The Walls of Fire
By Mike Marcellino
The walls of fire
grow higher
higher,
pools of blood
carnage
bodies of brothers
touching -
rock cliffs and open fields,
Hornet’s Nest at Shiloh,
Devil’s Den, Gettysburg.
The walls of fire
grow higher
higher,
pools of blood
carnage,
bodies of brothers
touching -
sea to shining sea
lost in the Argonne forest
face down on beaches at Normandy,
frozen by the waters
of Chosin Reservoir.
The walls of fire
grow higher
higher,
pools of blood
carnage,
bodies of brothers
touching -
paddies, highlands
Nui Ba Dinh, the Black Virgin Mountain
Ashau Valley,
along the perimeter of Khe Sanh.
The walls of fire
grow higher,
higher
pools of blood,
carnage
bodies of brothers
touching -
empty deserts
filled with giant rising suns,
Fallujah rooftops,
unknown streets of Sidr City
barren mountains,
caves of Tora Bora.
The walls of fire
grow higher
higher
pools of blood,
carnage
bodies of brothers
touching.
The walls of fire copyright by Mike Marcellino 2009
Notebook Writer: poetry, music, photography and writing of Mike Marcellino
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
What if, a poem
What if
by Mike Marcellino
What if
we carried plowshares,
not swords.
What if
we did good
without conditions,
expectations.
What if
we didn’t hate
didn’t participate,
traded love
for fear.
What if
we had
no excuses,
rationale
for carrying
rifles,
instead of hammers.
What if
Gandhi
Martin
Mohamed
Jesus
and Buddha
were here.
Would we
pass by.
What if
we all
had post
traumatic
stress
disorder
and
listened
to the CBC.
What if we
put our lives
on the line
for peace
before it
becomes
a war cliché.
What if
we all got
Purple Hearts.
Would we
award them to our children?
What if copyright Mike Marcellino 2009
by Mike Marcellino
What if
we carried plowshares,
not swords.
What if
we did good
without conditions,
expectations.
What if
we didn’t hate
didn’t participate,
traded love
for fear.
What if
we had
no excuses,
rationale
for carrying
rifles,
instead of hammers.
What if
Gandhi
Martin
Mohamed
Jesus
and Buddha
were here.
Would we
pass by.
What if
we all
had post
traumatic
stress
disorder
and
listened
to the CBC.
What if we
put our lives
on the line
for peace
before it
becomes
a war cliché.
What if
we all got
Purple Hearts.
Would we
award them to our children?
What if copyright Mike Marcellino 2009
Monday, December 29, 2008
Waiting down from Galilee, a poem
Waiting down from Galilee
by Mike Marcellino
What are we waiting for
sings a young Nashville girl
in a ballad for MTV.
Waiting down from Galilee.
What are we waiting for
asks an old man
piloting a ferry boat
to the South China Sea.
Waiting down from Galilee.
What are we waiting for
peace
to work
raise a family
faithfully.
Waiting down from Galilee.
What are we waiting for
divine intervention
in Tennessee
Vietnam
Gaza
Tel Aviv.
Waiting down from Galilee.
Waiting down from Galilee copyright Mike Marcellino 2008
After the fall, a poem
After the fall
By Mike Marcellino
In a time of universal deceit –
telling the truth is a revolutionary act. - George Orwell
Stolen quotes,
Stolen hours.
Together,
Day and night
Frozen by time
After the Fall.
A knight cold
In amour,
Drinking
Irish whiskey
Riding
After a girl of Twenty
Who goes her way
In a vegan powered bus from Omaha to Austin.
Stolen quotes,
Stolen hours.
Together,
Day and night
Frozen by time
After the Fall.
Anarchists hidden
In castles of fog,
on grey naked fields,
Midi-Pyrénées
Of the Counts of Toulouse
After the Fall.
Copyright 2008 by Mike Marcellino
By Mike Marcellino
In a time of universal deceit –
telling the truth is a revolutionary act. - George Orwell
Stolen quotes,
Stolen hours.
Together,
Day and night
Frozen by time
After the Fall.
A knight cold
In amour,
Drinking
Irish whiskey
Riding
After a girl of Twenty
Who goes her way
In a vegan powered bus from Omaha to Austin.
Stolen quotes,
Stolen hours.
Together,
Day and night
Frozen by time
After the Fall.
Anarchists hidden
In castles of fog,
on grey naked fields,
Midi-Pyrénées
Of the Counts of Toulouse
After the Fall.
Copyright 2008 by Mike Marcellino
Ok you, a poem with photographs
Ok you
by Mike Marcellino
I
Yesterday helpless moments nearly cracked me up
at XA TAM THO HIEP.
In chipped black letters
said the hamlet’s sign over the gate.
The day
left footprints on my brain;
Wrapped up in Vietnamese children and guns.
The children lit my eyes.
The guns bored my ears
ringing.
Stepped into the sluggish heat
back ‘n’ forth
war to a naked child.
by Mike Marcellino
I
Yesterday helpless moments nearly cracked me up
at XA TAM THO HIEP.
In chipped black letters
said the hamlet’s sign over the gate.
The day
left footprints on my brain;
Wrapped up in Vietnamese children and guns.
The children lit my eyes.
The guns bored my ears
ringing.
Stepped into the sluggish heat
back ‘n’ forth
war to a naked child.
Had a little friend
I’ll never see again;
Looked down
at his fraying, worn-soft hat;
Looked up
at the string of unfaded new ones
in the hamlet’s many-goods store.
II
Sampans,
thatched-roof huts,
in all shades of brown ‘n
n’skins
n’ stagnant watering mud holes.
This river-fed village
ever so struck
my shinny-metal,
clean-sheet mind
from first darkness to last,
each move clung
still clinging;
A red sun painted on the river’s ripples
showing the way to the day
laid open
by always hot tomorrow bringer.
Dykes of preoccupation broke down
in XA TAM THO HEIP,
making a slushy body
and an open mind.
III
I was cornered in a schoolroom
barren of learning
and window-paneless
with wooden stuff and rubble
filled with tens upon tens
of dark and dirty-skilled hungry hands
that took me to the brink of helplessness.
Their voices in tune
with outstretching hands
crying in monotone
“Ok you,
Ok you,
Ok you,”
to me.
Over ‘n over
hands upon hands
hungry
for balloons.
Both gestures and sounds
of children
only broken
by cannons’
rocking blasts
bringing tiny index fingers
up to plug small ears.
I reached to the ceiling
and they clung and clutched
and followed
for a green balloon.
Tiny kids
crushed and swallowed.
I fought to keep sight of two hanging tears;
N’ once n’ a while
a snot-nosed baby
in his mother’s arms
came by.
Not a time of charm.
Your worth of colored balloons?
Hard to blow up ones,
that redden your face.
My appeals –
enough for everyone
I open only give one
at a time.
“Is red in
or out?”
By blood
given or sold?”
Some stuffed their match-book size pockets,
others cried.
“Was it a thing?
child-like
funny,
happening?”
I would not let go
the balloons to chaos,
nor,
let myself madden.
Me –
a stranger,
a non-speaker
among enlightening faces.
“One
two,
three,”
said me
to plop one balloon
in a hand
for clutching;
“Two bags of balloons
almost ugly
the giving,”
thinks balloon-less, self-relieved me.
IV
Men heaped soap to them,
like slop to pigs,
to scrambling
tatterly-clad kids.
I threw no balloons.
“What? non-speakers
throw things
at people
even,
hungry people.”
Though, “none were sick,”
said Doctor Soap.
V
A three-ringed circus
at XA TAM THO HIEP –
two big guns
and a give-away fun
in the riverside hamlet
off the beaten path
off the waterway
from Saigon to the South China Sea.
Two rings blasted jagged metal
from howitzers
and the men
and the guns
sank into the swampy earth;
Kids dragged
wooden shell boxes
and cardboard casings away.
Men and guns
too muddled;
Men huddled
with children echoing English –
“Ok you,
Ok you,
Ok you;”
And the rings gave way
to the rising tide.
Two boys
racing
through mucky water
to bobbing
sea ration cans;
And the rectangular, blue-gray boats
pulled out
with me sleeping.
Copyright Mike Marcellino, 1968, 1989, 2007, 2008
I’ll never see again;
Looked down
at his fraying, worn-soft hat;
Looked up
at the string of unfaded new ones
in the hamlet’s many-goods store.
II
Sampans,
thatched-roof huts,
in all shades of brown ‘n
n’skins
n’ stagnant watering mud holes.
This river-fed village
ever so struck
my shinny-metal,
clean-sheet mind
from first darkness to last,
each move clung
still clinging;
A red sun painted on the river’s ripples
showing the way to the day
laid open
by always hot tomorrow bringer.
Dykes of preoccupation broke down
in XA TAM THO HEIP,
making a slushy body
and an open mind.
III
I was cornered in a schoolroom
barren of learning
and window-paneless
with wooden stuff and rubble
filled with tens upon tens
of dark and dirty-skilled hungry hands
that took me to the brink of helplessness.
Their voices in tune
with outstretching hands
crying in monotone
“Ok you,
Ok you,
Ok you,”
to me.
Over ‘n over
hands upon hands
hungry
for balloons.
Both gestures and sounds
of children
only broken
by cannons’
rocking blasts
bringing tiny index fingers
up to plug small ears.
I reached to the ceiling
and they clung and clutched
and followed
for a green balloon.
Tiny kids
crushed and swallowed.
I fought to keep sight of two hanging tears;
N’ once n’ a while
a snot-nosed baby
in his mother’s arms
came by.
Not a time of charm.
Your worth of colored balloons?
Hard to blow up ones,
that redden your face.
My appeals –
enough for everyone
I open only give one
at a time.
“Is red in
or out?”
By blood
given or sold?”
Some stuffed their match-book size pockets,
others cried.
“Was it a thing?
child-like
funny,
happening?”
I would not let go
the balloons to chaos,
nor,
let myself madden.
Me –
a stranger,
a non-speaker
among enlightening faces.
“One
two,
three,”
said me
to plop one balloon
in a hand
for clutching;
“Two bags of balloons
almost ugly
the giving,”
thinks balloon-less, self-relieved me.
IV
Men heaped soap to them,
like slop to pigs,
to scrambling
tatterly-clad kids.
I threw no balloons.
“What? non-speakers
throw things
at people
even,
hungry people.”
Though, “none were sick,”
said Doctor Soap.
V
A three-ringed circus
at XA TAM THO HIEP –
two big guns
and a give-away fun
in the riverside hamlet
off the beaten path
off the waterway
from Saigon to the South China Sea.
Two rings blasted jagged metal
from howitzers
and the men
and the guns
sank into the swampy earth;
Kids dragged
wooden shell boxes
and cardboard casings away.
Men and guns
too muddled;
Men huddled
with children echoing English –
“Ok you,
Ok you,
Ok you;”
And the rings gave way
to the rising tide.
Two boys
racing
through mucky water
to bobbing
sea ration cans;
And the rectangular, blue-gray boats
pulled out
with me sleeping.
Copyright Mike Marcellino, 1968, 1989, 2007, 2008
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Music Street, a poem
Music Street
By Mike Marcellino
I know a street called Music Street
wish you could come along.
Music Street sings to me
it could do the same for you.
Driving along it’s quiet too
but you have to walk to hear your song
on Music Street.
There’s a picture in my mind
two little girls kneeling
beside a tombstone in a cemetery
alongside the road.
Grain fields dance on Music Street
In tune with the flickering sun.
Come along with me down Music Street,
when your mind is getting tired,
for the song I hear is one of
just peace and fun.
Music Street, copyright by Mike Marcellino, 1974, 2008
By Mike Marcellino
I know a street called Music Street
wish you could come along.
Music Street sings to me
it could do the same for you.
Driving along it’s quiet too
but you have to walk to hear your song
on Music Street.
There’s a picture in my mind
two little girls kneeling
beside a tombstone in a cemetery
alongside the road.
Grain fields dance on Music Street
In tune with the flickering sun.
Come along with me down Music Street,
when your mind is getting tired,
for the song I hear is one of
just peace and fun.
Music Street, copyright by Mike Marcellino, 1974, 2008
Sunday, October 28, 2007
i knew Joan Baez, a poem
i knew Joan Baez
by mike marcellino
i knew joan baez
joan baez.
i knew she would
pick
this
one,
her little sister.
joan baez
i knew she would
pick
this one.
she had a choice -
barbwire
or
bobbing 155 mm shell casing
on the Oriental River,
no number
rung sat zone
south, southeast of Saigon
the delta hell on earth,
special forces
say.
i knew joan baez
joan baez,
i knew she would pick this one,
like her little sister -
joan baez,
i knew joan baez.
i knew she would pick this one
copyright Mike Marcellino
by mike marcellino
i knew joan baez
joan baez.
i knew she would
pick
this
one,
her little sister.
joan baez
i knew she would
pick
this one.
she had a choice -
barbwire
or
bobbing 155 mm shell casing
on the Oriental River,
no number
rung sat zone
south, southeast of Saigon
the delta hell on earth,
special forces
say.
i knew joan baez
joan baez,
i knew she would pick this one,
like her little sister -
joan baez,
i knew joan baez.
i knew she would pick this one
copyright Mike Marcellino
Friday, October 26, 2007
Taipei Subway, a poem
Taipei Subway
By Mike Marcellino
Taipei Subway
Another day,
Night
Underground
White bright lights
Two guys and
Guitars
Singing
Where?
Taipei Subway.
Two guys and
Guitar
Singing
Where?
Taipei Subway.
There
No where
Nobody there.
Taipei Subway
Twins
Taipei Subway
Twins.
Pictures
In dark
4 color corners
4 color
4 color.
Taipei Subway
Twins.
Another day,
Night
Underground
White bright lights
White bright lights.
They weren’t
Supposed to be
There,
Somewhere,
Anywhere;
Early commuters,
People appearing
In a tunnel
White tile walls
Of love
Disappointed.
Taipei Subway
Twins
Taipei Subway
Twins.
Another day,
Night
Underground.
White bright lights
Taipei Subway,
Subway.
Two guys
Guitars
Singing.
Where
There
Nowhere.
Taipei Subway
Subway,
Subway
To a night game
For the
Taipei Subway Twins
Taiwan Subway Twins
4 color,
4 color,
4 color.
Copyright Mike Marcellino, 2007
By Mike Marcellino
Taipei Subway
Another day,
Night
Underground
White bright lights
Two guys and
Guitars
Singing
Where?
Taipei Subway.
Two guys and
Guitar
Singing
Where?
Taipei Subway.
There
No where
Nobody there.
Taipei Subway
Twins
Taipei Subway
Twins.
Pictures
In dark
4 color corners
4 color
4 color.
Taipei Subway
Twins.
Another day,
Night
Underground
White bright lights
White bright lights.
They weren’t
Supposed to be
There,
Somewhere,
Anywhere;
Early commuters,
People appearing
In a tunnel
White tile walls
Of love
Disappointed.
Taipei Subway
Twins
Taipei Subway
Twins.
Another day,
Night
Underground.
White bright lights
Taipei Subway,
Subway.
Two guys
Guitars
Singing.
Where
There
Nowhere.
Taipei Subway
Subway,
Subway
To a night game
For the
Taipei Subway Twins
Taiwan Subway Twins
4 color,
4 color,
4 color.
Copyright Mike Marcellino, 2007
Fields of destruction, a short story
fields of destruction
Even in 2007, most baseball fans know of Bob Feller, who could have been the best pitcher in baseball history if he hadn’t “walked off the mound” to join the Navy on Monday, December 8, 1941, the day after the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. The mound in the diamond of Cleveland Municipal Stadium, built in 1931 and destroyed 64 years later, which just happens to be my age to date.
What not many people ever knew, except Iowans, was they called young Feller “the heater from Van Meter,” Iowa that is. Today’s population 866. The railroad tracks headed west and a farm road called R Road make a cross and that’s Van Meter.
Feller could be one of the heroes of William Casey Blake, who hails less than 20 miles or so down the road east in Des Moines. Blake plays ball in Cleveland’s new ball park. It’s called Jacobs Field, rather poetic, I think, and something like Baltimore’s Camden Yards, near the train station.
Whether Iowan Blake was named after the mighty Casey who struck out breaking a bunch of hearts I don’t know. Probably. The third baseman and a few other Cleveland Indians may be the subject of a few not exactly upbeat poems after the “Tribe” fell apartment after getting up on Boston 3-1 in the best of seven American League Championship.
Fans in Cleveland (and it will probably catch on) are calling it “The Collapse.” Cleveland sports team history is filled with bat shattering two word nationally, if not world known, epitaphs.
The Catch, the Polo Grounds , September 29, 1954.
Some think say hay Willie Mays’ An over the shoulder wide receiver style back to home plate the greatest grab in baseball history. The San Francisco Giants turned a 2-2 tie into a win and went on to defeat the Indians who put into the record books one of the best seasons in baseball history. The Giants took four straight off the Indians winning the World Series. Someone on Wikipedia says that people say that Vic Wertz drive to straight center traveled 450 feet. That can’t be possible, can it? Wikipedia, did they ever play “polo” in the Polo Grounds?
But, I am getting ahead of myself and away from the freshest Cleveland professional sports team suicides, in a 53- year- long trail of unraveling I followed until I collapsed.
I affectionately titled my story, “Fields of Destruction” because the Indians remind me of the Vietnam War era classic, “The Eve of Destruction.” I thought the song was called “Fields of Destruction,” having been in some of those fields and by Eric Burdon and the Animals rather than Barry McGuire, that I now remember as a movie with Tom Cruise about a football players’ agent that I saw part of a few times.
I was almost in Van Meter once without even knowing it’s the home of the Bob Feller Museum. Actually, Van Meter is just a few miles west along Interstate 80 from a whole Google of Super 8 motels. I have a Super 8 card somewhere. I came as close as Jimmy’s All American restaurant and bar, a place where a writer from Cleveland posing as a movie scout was immediately and continuously hugged and kissed and bought beers all Wednesday night, the only night things jump in Des Monies, I as told. Just call me lucky, but that does put some distance between me and the Indians.
What not many people ever knew, except Iowans, was they called young Feller “the heater from Van Meter,” Iowa that is. Today’s population 866. The railroad tracks headed west and a farm road called R Road make a cross and that’s Van Meter.
Feller could be one of the heroes of William Casey Blake, who hails less than 20 miles or so down the road east in Des Moines. Blake plays ball in Cleveland’s new ball park. It’s called Jacobs Field, rather poetic, I think, and something like Baltimore’s Camden Yards, near the train station.
Whether Iowan Blake was named after the mighty Casey who struck out breaking a bunch of hearts I don’t know. Probably. The third baseman and a few other Cleveland Indians may be the subject of a few not exactly upbeat poems after the “Tribe” fell apartment after getting up on Boston 3-1 in the best of seven American League Championship.
Fans in Cleveland (and it will probably catch on) are calling it “The Collapse.” Cleveland sports team history is filled with bat shattering two word nationally, if not world known, epitaphs.
The Catch, the Polo Grounds , September 29, 1954.
Some think say hay Willie Mays’ An over the shoulder wide receiver style back to home plate the greatest grab in baseball history. The San Francisco Giants turned a 2-2 tie into a win and went on to defeat the Indians who put into the record books one of the best seasons in baseball history. The Giants took four straight off the Indians winning the World Series. Someone on Wikipedia says that people say that Vic Wertz drive to straight center traveled 450 feet. That can’t be possible, can it? Wikipedia, did they ever play “polo” in the Polo Grounds?
But, I am getting ahead of myself and away from the freshest Cleveland professional sports team suicides, in a 53- year- long trail of unraveling I followed until I collapsed.
I affectionately titled my story, “Fields of Destruction” because the Indians remind me of the Vietnam War era classic, “The Eve of Destruction.” I thought the song was called “Fields of Destruction,” having been in some of those fields and by Eric Burdon and the Animals rather than Barry McGuire, that I now remember as a movie with Tom Cruise about a football players’ agent that I saw part of a few times.
I was almost in Van Meter once without even knowing it’s the home of the Bob Feller Museum. Actually, Van Meter is just a few miles west along Interstate 80 from a whole Google of Super 8 motels. I have a Super 8 card somewhere. I came as close as Jimmy’s All American restaurant and bar, a place where a writer from Cleveland posing as a movie scout was immediately and continuously hugged and kissed and bought beers all Wednesday night, the only night things jump in Des Monies, I as told. Just call me lucky, but that does put some distance between me and the Indians.
Copyright by Mike Marcellino 2008
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)