KINGS of the GREEN JELLY MOON presents a searing collection of poetry written by a group of Vietnam veterans-each successful in their craft, all award-winning poets in their own right. The title Kings of the Green Jelly Moon recalls the innocence of childhood, a time when children believed the moon was made of green cheese. Then Vietnam changed an innocent generation as truth of war became their reality. From the impact of war on young men and how they are forever changed to the stark reality that fighting in a foreign country, the poems in the collection offer, in verse, a Vietnam veterans' reunion. These soldiers were forever changed by the experience that war forces upon those who fight and return from battle. Those who were lost can never be forgotten.

Kings of the Green Jelly Moon

The Book, Volume 1.5By Lloyd King jim greenwald James Jellerson Mike Mullins

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2011 Lloyd King, jim greenwald, James Jellerson, and Mike Mullins
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4620-2789-7

Contents

Chapter One

Wishing I Could Not See

The air is different here.
Tension clings to you like
a glove two sizes too small.
I try not looking into their
eyes ... for fear of seeing their
terror, their fear.
Loud noises causing panic in
their reactions, indecision in
their movements.
The intermixed smells of fear
and death invade the pores of
the body, leaving an unsettled feeling.
Sleep comes far more easily
than rest ... if at all.
At times thoughts turn to later,
to home, and what it would be
like now to be there.
Thoughts quickly banished from
the mind if one wants to stay
sharp ... stay alive.
Combat is only a game before
you become a teenager.
Then you die for real.


Isn't It Strange

Lord, I was born into a poor home.
I grew up quick, I was left alone.
It hurt inside ... isn't it strange?
I became a soldier and picked up a gun.
I was moving around having lots of fun,
'til the killing began ... isn't it strange?
Remember in school, the Golden Rule
"Do unto others; don't judge a book by its cover
or a man by his skin" ... isn't it strange?
Black and white, yellow and red,
killing each other over words that were said.
Such a child's game ... isn't it strange?
The world today is like a child at play,
country killing neighbor because
they never learned to say, "Maybe I'm wrong."
Isn't it strange?
They don't like us, we don't like them,
let's push the button, bring our world to an end.
We'll spend eternity ... together as one.


A Young Soldier's Fancy

When the night allowed any luxury
It was a folded, smelly, flak jacket
'Neath his weary head
Covered by a silky poncho liner
On the ground, damp and clammy wet.
Mother Earth was his bed.
The young soldier's fancy sailed home,
His future e'er and always the same to him,
Including the car he'd have.
College or a good job were in the dream,
The open arms of a round-eyed girl too ...
A welcome from a home he left.
Each night when Lady Luck on him smiled and
A young soldier laid, arms folded, eyes upward,
Visiting his naïve dreamland.
When he boarded that Silver Bird, made the trip,
And had one of those things come true, Hoorah!
I guess one out of three ain't bad!


First Kill

[5/24/68]

I was a squad leader and I'd only been in the jungle eleven days.
A fully trained buck sergeant, but feeling lost in so many ways.
I couldn't stop shaking and my heart was pounding in my chest
Knowing that I had to prove myself worthy, like passing a test.

We'd been humping in the steep mountains ever since I arrived.
The company had been in a firefight and most of them survived.
But, after the firefight, there were only six men left in my squad.
Everyone said it was a miracle they were alive ... an act of God.

Two were wounded seriously and two others had tragically died.
The survivors had to pull the weight of ten, as the order implied.
I was a nervous wreck finding out about my squad's recent fate.
New replacements was a moot issue, we'd simply have to wait.

Stand-to was at 0600, and unbelievably I was told we had point.
Fast Eddie, my automatic rifleman, promptly rolled another joint
Then informed me he couldn't function unless he was on a high.
I told him "No," took his hash, and thought he was going to cry.

I decided to walk point knowing I had personal issues to prove.
I struggled forward, but the dense jungle made it tough to move.
I kept climbing the steep slope until I finally reached the crest
Soaked with sweat, breathing heavy, burning pains in my chest.

I signaled halt ... spread the guys out, so I could recon a clearing.
I didn't like the eerie feeling and unknown sounds I was hearing.
A peculiar odor was permeating the air making me very uneasy.
My nerves were on edge ... stomach in knots ... and I felt queasy.

Scanning the clearing I saw something in my peripheral vision.
I turned quickly and spotted the VC, requiring a quick decision.
I yelled, "Dung yen," meaning "don't move," repeatedly to the VC
But when he reached for his rifle, I knew it would be him or me.

I stood, face-to-face, staring at my very first Vietcong guerrilla.
He was a short, skinny kid and had skin the color of pure vanilla
Wearing long, black pants and shirt which were worn and tattered,
But in that fleeting second of my life, only one thing mattered.

I crouched down fast, squeezed the trigger and fired three rounds.
My slack man reacted instinctively and responded to the sounds,
Spun around quickly, as he fired his grenade launcher or M-79.
His single round hit the VC in the gut a split second after mine.

I'd never seen a person shot before or blood and flesh splatter.
I watched in complete horror as his tiny body began to shatter.
His left bicep, right knee, and abdomen mutilated beyond belief,
I stood frozen, totally shocked, feeling a deep, emotional grief.

My grenadier and squad were all smiles, patting me on the back,
I tried to settle the guys down because I was afraid of an attack,
But nothing else happened so we began digging in for the night.
Yet, all I could think about was his body and the horrible sight.

After my squad was squared away I had to confront my anguish.
Wondering if he was married with kids and if he had a last wish,
I couldn't leave him lying there without burying him properly.
His death was strictly personal and again between him and me.

I got out my trenching tool, pretending to go and relieve myself,
But instead, I solemnly dug a grave rather than thinking of self.
While I was digging, the tears began to flow until I couldn't see.
Yet still I asked angrily, "Why the hell didn't you listen to me?"

I dug a trench and covered the bottom with big palmetto leaves
And carefully placed his body in the grave adjusting his sleeves,
I straightened both legs, then folded both arms across his chest
Telling him under the circumstances I was doing my very best.

I told him that he was the first enemy I had ever seen or killed
And tried to explain to him his fate had apparently been willed.
I recited the Lord's Prayer then I read the Twenty-Third Psalm
And when finished felt relief, but knew I'd have no inner calm.

Walking back to my squad I kept seeing his expressionless look.
The empty look I'd seen vividly with each round his body took.
I'll never forget his cold stare or how bullets hitting flesh sound,
Nor ever forget the sight of his blood soaking the fertile ground.

My very first kill remains indelible because of how it took place.
Staring into my enemy's cold eyes for the first time, face-to-face,
Knowing I had to take a life or lose mine, neither willing to give,
Both of us proud, infantry soldiers, and both determined to live.

I spent the night building his cross and at daybreak set it in place.
Then quietly spent some time with him, part of my morning grace.
I...