Rolland Vasin (aka Vachine), a third generation American writer of Romanian decent, was born into a literary family. His grandfather, John, a poet(unpublished), father, Ray, a newspaper reporter and editor, and dabbler in fiction(unpublished), and mother, Betty, the owner of Alphabooks, a retail rare and used book store, all with working-class occupations, had a strong sense of social justice and did not own a TV set until the 1960s. At dinner they debated the merits of political stories of the day from such as the Los Angeles Daily news and Nation magazine among many other sources. A family of American Patriots, all men served respective duty in the U.S. Navy during World War II, Korea, and Vietnam. A former Naval Officer Rolland returned from Vietnam to Graduate school and pursued a career as an external auditor in International and Local Accounting Firms. After a series of life-changing events he shifted focus to serving the Accountability needs of child and family-related not-for-profit organizations and embarked on a path of self-expression which passed through phases of Stand-up Comedy, Improvisational Theater, and Performance Poetry. Winning 3rd place in The Laugh Factory’s contest for the Funniest CPA in LA, Rolland’s poetry has appeared in numerous anthologies, as well as reading Open Mics from Cambridge MA to Big Sur CA. Out of these adventures arose the late-life desire to share his work with wider audiences from which arose this first book, Stitches & Scars, a chronology of experiences in war, love, and social justice advocacy. Published at Rolland’s age of 75 years to also honor the contributions of his family to the literary community. A resident of Santa Monica, Rolland enjoys family gatherings with his two children and his grandsons. He plays the guitar, banjo, ukulele, and harmonica, but not all at the same time.
PTSD
Corpses pile inside me,
beneath cold decks,
between napalm canisters
and nuclear weapons spare parts.
Red Shirt blown off the flight deck,
ejected pilots broken neck
asphyxiated Avgas sailor,
held drum-tight by gallons of Scotch.
Deep in the shadows, the Wall’s
chiseled warriors cry evil-eye drops.
I hurry up the trail. into sunlight,
until names are only ankle-high.
Humid afternoon, Psych Rehab lobby,
Medevac helicopter chops my sobs.
Jack-knifed on my knees,
I pray to stop hearing blades.
Corpses pile inside me,
beneath cold decks,
between napalm canisters
and nuclear weapons spare parts.
Red Shirt blown off the flight deck,
ejected pilots broken neck
asphyxiated Avgas sailor,
held drum-tight by gallons of Scotch.
Deep in the shadows, the Wall’s
chiseled warriors cry evil-eye drops.
I hurry up the trail. into sunlight,
until names are only ankle-high.
Humid afternoon, Psych Rehab lobby,
Medevac helicopter chops my sobs.
Jack-knifed on my knees,
I pray to stop hearing blades.
© 2022
Rolland Vasin (Vachine)
Rolland Vasin (Vachine) was a Featured Poet at the June 2022 Second Sunday Poetry Series
Rolland Vasin (Vachine) was a Featured Poet at the June 2022 Second Sunday Poetry Series