Papang
In my dreams,
I thought him not as a friend
but as a father of a friend.
Mood,
of loud voices and lousy stories stirred glasses
lurked in between, red rancid liquor slithered his throat
of friendship and comradeship.
Life’s mystery,
of tacit, lighthearted days
farced reflections and erratic journey.
Atonement,
jagged, exquisitely turned
proliferated into pieces.
Of labor,
no more escape, nor nick of time
no more cheered, nor loathed glasses
of ironed uniforms, straightened pants, and shiny boots
of wooden cudgels and empty guns
duties ended, labored lost.
Rest,
soulful memory
no more grayed hair
brawny and robust marches
his wife skillfully brushed his head
who wrestled his thinning years.
His last,
he thought not of his happiness
his good fortune
belonged to his mournful wife and beloved children
Bid,
his colorful days
his remains wrapped with love lost forever
for the elements and worms of the earth
his to give his soul, o, Lord,
accept him his great gestures to men.
what a melancholic piece. i actually have seen the grim realities of death on this one good soldier. it struck a chord since my father is also a soldier, and i dread the idea of him passing.
the poem treads beautifully along the lines, just the right pace. and arrangement was figurative in a sense that the reader is afforded the luxury of reading it in phases. on measurable bits that aids for more internalization.
a good poem with a catchy bite !!
Marvin said this on September 12, 2008 at 8:43 am