my latest poem :)

this is a first draft... okay I'm gonna splain why I wrote this: not only was it part of my English crap but I was really pissed off not just yesterday and several days prior to that but for the most part I hate how women in the armed forces are portrayed in the media. We're usually either matresses for some man who will boost our careers because (implied or otherwise) we all can't do the job we have to have some guy help us out... I mean let's face it... it all started when men let us wear shoes -- after that it was all over. Give me a freakin' break! Many women in the military are the most hard-working, dedicated and highly educated women I've ever known. I consider myself fortunate to be associated with them. I have to admit, however, that there are many women who do not pull their weight, who play sick or even go so far as to get pregnant to not have to do their job or who basically just pull their pigtails and get everyone else to do their work for them... batting their eyes and using cute to pass the test. The ones who wind up in the news are probably nice enough people, but they've made terrible mistakes, then they compound them by not being honest and taking responsibility for their own actions. This poem is dedicated to all the hardworking women (oh alright!!) and the men who love them... :)

Al-Anywhere

It struck her as a godforsaken land
the rows of tents at attention,
orderly in the sandy sea.
A puff of dust blew her hair up around her face.
This was home for the next few months.
Might as well get used to it.

She resignedly looked around at her colleagues.
Where were her sisters in arms, comrades for the cause?
Why weren’t they banded together to eke what comfort they could?
Commisserating, co-miserate, co-miserable...
Though lonely tears dampened her cheeks,
the arid desert heat evaporated her despair
before she even admitted she tasted its salt.

In the corner of their tent
an incongruous glow came from an ersatz icon of
celebration, commercialism, Christian joy.
With a wry smile she observed
an old broom handle served as tree trunk
balancing in a coffee can filled with gravel.
Its crude makeshift branches were wrapped around it
like little abstract sculptures coaxed from twisting coat hangers.
They offered up tinsel and twinkling fairy lights.
From behind her someone giggled “Ho ho ho”
while pursuading a paper clip into the shape of a tiny decoration.

She wondered how the hell she wound up out here,
in this tan wasteland, khaki horizons became her prison--
where barbed wire spiralled in a horizontal curl
above a steel mesh wall.
Her heart guarded by a flak vest--
sanity in a Kevlar bucket.
Is it better or worse than
a burkha?
Hiding her wholely
making her part of the furniture-
the strange bitter cinnamon solace of anonymity.

Another day, the comfort of routine bridled the foam of chaos
gray blurry tasks, blended with all the others.
Another day, another mission.
Patrolling in a place she can’t pronounce,
listening to a language she doesn’t understand,
helping people who hate her.
Her soul in limbo as she remembered another life carrying on without her.

Who is she? You tell me.
She can wear chanel number 5, desert cammies,
red lacy underwear and combat boots.
She breaks hearts, fires a weapon, hugs her babies,
and targets enemy tanks.
Who is she?
woman mother sister daughter wife lover friend
private lieutenant sergeant general airman corpsman chief