Poems
Come For Me Twenty
years in the jungle has taken it's toll on me. The
scars of my torture will never go away. If my
family believed there's a chance I'd survived, Some
captors say you don't know I'm here, Other
captors say you know that I'm here, I'll
have faith in my country 'till my dying day. LeAnn Thieman 1987 |
A Soldiers Christmas
Author : Unknown 'Twas the night before Christmas, he lived all alone, I had come down the chimney with presents to give I look all about, a strange sight I did see, No stocking by the mantle just boots filled with sand, There were medals and badges, awards of all kinds, For this house was different, it was dark and dreary, The soldier lay sleeping,
silent, alone, The face was so gentle, the room in such disorder, Was this the hero of whom I'd just read? I realized the families that I saw this night, Soon 'round the world, the
children would play, They enjoyed freedom each
month of the year, I had to wonder how many
lay alone, The very thought brought a
tear to my eye, The soldier awakened and I
heard a rough voice, I fight for freedom, I
don't ask for more, I kept watch for hours, so
silent and still, Then the soldier rolled
over, with a voice soft and sure, |
KENNY (An excerpt from Memories Are Like Clouds) By Diana Dell Kenny died in Vietnam on November 5, 1968, a date etched forever in my memory. While walking point on his final day, my brother moved a platoon through a heavily mined area and disarmed several booby traps. His scout dog tripped a well-concealed land mine; and the fragments from the explosion killed Kenny and his dog instantly, or so the Army informed our family, obviously, to lessen the pain. Before flying off to war 10 months earlier, he talked into the nights of returning a hero with medals to prove it. And that he did. Kenny came home with numerous decorations, including the posthumously awarded Bronze Star with first oak leaf cluster. The citation, by direction of President Lyndon Baines Johnson, stated that Kenny "distinguished himself by exceptional heroism in connection with ground operations against an armed hostile force in the Republic of Vietnam while assigned to the 49th Infantry Platoon (Scout Dog), 199th Light Infantry Brigade. Sergeant Dell's valorous actions and devotion to duty, at the cost of his own life, were in keeping with the highest traditions of the military service and reflected great credit upon himself, the 199th Light Infantry Brigade, and the United States Army." It is still agonizingly painful to remember the funeral. I stared in a daze as the seven uniformed reservists, safe from combat but not its destruction, stood at attention, aimed their rifles at Heaven, and fired three times with precision. The 21-gun salute sounded like three single shots. Taps drifted throughout the cemetery and touched the souls of those congregated, even the people who did not know Kenny, 21 for eternity, lying in the flag-draped coffin. The young men cried the hardest; many openly wept for perhaps the first time in their adult lives. More than for Kenny, they seemed to grieve for themselves, for their own generation, for their own useless war. The remaining tearless women could not hold back any longer when they heard the angry boys sobbing uncontrollably. Exhausted with sorrow, I could not shed a tear. I resented the obvious response taps was meant to evoke. Losing Kenny forever was unthinkable. Because being at that grave site was unbearable, my only means of escape was the past. From Kenny's final resting place, I stared down at our little town in the valley and let my thoughts float like the clouds above the cemetery back in time to childhood. Memories are like clouds. They drift in and out of our minds in no particular order. One minute we are completely in the present, then some thought will catapult us into the past. One of my earliest memories was of climbing into my former crib to check out the baby. When Kenny was born, I forfeited that initial bed along with my position of preeminence within the family. When he arrived on October 30, 1947, I was 20 months old. Gabbing away for five months, I tried in vain to teach him important words. "Pepsi Cola hits the spot. Twelve full ounces, that's a lot. Twice as much for a nickel too. Pepsi Cola is the drink for you! Nickel, nickel, nickel, nickel. Trickle, trickle, trickle, trickle." The year Kenny entered the world Al Capone departed it, not with a bang but a whimper. Jackie Robinson shattered racial barriers, while Maria Callas brought down the curtain to thunderous applause at her debut in Verona. People sighted flying saucers everywhere except at the wedding of Princess Elizabeth and her charming prince. Blanche Dubois's and Stanley Kowalski's smoldering passions helped Tennessee Williams win the Pulitzer, and Anne Frank's attic memories touched the heart of the world. When Kenny joined our family, big brother Jimmy was seven and, similar to every other boy in America, thought Joe DiMaggio was a hero. Harry Truman was president. There were many firsts that year. Chuck Yeager sped into history books with supersonic flight. Groucho Marx zinged America on "You Bet Your Life"; "The Jack Paar Show" premiered on radio; and Lassie trotted into the studio and barked his way into America's homes. Mommy, looking like a teenager at 26, was then a mother of four. While listening to favorite radio programs in the maternity ward, she learned that more doctors smoked Camels than any other cigarette. What a year to be born! Edwin Land sped up photography with the one-minute picture; Redi Whip topped off desserts without any mess in the kitchen, not counting a few ceilings accidentally decorated by either too eager or too clumsy kids; and "made in Japan" usually meant junk until Sony hit the world scene in 1947. "Zip-a-dee-do-dah" was a fairly easy song for elder sister Barbara to sing when she was a precocious five-year-old. The new Tony Awards recognized quality on Broadway, and filmmakers around the world showcased their celluloid creations at the brand-nouveau Cannes Film Festival. While Kenny strengthened his lungs with wails for milk or bellows to be held, Ethel Merman belted out "There's No Business Like Show Business" to cheering theatergoers. World War II veteran Daddy was 31 going on 16 with his zest for life. Although he had planted his feet solidly in the family, his head remained floating in the clouds. He often dreamed of the first million he hoped to make in his two-year-old wholesale candy business. Kenny's birth fulfilled Daddy's other wish for another son. In gratitude to the hospital staff, he proudly passed out boxes of chocolates to doctors, nurses, and aides that wonderful fall morning when he felt like a millionaire. ------------------------ |
Memories Are Like Clouds Memories Are Like Clouds immediately drifts back to childhood after the funeral of a soldier killed in Vietnam. Kenny and his sister Diana's young world was the mill-town neighborhood they inhabited with Eastern European immigrants and their offspring during the Eisenhower fifties. This touching memoir is a fond remembrance of growing up when life seemed simple. Gliding on the porch swing while listening to their mother's stories of her youth, counting dead goldfish at the five-and-ten cent store, playing pick-up baseball games down near the dump, collecting Ralph Kiner and Stan Musial baseball cards, helping Daddy at his candy business, devouring Sgt. Rock comic books, and running numbers for the neighborhood bookie in a housedress filled those innocent days in East Vandergrift, Pennsylvania. In this book readers will meet dozens of memorable characters: Mrs. Trotaskovich, the widow across the street, who called her bowels "barrels" and ate prunes from morning till night; Herr Fromer, the traveling baker who sang opera on the radio; Cazzy and Sousha, the town's biggest gossips; Uncle Caz, who could tell when it was going to rain by the shrapnel pain in his back; the hunchback of All Saints Polish Roman Catholic Church; normally sweet Uncle Bobby, a Tourette's Syndrome sufferer; witchy Mitzy, the candy store owner; Mr. Jaztremsky, the washing machine repairman and Bataan Death March survivor; Mutzy Futzy, the neighborhood bully; war heroes Man Mountain and the PNA janitor. Weaved together here are the universal and the particular, experiences shared with millions of other baby boomers (that first television set, polio season, iceboxes, telephone party lines, drive-in movies, "Amos 'n Andy," hula hoops, the milk man, Davy Crockett coonskin hats, Sputnik) and those individuals and situations unique to a specific place or family (the ragman and his tired old horse, Father Shezocki's rumored-wife, the Polish Barber's dirty adventure magazines, Bupchie's chicken coop, shotgun weddings at the Slovak Club). Every page has something wonderful--a perfect turn of phrase, a trace of quiet wisdom. Here are great teachers, crabby neighbors, pious sinners, and valiant men and women--the everyday heroes who faced disaster with good cheer and usually muddled through. This coming-of-age tale, filled with hope and old-fashioned values, will delight and engage and then, long afterward, persist in memory. |