Over There by John Randolph Carter


Support hose threaten me with their urgency.
I bang my drum and leap in the air.
Columns of smoke rise beyond the distant hills.

A company of tired and forgotten soldiers
shuffles by, dragging dead ideals and aspirations
in frayed canvas bags.

The sun is white.
The sky is light blue.
The earth is bleached and pale.

Bored gunnery sergeants discuss azimuth headings
and windage as they pass.

I hide in the doorway, invisible in the blackness.
This is not my war.
I’m fighting with my underwear.

I wait till they are out of earshot and
then I leap in the air and bang my drum.


JOHN RANDOLPH CARTER, Poet and Artist. Finalist: National Poetry Series. Poetry in journals including Cream City Review, LIT, North American Review, Sewanee Review, Verse, Verse Daily, and Western Humanities Review. Recipient of N.E.A., New York State Council, and Fulbright grants. Art in thirty-two public collections including the Metropolitan Museum of Art. johnrandolphcarter.blogspot.com.