My husband's father was killed when he was two. That loss has never left him.
it had been so long
since I tried to put words
to a poem, or song
But my husband called out,
"They are showing on TV
something I would like
for you to watch with me.
Its where my father fought
in World War Two
In Africa at Tobruk!"
His excitement grew.
At the sound of his voice
I knew in my heart
to stop my effort to create,
and be part
of his experience
to relate to his Dad,
the one he barely
remembers he had.
The one he has missed
every day
from the time he was two
past his 60th birthday.
His only remembrance,
a trip to the mill,
pulled in a wagon
by Daddy
such a thrill.
A drunk weaponized
with a car
took away
Daddy from son
on his second birthday.
The son grew to be
a warrior too.
God and country
was the right thing to do.
Throughout his life
he sought information
that would solidify
his relation
with the man his mother
loved so deeply
and whose lap he would go to
when he was sleepy.
He learned as much as he could
of his Father's Army days,
his war experiences
and later pathways
As a military man
my husband understood
His father had to face
the spilling of much blood
and every day in the field
an enemy whose aim
was to kill him if they could
and let him lay where he was slain.
And so it was this evening
as my husband called to me
and said, "That could be my father,
that soldier on TV!"
That drunk took so much
on that long ago night
A little boy's missing father
would never lose its bite.
Poetry by Phyllis J. Rhodes
Read 680 times
Written on 2009-01-08 at 18:42
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)
Print text
Stolen Memories
I sat down to write,it had been so long
since I tried to put words
to a poem, or song
But my husband called out,
"They are showing on TV
something I would like
for you to watch with me.
Its where my father fought
in World War Two
In Africa at Tobruk!"
His excitement grew.
At the sound of his voice
I knew in my heart
to stop my effort to create,
and be part
of his experience
to relate to his Dad,
the one he barely
remembers he had.
The one he has missed
every day
from the time he was two
past his 60th birthday.
His only remembrance,
a trip to the mill,
pulled in a wagon
by Daddy
such a thrill.
A drunk weaponized
with a car
took away
Daddy from son
on his second birthday.
The son grew to be
a warrior too.
God and country
was the right thing to do.
Throughout his life
he sought information
that would solidify
his relation
with the man his mother
loved so deeply
and whose lap he would go to
when he was sleepy.
He learned as much as he could
of his Father's Army days,
his war experiences
and later pathways
As a military man
my husband understood
His father had to face
the spilling of much blood
and every day in the field
an enemy whose aim
was to kill him if they could
and let him lay where he was slain.
And so it was this evening
as my husband called to me
and said, "That could be my father,
that soldier on TV!"
That drunk took so much
on that long ago night
A little boy's missing father
would never lose its bite.
Poetry by Phyllis J. Rhodes
Read 680 times
Written on 2009-01-08 at 18:42
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
|
Kathy Lockhart |
|
John Lambremont, Sr. |
| Texts |
 by Phyllis J. Rhodes Latest textsWhateverStress Naughty Limerick He's Been Leaving Decisions, Decisions |
Increase font
Decrease