Horace Coleman's Poetry

The following poems were taken from Horace Coleman's book, "In The Grass."

Exiled in America

we are the oil,
the precious pressured residue
squeezed out of history.
We are the ones who pratice
life astride the knife.
We are numbed by sharp indifference
as the blade turns slowly up.
We are the skinny dreams
that shred fat sleep.
We are the unseen stare raising neck hair,
the wronged, the right.
We are the wind & rain that crack rocks,
the pain that birth unlocks.
We are the oil, soothing
the slow flow of freedom,
moving the earth.
We are.

 

Blossom Time

April in Washington is pink and green.
The cherry trees blush beautifully and
the grass grows velvety.
And "dulce et decorum est" to see
our dead in their hallowed holes.

At Arlington our well slain sleep
well groomed as we less brave
honor them in springtime
by walking on their faces.
But we praise our unremembered
and guard our unknowns.

Oh, the dead grow funny flowers
that look like flattened towers.
The common folk sprout small ones
while the generals grow tall ones.

Get Yours Today!

Nam vets know what in the grass means. After you've read this book you'll feel the chaos and confusion of war. And know of the miracles and misery in the mud. And some fine writing.

To order "In The Grass", contact:

Viet Nam Generation, Inc. and Burning Cities Press
18 Center Road.
Woodbridge, CT 06525

If you have comments for Horace, E-mail them to horace.w.coleman@boeing.com