by Kristofer Creed

Published in Issue No. 165 ~ February, 2011

Their youth shaken,

salt over sands:

futures, minds,

limbs, and eyes,

poured down into

thankless hands.

Laurels – days as hollow as

a tin cup dragged

down spit shined streets

where whorish moans echo through,

every corner’s meet and greet.

Sons of Priam from the street

wave drunken flags

at grim parades

yet never will they join with arms

or slap their backs on hiring day.

A future healer on the ward

grits his teeth and scuffs his shoe

for having to suffer though

another dirty old vet.

account_box More About

Kristofer Creed is a Gulf War veteran, teacher, and Boston College alumnus. He lives in Central Florida with his wife and children.
  • Klc12042

    I love you—-didn’t say I understood you!!

  • Craig

    An interesting poem-when were you in, and is this still a wound for you? I ask because I still have my scars over 30 years later.

  • Kris Creed

    Dear Craig,

    Thank you for the feedback. I was in during Desert Storm and for several years after. I can’t say that I’m all that scarred but what disappoints me is seeing the troops today coming back from several tours oversees and having to fight for health care and listening to people spout on about how much they appreciate their service but would never dream of lending them a hand in any meaningful way. So you have kids that have left most of themselves overseas with nothing to show for it but the pride of having served their country and having to compete with peers without such baggage. That’s what I was trying to convey with the poem, to quote Eliot “it is just a piece of rhythmical grumbling.”

    Thank you for taking the time to read it.


  • Steve

    Very well done.