Anthony W. Pahl


The downdraft of the rotor blades
creates hurricanes of red
that is the dust of cleared LZs
that are coloured by blood shed

Grass, twigs and sand and floppy hats
spray through whirls of turbid air
and strike madly – with abandon,
faceless grunts who huddle there.

Alert, they watch the chopper land;
wipe tears with sweat soaked rags
and wait to load their wounded mates,
and the formless body bags.

The rotors cut the humid air
and echo o’er the greens
that form the jungle canopy
that is always in my dreams.

The time and memories required to write this poem were inspired by “Flying High” ~ ©Copyright April 8, 2006 by Fred Alvis