Richard Epstein

Richard served in the U.S. Army Signal Corps, 1st Signal Brigade, 207^th Signal Company. At times his unit belonged to the 9^th Log Command and STRATCOM while he was stationed at an isolated mountain-top site in the corner of Northeast Thailand ('65 -'66).  After serving as an Instructor at Ft Monmouth, Richard went back to Southeast Asia in 1968 as a civilian technical writer for Page Communication Engineers. After contract completion, he was reassigned as a communications technician and trained Army personnel stationed at Vung Chua Mountain and Qui Nhon. After 16 months in country, he was reassigned to JUSMAC, Bangkok.  Richard lives with his wife Noy in Silver Spring, Maryland and is co-host of the Memorial Day Writers' Project.You can contact Richard at dick_epstein@hotmail.com

Comment from the Editor: Here’s where I cheat a little. My niece, Rinnah Joy Henderson, sent me several songs as part of a new CD. Although she didn’t sing these songs at the Writers’ Tent, I included them here because they fit right in and she promised to sing them for us next time she comes to Washington, DC. Rinnah’s CD “Darling Songbird” can be purchased at Itunes and Amazon.com

To hear Rinnah, click on the titles listed below.

Eyes of the Forsaken

Time to Change

To hear some of Richard's poetry, click on any of the files listed below.

DEROS (Date Estimated Return from Overseas)

 I can't
come back

this face
is empty

the reflection
you see

is not
me

Tell me
who

you want me
to be…

this world
is not right!

this is not
the way

I planned.

Room 3A - A Night in Saigon

Geckos on the white-washed walls
tare at me. Each blade
of the ceiling fan whispers:
What-do-you-wannado? 
What-do-you-wannado? 
I’m hungry and tired of you. 

The water glass on the window sill
ances to the rumbling of B52’s. 
The window frames a deep red glow:
it’s Cholon—on fire again. 

Parachute flares float slowly down
in streaks red, white and green
while children light strings
of firecrackers in the street below.

Cobra gunships prowl at the city edge. 
Low and slow, two prop-driven A1-E’s
make their evening run.  

From my rooftop view,
a young woman waves to me
from the building across the street,
while sirens call softly from somewhere
out there.   

Feeling No Pain

Perched on 55-gallon fuel drum
with a warm beer in my hand
and my friend Mary Jane, 
I gaze past the watch tower
where the ground gives way
to stinking muck, brown and green.

I watch an orange sun sink slowly
into the South China Sea,
while layered pink clouds
transform to purple gray.  On cue,
a voice in the watch tower calmly
proclaims:  Charlie’s coming.

A show begins with geese alarm
and panic shouts.  Pop. Pop.
Parachute flares set the stage
in arcing bright white. 
A voice complains: 
Where is he? 
I don’t see him! 

A Cobra gunship comes on line
and lowers its head to hurl streams
of tracers red and green. 
Not ten yards to my left
two soldiers stand in the open,
their backs toward me.

They spew long dripping arcs
of leaking red death
into a once proud sea
of tall yellow and green.

I’m covered in thick red dust.
There’s an empty beer in my hand,
barf on my boots and all over the ground. 

I try to contain my laughter
at the unfolding scene. 
It’s poorly organized,
too much color,
too much sound. 
Players scurry
like chickens and crows.
Ghost-like figures
dressed in black
snake through the razor wire,
like lemmings
heading for the sea. 

I see his eyes! 
He's looking at me. 
He holds a satchel charge  
under his arm. 
On his shoulder,
a Bangalore.

I’m a red-tailed hawk.
I sit in the fleeting light,
watching the purple gray rise
above the South China Sea.

Untangle Those Things

Many thoughts remain unspoken. 
Slowly I get to them, one at a time,
like an assemblage of snakes,
all intertwined.

There is only so much room inside!
One at a time I give them freedom;
a chance to escape,
path to a less crowded space.

Tug on a slithery end,
it turns quickly to a random flash,
an image stored too long
in a damp, dark cave,
the flesh of a soldier
torn inside out, innocent lives
too young snuffed out. 
Don’t focus too long.  Let it pass,
but inside out it comes again and again. 
Like my life,   let it pass.

Last Night I Saw

a brown-skinned boy
herding water buffalo
safely home for the night;

white áo dài
waving in the breeze;

pristine white beaches,
not a soul in sight;

a prop-driven dive bomber
flying beneath a double rainbow;

I saw fires in Cholon— rubble.
My friend’s home—
gone.

Letting Go

it’s dusk 
how quick the sun fades
no one is here except me
and fifty eight thousand
two hundred and seventy two

as if that isn’t enough
i know there’s more 
too many to count
but how else
do you keep score?

shhhhhhh!
can you feel it?
all you gotta do is let go
well i’m tired of being numb
tired of being dead inside
and not knowing why

i never touched the wall
don’t deserve to
don't want
to let them go

Semper Fi!

my bones are stiff
getting cold
getting old

consoled by
two-dollar wine
a hulking shadow
staggers by.  

i heard him mumble:
“Don't mean nuth’en.
They still throw
them lives away.”