Donal Mahoney is neither hawk nor dove. But he was in fourth grade when the older guys in his neighborhood went off to WWII and he was a sophomore in high school when some of the others left for Korea. So whenever Memorial Day rolls around, he remembers those who came back to the neighborhood and those who didn’t. They didn’t use the acronym PTSD back then. But he saw veterans who suffered from it long afterward. He can never forget the vet remembered in the first poem. The one in the second poem will now take a few bucks for doing odd jobs. The one in the third poem, a composite of a couple of veterans, he tries hard not to remember.
Remembering a War We Tend to Forget
I will never forget him
but I can’t remember his name
it’s been so long ago.
Maybe I never knew it.
But I think of him on days
America celebrates its veterans—
Memorial Day, July 4th,
Veterans Day, D-Day.
The wars are all remembered
but not so much this one.
He was Billy's big brother
and more than 60 years ago
Billy and the rest of us
were in 8th grade watching
him climb a ladder
and hammer a hoop
on the roof of a garage
so we could play ball
while he went to Korea.
I saw him again when he
came back from Korea.
He was walking in circles
in the family’s backyard
smoking Pall Malls,
one after another, talking
to no one we could see.
We were practicing at
the hoop he nailed up
before he went to Korea.
We were seniors
in high school then
and had to be ready.
We practiced all summer
for the season ahead.
Donal Mahoney
A Good Neighbor
Cookies for George,
40 years back from Viet Nam,
are the only payment
the man will accept
to mow your lawn,
rake your leaves,
shovel your snow.
He sleeps behind
his brother's house
above the garage.
Every two weeks
he shaves and bathes.
His brother takes him
to the Veterans Hospital.
George has cancer again
40 years after Agent Orange.
But he'll mow your lawn,
rake your leaves
and shovel your snow
for nothing less than
cookies for George.
Donal Mahoney
Monsanto's Gift to War
Smitty isn't Schulte.
He doesn't drive a Cadillac
and doesn't hit his wife
often any more.
Schulte, on the other hand,
drives a Cadillac
and hits his wife
usually on weekends
for no good reason.
He's been doing that for
more than 40 years
ever since the boys
came home from Viet Nam
not knowing they had been
touched by Agent Orange,
Monsanto's gift to war.
They had a double wedding with
girls they liked in high school.
Smitty says therapy
has helped a little.
He hasn't struck his
second wife in years.
But Schulte hasn't changed.
The police have come again
tonight, sirens blaring,
gumball lights swirling.
Two big officers,
matched like bookends,
march Schulte out in cuffs.
He's cursing at his wife
who's in a nightgown
bawling on the porch
as if Schulte's going
back to Nam again.
Smitty swears Schulte
never left the paddies, that
he's still knee-deep in water
bright with Agent Orange,
Monsanto's gift to war.
nice
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