My grandfather's stories

[brynmawr1]

My grandfather told me stories
of bravery, and bombs, and bullets. lose the period
and a cold that seeped deep into his bones
like a sickness without a cure.

Stories of 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 could cut this line if you accept my suggestion for the next line, or other imagery.
No box of badges and berets. His badges and berets left/in a box under his bed.
"Why would I want to remember 
the worst years of my life?"
and his voice faded walking again
among his memories.

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 decades old
drinking buddies

He died,
not with war buddies or 
Brothers in arms,
but with family, buried
in a simple suit
with no rank, no insignia.
No poppy, no wreath, 
no bayonet. 
Just an old face 
that found peace. not sure the punctuation works in the last few lines. Very powerful, though.


"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.
The trumpets trying to take us back
to cold muddy fields,  this is the end, IMO
but our warm jackets and dry boots
won't allow it.   the cut bits are all implied, IMO.


------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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. 

Sorry, short on time now.  Very nice elegy.  Hope my comments are helpful.
bryn