Lyrical Grenades Poem by Michael Pruchnicki

Enter the building on 18th Street.
Pay the ten dollar entry fee.

High above you the shimmer and murmur
of fifty-eight thousand silvery dogtags
hang from a chandelier.

Begin your tour on the ground floor
by examining the paintings and drawings
that line the walls and hang over archways.

Red blood, blue skies, and piles of yellow
brass cartridges reflect the color and chaos
of a war fought in green jungles.

Metal monsters, steel helmets and twisted hogsnouts
of mortars, hand grenades and claymore mines,
all the paraphenalia of battle stacked like piles
of rusty fruit against walls.

Dear John letters scrawled in pencil and ballpoint hang
in frames - 'I met someone who loves me. He says you
kill babies. You dropp napalm on kids.' Nearby a charcoal
sketch entitled 'Suicide' looks like it was sketched in about
the time it takes to pull the trigger.

summer grasses-
all that remains
of a warrior's dreams

-haiku by Basho