Poetry by Dennis Elleflot

In Country

It sounds I think like the litany from some long forgotten religion
        like wind in a forest
        the rhyming sinuous chant of tongues
        music to my dreams
        lost in you
        lost in you
        music of bitterness played sweet sounding
        music near music
        voiceless incantations
        lost to you
        lost to eternal quietude
        lost to me
        lost to you
        bound by iron bands
        inseparable
        your flesh
        my body
        your bitterness
        my pain
        your life
        my certain death
        your wish for final peace
        carried to the edge of night
        while I seek the earthy coarseness of you
        your musk
        your deathly wish
Your darkness swirls curls round my face
        hides you forcing my memory
        to construct fictitious realities
        to draw a nourishing meal from glass and sand
        to carry you gentle in the palm of my hand
        respectful of your fragile nature
        creating for me an impossible burden
        seeking love in lusterless eyes
        understanding from your limited mind
        a place in your bitter world
        softness against ancient pottery shards
Sometimes in dreams I see your face
        soft unmarked as never in life
        I almost love you
        almost reach out to touch your skin
        to cry for you as no one ever cried for you
        to allow you to need me
        even across the ultimate boundary
        to be the son never permitted
        closing the miles
        but those desires cannot reach you
        so on I go as best I can
        seeking my own forgiveness
        walking life's edges on moonless nights
        moving carefully through unmapped territories
        where fear seeps through me as blood through a bandage
        fouling my vision compounding my danger
        forcing me to caress your toadstool flesh
        to embrace you close to my heart in pretended salvation
        to move through fear soaked territory in godless grace
        demanding survival from an indifferent universe
        while full of salty blustering arrogance learned from you
        punctuated by the quiet slosh of water in my canteens
Sing me please a silly song
        allow me the fool in you
        walk with me through this foul and terrible land
        this waking nightmare
        hold me to your breast
        please…
        make my death easy




Nineteen Years Out Of Nam

Most striking was the color
of the earth
red…
blood-like
the top layer powdery
fine as flour
easily disturbed by footfalls
it clung tightly to our
sweaty faces
making us look painted
made up
for some masculine rite of passage
Nineteen years out of Nam
and I’m still picking
the fungus off my nose
I swear to god if you look
at something long enough
it becomes a metaphor



Bio: This guy is a dumb rube from Vashon Island, Washington. A veteran of the Vietnam War who lives his present life in the outback of the Philippine Islands and deals with severe PTSD on a daily basis while happily over medicated and underpaid. He is married to a fine Filipina, has a daughter and son from his first marriage, and three adopted daughters in this one. The title Old Fart rests well on his shoulders and should be taken quite literally as it conceals more than it exposes. At present, he has finished the final rewrite of his first novel and is desperately seeking Beta Readers, but that is another story entirely. He is bald.