents
want to spank
their 21st-century offspring.
They say the only option left
is “holy war” against the West.
I refuse to wait for it to begin.
I turn the page and travel to India
while eating sausage and eggs.

Three Indian strike divisions
pull back from the border of Pakistan.
These new nuclear superpowers
toss the atom back and forth
like a cue ball they fear
will glance off the rack and disappear
into a corner pocket of oblivion.
Nowhere is there mention of the Taj Mahal.
Only Mecca’s call falls from minarets.

No rain in Spain today.
The country detains
three suspected terrorists
who would return the Alhambra
to its Muslim architects
centuries after expulsion
by beliefs in a different master builder.

I swallow the last piece of toast
dry like dust swirling at a bullfight
where only the matador dies.
It’s time to go to work.

On my way out the door
I toss the newspaper on the sofa.
Six alternatives for the downed
World Trade Center vie for acceptance
on the front page.
The global faith they profess is in money –
the seed growing more trees
in Canada which each morning provides
my passport to other lands.