Dead Weight

Dead Weight prose poem

Uploaded by Bill Peeler


Before we knew it we were on another planet
Twelve thousand light years from home
The hours spun backwards subtracting days
Then weeks, then whole months from our lives
We stuffed what was left into our rucksacks
And with the dead weight of time on our backs
Dragging us down in the miry grip of a gravity
Stronger than our legs could endure, we bitched
And ached, reeking of grime and days-old sweat
A monstrous sun tracked us by day leaching
The marrow from our bones then dropped
Out of sight like a stone without warning
At night a pale moon crept through the trees
Feeling its way into our heads, infecting
Our minds, touching our faces with yellowed fingers
They told us our rifles would be our best friend
So I loved mine more than life, whispered her name
In the darkest corner of the night I could find
On my turn to watch she nestled in my arms
Her body tense and rigid to the touch while my comrades
Slept in fits and starts moaning on the bare damp dirt
Of a Chinese cemetery somewhere on a plain in Phu Bai
We lay there all night, hidden at the edge of a tree line
I swear those gravestones shifted in the moonlight
And the souls of the dead came out floating in the air
Like rags of mist chanting curses in an unknown tongue

Rate the poem
1 Star2 Stars3 Stars4 Stars5 Stars (1 votes, average: 3.50 out of 5)
We are posting your rating...

Have something to say about the poem?

Profile photo of Bill Peeler

Bill Peeler

Signup / Login to follow the poet.
My wife, Noy and I are Protestant missionaries in Cambodia. We met in a border refugee camp in Thailand back in 1979 while I was a refugee relief worker. She was a refugee. I lived and worked in Mairut Refugee Camp for three years. We have three grown kids. I was drafted into the Army in 1969, served in Vietnam from 1970 to 1971 and honorably discharged at the end of my military obligation. Writing prose and poetry is how I document the life I'm living and how I map out the mental landscape inside my head.
Poems you will love

Give your feedback / review for the poem

Be the First to Comment & Review poem!

Notify of
avatar
wpDiscuz

At Least Eighty Dead.

At Least Eighty Dead. elegy

“At least eighty dead,” is all you’ve said…. As that charred colossus, Grenfell, towers overhead. The hopes and fears of those you loved, Dead. Those missing, without mention, who died, without dying, who cried, without crying. The faceless, euphemised headlines

God Doesn’t Hear Dead Men

God Doesnt Hear Dead Men short poem

Down the drain, down the drain, follow the sand down the drain. His soul woven cloak awaits, scythe in hand, ferry leaving the docks. Crooked steps, cold and blackened breath, take me unto you. One leg in the grave, half

The Dead Dream

The Dead Dream short poem

It was a clouded heart. I was fidgeting with fate and there was no otherway, no way. I did not want to keep him waiting either, but I must be ready to receive the guest. Thief of pain was coming

Rights Over The Dead

Rights Over The Dead prose poem

Ceremonial Rituals in Hindu Religion smacks the logic Daughters and Sons though born in the same womb are differentiated Son’s carry the paternal ancestral legacy while Daughters are abandoned midway to assume In laws legacy Sons may not look after

Gandhi Isn’t Dead, Is He ?

Gandhi Isnt Dead, Is He ? prose poem

”Gandhi is dead ” they say . Is he , indeed ? Well , if death means the end of physical existence He died over six decades ago . Having fallen to an assassin’s bullets He became victim of outrageous