David Tallman

The Flag Means More To An Iwo Marine

Six men wilted over with heavy grunts
escaping their lips as worn boots
grind against volcanic sand.
Makeshift pole is slumped on shoulders
with pride propelling it upward
into the welcoming sky.
An eruption echoed exuberantly from below
where lay the tattered green
of lost youth.
A flash, a finger captured a moment in time
following three different moons
pulling on red tides.

A young man wiped his eyes.

Crowds spread through city streets like fire,
holding two split snarling fingers
up high on makeshift poles.
Like Moses’ parted sea on the pharaoh’s men they converge
on pride and glory that hangs sullenly
with pocket flint and fluid.
It is engulfed by red and orange dancing on
where lay the insightful books
of disillusioned youth.
A flash, a finger captures a moment in time
following a sea of tie-dye masses
swarming by and by.

An old man wipes his eyes.

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Poem Submitted: Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Poem Edited: Monday, February 23, 2009

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