My grandfather's stories

[whisperer]

My grandfather told me stories
of bravery, and bombs, and bullets.
A cold that seeped deep into your bones
like a sickness without a cure, 
wet boots he couldn't change
and a uniform that wasn't his.
Stories of new friends,
laughing and lively 
dying everyday 
while fighting a faceless foe.


He faced this world with silence
No box of badges and berets. 
"Why would I want to remember 
the worst years of my life?"
and his thoughts
took his voice away again. 
He told me the Yankees would 
win the World Series
then call them bums when they didn't.
He watched hockey in French, 
though he didn't know a word,
and spoke of our Prime Minister 
like they were drinking buddies
decades ago.



He died with family,
not war buddies or 
Brothers in arms,
in a simple suit
with no rank, no insignia.
No poppy, no wreath, 
no bayonet. 
Just an old face 
that found peace. 


"The Ultimate Sacrifice "
rolls out of our mouths 
with obligation.
Our only battle now is with our own guilt
while we stand bored
thinking about the rest of the day.
Trumpets try to take us back to
cold muddy fields,
but our warm jackets and dry boots
won't allow it.


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It was Remembrance Day here in Canada this week, and this piece stirred around in me for a while. I wanted to capture a different view of some of the people that went to war and how they lived life afterward. I would live to hear some feedback on this.