Давно лирически увяли
Для жизни заново листы...
И ладно: выйду без печали
Во двор Вселенской простоты...
И в лес, и каждой птички скромной
Свой уголок найду укромный,
И хлебо-житием её
Наполню вольное житьё,
Свой в мути праздника ломая
Неодолимо страшный путь,
Пусть раскрошится как-нибудь,
Как снег, давно не заметая
В свой сон обманчивый мои,
Какие есть, живые дни.
Свой уголок найду укромный
© Copyright: Игорь Вячеславович Топоров, 2022
Свидетельство о публикации №122010604032
Свидетельство о публикации №122010604032
Рецензии
Вольное житьё приветствую !
Иннокентию привет от всех лап !
Дни начались посленовогодние , Игорь
С теплом Гена
Геннадий Полежанкин 2 11.01.2022 11:26 • Заявить о нарушении
Иннокентию привет от всех лап !
Дни начались посленовогодние , Игорь
С теплом Гена
Геннадий Полежанкин 2 11.01.2022 11:26 • Заявить о нарушении
Спасибо , Геннадий .
Привет и нашего лапастика !
Морозец хороший , гуляю .
С теплом Игорь
Игорь Вячеславович Топоров 11.01.2022 11:31 Заявить о нарушении
Привет и нашего лапастика !
Морозец хороший , гуляю .
С теплом Игорь
Игорь Вячеславович Топоров 11.01.2022 11:31 Заявить о нарушении
СОЛДАТ В КОНВЕРТЕ
Брайан Эдвардc Уитакер
Игорь Вячеславович Топоров 11.01.2022 17:55 Заявить о нарушении
Брайан Эдвардc Уитакер
Игорь Вячеславович Топоров 11.01.2022 17:55 Заявить о нарушении
Boy In An Envelope
The long envelope was addressed to Mr. Robert K. Hess.
One corner was torn away.....and it lacked a return address.
I’d just received it that day, with a batch of others;
it was a light mail-day; some days the volume smothers.
I opened up the envelope, what was left of it, and read.....
“Dear Mr. Hess,
Sorry this comes so late. I know your son is dead.”
but this one contained a photo also, which caused my tears to flow.
The photo, black and white, showed a father with his son.
Each was dressed in camouflage, and each carried.....a deer gun.
On the back was a name and address, the same as envelope.
And written in pencil it said “Me and Dad, hunting antelope.”
There was a date also written: November 12,1963.
Memories of my son now swept rapidly over me.
There were about ten pages, handwritten, staring at me now.
I could not make myself read it yet. My head did slowly bow.
The next day I took it up again, with very mixed feelings indeed.
But my mind and soul both seemed to feel, the letter I might need.
“My name is Hank” the letter said. “I knew your son in NAM.
This photo of you and your son, for years has helped keep me calm.”
I stared at the photo for a while. Did my son look like that long ago?
I scanned the letter and found no return address. The letter, I was about to throw.
But I couldn’t do it! I had to read it someday. Again I set it aside.
Ten years I’ve been without a son, but, for him, I’m still filled with pride.
It took a week before I read some more. I had plenty more to do.
I thought reading the long letter might help, the parent-child bond, renew.
“I’ve enclosed Tom’s dog tags. He gave them to me before he died.
I should have turned them in but I didn’t, and for two days, at night, I cried.
Tom was my buddy for six months; we shared more than you want to know.
It wasn’t ALL bad in The NAM. Once we saw a live comedy show.
He was a bit of a crazy kid, who at crazy times would sing a song.
He spoke highly of you, though he said you didn’t always get along.”
The letter went on and on. I was tempted several times to quit.
Sometimes, due to some torn off page corners, I missed a little bit.
Yes, there’d been corners torn off of pages, and of the envelope too.
Dog tags were missing; through the open envelope corner I suppose they flew.
Hank spoke of a visit to Saigon, and of the oppressive heat,
of villagers who’d had legs blown off, and meals they had to eat.
He did NOT mention drugs, nor the girls I imagine they'd sampled,
nor TOO much of fighting, nor of anything or anybody they may have trampled.
He mentioned seeing a cobra one day and he mentioned the sounds at night.
He said much of their time there was boring. Beer came by helicopter flight.
There were church services held in “the field”. They burned much of their shit.
The few times they had enemy contact, each soldier tried.....to not “get hit”.
“Part of the year has terrible rains. They call them a “wet” monsoon.
One of the few things like in the States, was the stars at night and the moon.
Some of us (just a few) wrote regularly to folks back home.
Some were concerned more with leech removal and having a good lice comb.
“I spent a second tour in The NAM after your son died. Was I nuts?
Partly, your son’s death was why I stayed. I wanted to kick some V.C. butts.
I got my chance in my seventeenth month there. I got two gooks, but they got ME.
I lost an arm and one eye, but my medical care is free.
“I’ve also had flashbacks of being hit, or those I killed, and of your son.
If I could rule the world now.....I’d get rid of every bomb, mortar, and gun.
One good thing, I guess, came out of that mess. I met my dear wife Susie.
She took care of me in Walter Reed. I’ve got a son, Tom; he is a doozy.
Игорь Вячеславович Топоров 11.01.2022 17:57 Заявить о нарушении
The long envelope was addressed to Mr. Robert K. Hess.
One corner was torn away.....and it lacked a return address.
I’d just received it that day, with a batch of others;
it was a light mail-day; some days the volume smothers.
I opened up the envelope, what was left of it, and read.....
“Dear Mr. Hess,
Sorry this comes so late. I know your son is dead.”
but this one contained a photo also, which caused my tears to flow.
The photo, black and white, showed a father with his son.
Each was dressed in camouflage, and each carried.....a deer gun.
On the back was a name and address, the same as envelope.
And written in pencil it said “Me and Dad, hunting antelope.”
There was a date also written: November 12,1963.
Memories of my son now swept rapidly over me.
There were about ten pages, handwritten, staring at me now.
I could not make myself read it yet. My head did slowly bow.
The next day I took it up again, with very mixed feelings indeed.
But my mind and soul both seemed to feel, the letter I might need.
“My name is Hank” the letter said. “I knew your son in NAM.
This photo of you and your son, for years has helped keep me calm.”
I stared at the photo for a while. Did my son look like that long ago?
I scanned the letter and found no return address. The letter, I was about to throw.
But I couldn’t do it! I had to read it someday. Again I set it aside.
Ten years I’ve been without a son, but, for him, I’m still filled with pride.
It took a week before I read some more. I had plenty more to do.
I thought reading the long letter might help, the parent-child bond, renew.
“I’ve enclosed Tom’s dog tags. He gave them to me before he died.
I should have turned them in but I didn’t, and for two days, at night, I cried.
Tom was my buddy for six months; we shared more than you want to know.
It wasn’t ALL bad in The NAM. Once we saw a live comedy show.
He was a bit of a crazy kid, who at crazy times would sing a song.
He spoke highly of you, though he said you didn’t always get along.”
The letter went on and on. I was tempted several times to quit.
Sometimes, due to some torn off page corners, I missed a little bit.
Yes, there’d been corners torn off of pages, and of the envelope too.
Dog tags were missing; through the open envelope corner I suppose they flew.
Hank spoke of a visit to Saigon, and of the oppressive heat,
of villagers who’d had legs blown off, and meals they had to eat.
He did NOT mention drugs, nor the girls I imagine they'd sampled,
nor TOO much of fighting, nor of anything or anybody they may have trampled.
He mentioned seeing a cobra one day and he mentioned the sounds at night.
He said much of their time there was boring. Beer came by helicopter flight.
There were church services held in “the field”. They burned much of their shit.
The few times they had enemy contact, each soldier tried.....to not “get hit”.
“Part of the year has terrible rains. They call them a “wet” monsoon.
One of the few things like in the States, was the stars at night and the moon.
Some of us (just a few) wrote regularly to folks back home.
Some were concerned more with leech removal and having a good lice comb.
“I spent a second tour in The NAM after your son died. Was I nuts?
Partly, your son’s death was why I stayed. I wanted to kick some V.C. butts.
I got my chance in my seventeenth month there. I got two gooks, but they got ME.
I lost an arm and one eye, but my medical care is free.
“I’ve also had flashbacks of being hit, or those I killed, and of your son.
If I could rule the world now.....I’d get rid of every bomb, mortar, and gun.
One good thing, I guess, came out of that mess. I met my dear wife Susie.
She took care of me in Walter Reed. I’ve got a son, Tom; he is a doozy.
Игорь Вячеславович Топоров 11.01.2022 17:57 Заявить о нарушении