When they brought my father out
of Germany, he weighed ninety-two
pounds.
Was he still
a boy then? Was he kind?They could leave the camp
but had nowhere to go.
A brass key to a church, where
sometimes there was food. Then
back through the foreign woods.Who might he have been?
If not for this? Did he dream, ever,
of people burning beneath his plane?
Does it matter?
For years his medals restedin a velvet box, passed from wife to wife.
What counts against him?
What weighs in his favor?
Who has the right
to measure?
I struggled for some time about what to post today, and finally decided on this somewhat revised version of a NaPoWriMo piece.
Will we ever have no need for this day?
Sad and lovely.
Posted by: Patia | 29 May 2006 at 03:27 PM
I like the new images. The velvet box, passed from wife to wife is very powerful.
I spent part of the day over in East Helena chatting with Vets from varous wars. 35 years ago who'd of thought that I'd be chatting with a man who served in our parents war. Who'd have thought that I'd be praying for friends and the sons of friends off fighting in another war.
Posted by: Ken | 29 May 2006 at 08:34 PM
I seem to remember that we used to speak at churches (can this be so?) about youth, the anti-war movement, hippies, and so on.
How in the world did I get involved with that? Was that because of you?
Posted by: SB | 29 May 2006 at 09:43 PM
Yes, we tried to change the world. We thought we could change the world. And, even if the world changed us, we still keep some of that faith.
Posted by: Ken | 30 May 2006 at 08:48 PM
Mournful & contemplative - a fine poem.
Posted by: Dick | 31 May 2006 at 03:35 PM