Poems in War and Love Archangel You deployed six times, I count them as such Never mind the lingo and the requirements to define – You fought in one of the nastiest of them – Fallujah - Against Al Mahdi and his friends, Yet you came back with all of your men. You grew up in a town that might have been mine, Except that yours was near rivers and mine Was in the desert; You fought in the desert too, Learned to love there, to be fully alive, sober to the threats, To be kind to the populace. Then you fought at the ends Of the earth, making friends all the way, even as you had To remember to be lethal. A dog, you said, in that other Country had come upon you and your forward man: You were trained to slit its throat, You – dog-lover, rescuer of dreams, Faithful man to your wife, whom you left and came home to Twice. Dogs, yes, dogs you are faithful to, and this one did not bark. So you did not have to slice and silence him with a knife, And on that night you made your way back with relief For sparing - at least- one more life. Archangel, Sniper, man from the skies, friend for life. ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈ On the conquest of Raqqa Mourn with your brother in war and Love, Alex, And mourn for the Kurds who have declared Like lions their autonomy. Mourn for the women You miss, indescribable loss not to hold them In your gaze and in your embrace. Mourn the purpose they gave you, both ends Combatants and warriors, women and culture, Ancient, tested in fires from century to century. Mourn, too, your brother and friend, who like Odysseus and Gilgamesh, who like Aeneas And Patrick Leigh Fermor had to voyage back to Woman, society, and cultivation of mother earth; Mourn them who had to sheathe the sword, put it beyond use Back in the head and on the hearth - who always have it at the ready In the heart, in the hand and in the mind And in the memory of those you fought for, that sword From beyond time, now and past and for the future. Mourn them, mourn them all warrior, friend, Poet, lover, son and brother. Mourn, brother Andrew, mourn. Mourn the man who blew up behind you Spinning legs in the air were all you saw, Yet you had to go forward and take the village See the traps, the mines, burned out and blasted Cinderblock of once-homes made sniper shot-watches. Mourn now because you can, brother Andrew. Mourn the families you embraced and those who Adopted you: Mourn and rejoice: So many are alive because of you. So many have hope because of you. ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈ Elaine I want to lay my head in the warmth of your lap Then watch iridescent stars fall behind your hair Trace your brow’s shape, the pomme of your cheek Touch your lips, while tracing light in scintillant eyes. I feel the emanating warmth of your womb Hear your voice in the dark, taste its sweet depths; Then feel your pulse beat through your sex As you shape the sounds of your words - like angels falling, One-third, from the sky. Auburn-haired woman, sapphire-braided skies Halo you, while stars hang pendant From your tilted head even Renoir could not capture. Kiss me with your eyes (and lips), Sing to me with your honeyed voice. ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈ SEB I scent you in the breeze of fall as Spring -- Soft fire, feminine song, emerald eyes: You. You evanesce sooner than the scent of Your body. Oh Soñia, how I wish that you would Place my ring on your finger –and you do. But don’t you know what that means? Or best, you do. That’s what leans me To you, emerald eyes, Soñia Such womanly hips, such warm thighs. I Follow your time, your rhythm, your honeyed Voice, knowing that once I surrender to you -- if That is what you wish -- I am complete or finished. Indicate, say, tell me all I need to know. Time, age, those erase if you say them so. ![]() David Vela is a professor of English at Diablo Valley College, in Pleasant Hill, California, where he is also an advisor to veterans and an instructor and mentor in the Puente Project.
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