The Death of Lee Boy
Lee Byron Childress, a sculptor and crusader for the rights of Vietnam Veterans, died on July 31, 1997 at 52 years old.
Lee died of lung cancer related to his exposure to Agent Orange during the Vietnam War.
He was born in Berkeley, attended Oakland Technical High School and earned his bachelor's and master's degrees in creative arts from San Francisco State University.
During the Vietnam War, he served as an Army sergeant in the 205th Assault Helicopter Company.
After the war, he became a sculptor, pioneering light refraction and casting techniques using polyester resins. His work was exhibited in galleries across the country.
Lee Boy, as he was known to his vet buddies, was also known locally for his work as an outspoken veterans' rights advocate and poet. His memory lives on with those of us who loved him.
Here are his Vietnam War poems, considered by many who went through the experience as some of the best ever written by a combat veteran.
Phil Reser
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Alone
Old soldiers never die;
He's your brother.
Through a ten-year war it seems
He's back, put to bed,
For he cannot stop the popping
He's so hooked,
Copyright 1979, Lee Childress
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Two thousand yard stare
His crippled eyes
Drift, like falling flares.
Alone, inside, the croud
But he's not really there.
His body hangs on bones of pain,
Will the answer be given to you.
You must look down his eyes,
To a home that's been empty for years.
For here in this place
It's black.
And there's room for you too.
Copyright 1979, Lee Childress
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You will not take my son.
Someday, his father won't either.
But, then, you'll not want my son.
Copyright 1979, Lee Childress
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LIFTING
Lifting
Rockets flash
Suck your ass around your brain
Light can lift hear to heaven.
Copyright 1979, Lee Childress
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ROCKET 122 mm
A 122 is coming at you
It takes all your dreams
For if you see the whole blast,
Copyright 1979, Lee Childress
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On Fulton Street today,
they are starting to let us come home.
Abandoned, alone, stranded.
You have found us.
We were never lost.
coming out
Falling down
There is nothing here to win.
Yet understanding.
Copyright 1979, Lee Childress
They just wish they could.
He's your son.
He's the one who humped your gun.
Now his mind has come undone
And you applaud it.
You were hatching all your dreams
So you couldn't hear the screams
Your own son dying.
Alone,
Sleeping with the dead,
Bloated on the lies you fed.
Or the helicopter chopping down his brain.
He's so fried,
Blood
Screaming from his eyes.
Alone,
Psychomanglized.
Is always there.
On mirrored skies
Moves by
His tears are monsoon rain.
Past the screams and your cries,
Lives a country's disgrace,
You cannot have my son.
I will cut off his fingers
So he can't pull your triggers.
He will never understand why
His father has crippled him.
Hot air
Helicopters
Brains, fingers, feet
Floating in the heat
On their way to heaven.
Time blasts
Years pass
On the other side of heaven.
So fast
So you may pass
Through the hole the shrapnel left.
Brains and feet to heaven.
On wings of sensory death.
It's shiny and bright,
At night outta sight.
And you know it's whistling for you.
In a second, it seems,
As the seconds start
To count you.
You know that it's past.
Now its brother
Is searching for you.
I felt it.
Eleven years, iron men rusting in our tears.
Don't start screaming in our ears.
We've been watching.
We've been bleeding for your sins.
Is coming in.
To fall again.