~
so long ago, the
battle fields he’d left;
the foxholes where
for many nights he'd
lain his weary head.
together ’til a victor
named they’d daily fought,
then parted ways as
shell-shock bonded,
comrade friends,
brothers, arms-in-armor.
few survived and
those who did,
wore battle scars
that most can’t see.
left behind
the fallen proud,
their darkened images,
etched like stone.
from sharpened knife,
runs deep regret;
this searing pain,
like smoke in eyes...
these bayonetted memories.
older now,
so much has changed,
those mem’ries live,
though rearranged.
new battle lines are drawn
in hopes of
absolution carried,
heavy, deep regret...
emerald valleys,
blood-stained volleys,
full of memory;
the un-forgiveness buried
in fallow soil ’neath,
but few inches shallow,
the forgetfulness of
daily toil in grief,
for a life lived full
while others died.
etched like stone,
from sharpened knife,
runs deep regret;
seared painfully,
like smoke in eyes...
those bayonetted memories.
now autumn falls
upon his land;
as winter’s blade
is sharpened thin,
he marks time by
raking leaves,
like fallen comrades,
he draws battle lines
on grass of green;
like photos faded
now too his memory,
takes him back,
to that smoke arising,
soldiers charging,
more wounded crying,
with each rifle’s crack,
the fear of dying,
so soon exchanged
for sting of living on.
etched like stone,
from sharpened knife,
runs deep regret;
a searing pain,
like smoke in eyes...
his bayonetted memories.
yet still he tries
to turn this scene
into a work of beauty,
even sculpted art;
he changes battle lines,
with these bleeding leaves,
in hope of different end.
as he wishes in
his beating heart,
all his foxhole
friends and brothers,
lost upon these hills of green,
had gone home with him
to fathers, mothers,
living on to tell,
a story all their own.
instead ’tis he that
holds their story in;
’til his dying breath,
this his only sin
in living on...
etched like stone,
from sharpened knife,
runs deep regret;
seared in pain,
like smoke in eyes...
fading bayonetted memories.
~
*post script.
this comes from a short i came across years ago by an older writer who tells this story of his father, a WW1 veteran, who after surviving battles on the European front, returned to raise a family, while privately dealing with wartime anguish, accompanying survivor’s guilt, long before "shell-shock" was diagnosed as PTSD. he, the son, observed on many occasions his father raking leaves into columns and rows, then moving and rearranging them. not till years later just before his father passed, did he ask and learn the profound meaning.
i am a fan of veterans, foremost my father ((Korea) and my son (Iraq), and also a huge proponent of CAMP HOPE, who "provides interim housing for our Wounded Warriors, veterans and their families suffering from combat related PTSD in a caring and positive environment."
(the original author of what inspired my words above i looked for
that i might provide provide proper credit here, but failed to find.
any suggestions would be most welcome.)
