rain-worn and illegible
Quebec meadow kissed
by a bronze-pink sky
covering 21 grams.
Born of a famine
crossing the ocean to starve
comfort in chaos; clear liquid numbs
made of grain
violation sets the tone.
Infantry fox hole
staring at dead eyes open
comfort in chaos; brown liquid numbs barley gold
he carries a French postcard in his pocket
addressed to his Son, but unsent.
sweet family gone
umber stained fingers, burnt
holding onto hope and a satchel
hopping from one train to the next
for years; becoming thin as a rail.
Mrs. Mini’s rooming house
armies of salvation givers give hope
to no avail; winning and losing
comfort in chaos; Bay Rum* numbs
familiar spiral begins once more.
Needles burn with beautiful warmth
numbing to another plane
he knows no Russian, but
tattoos cover his hands with the symbols
of a criminal.
All warnings are futile
finally, hope is gone
at the bottom of a ditch; throat slit
legs wrapped in hay wire
a monogrammed, porkpie hat rolls
to the bottom
Posted for OpenLinkNight #5 dVerse Poet’s Pub http://dversepoets.com/
and, dVerse Pretzels and Bullfights, Memorial Day prompt, 2012.
This poem is about my Grandfather who died decades before my birth. He was an infantryman in the Canadian army during WWI. His murder remains unsolved, but newspaper articles speculated it was the result of unpaid drug and gambling debts. *Bay Rum, an after shave with high alcohol content, was popular during WWII and before.