By Gypsymooncat
| Author Note: | Finding something old and forgotten... |
There’s an old man sitting underneath a cedar tree,
a suitcase for a seat; a pen and notepad on his knee.
Beside him is a box, its contents glinting in the light.
He glances at it thoughtfully and then begins to write:
“Son, I found those medals we believed were gone for good,
just as I recalled them, in their box of cedar wood.
You proudly passed them round your class for weekly 'Show and Tell',
I hadn't seen them since, but then, I thought it just as well.
Your mother must’ve put them in that suitcase in the shed.
To find them brought back feelings I had truly thought were dead.
I stared at them, so shiny, as they lay there in my hand,
remembering my father, who had fought for our homeland.
When he returned, he was a man who’d lost the will to fight;
who'd died inside before he waved that final flag of white.
You told me I should march, and so I did for years, with pride,
and I could swear I felt his spirit marching by my side.
But years flew by and all too quickly, you had moved away;
I found it hard to step aside, and let you go your way.
We seemed to disagree on things we never had before.
You no longer saw me as your hero, anymore.
So I named you as the reason why we seemed at odds;
“It can't be me!” I thought, for I was such a stubborn sod.
Now it’s time to mend that bridge, and end this senseless fight;
I admit to my mistakes, and want to put things right.
Funny though, I’ve had the thought your mother somehow knew
I’d one day find those medals, and they’d lead me back to you.
So I'll write this note and put it in an envelope,
and send it on a wing and prayer; my olive branch, my hope.
With life still here in this old dog, I’ll tell you plain and straight,
don’t hurry your decision, for I’ve naught to do but wait”
But time can be a lowly thief, for now, beneath that tree,
a younger man sits grieving for lost opportunities.
And though his father’s spirit whispers it was for the good,
the medals lay there tarnished, in that box of cedar wood....
| Author Notes |
This is a re-worked version of a poem I'd written a couple of years ago. I hope you enjoy.
THANKS FOR READING! |
By Gypsymooncat
RIP Grandad George Bathurst Weston
Written by your Granddaughter
Christine Ivins (nee Weston)
(Gypsymooncat)
He brought it home from war,
among his goods and chattels,
travelling on board a hospital ship
bound for home.
He found it on a beach --
possibly Anzac Cove --
and though I asked my family where,
that still remains unknown.
The date inscribed upon it,
September 12, 1914,
spoke to me in volumes
when I got it in '84.
So battered, tarnished and dull!
The damage it sustained,
could not be buffed away,
nor its sheen restored.
But still, its voice remained....
My Granddad George brought water
for thirsty troops in the trenches.
His own life at risk, he ran,
providing sustenance to those
so dulled by dehydration,
battle weary and exhausted,
from the dust and the fight;
their boots the only things shining
through rivers of blood.
He found the battered bugle,
laying on the sand --
a sad, abandoned victim
of the elements,
and the enemy's hand.
I never knew Granddad George;
his passing occurred before me.
But he was tall, proud and strong enough
to lift a fallen power pole
from a man who was
trapped beneath.
At least I knew that much!
That was before the war.
After, he was never the same.
But he did not grow old;
the rust made sure of that.
His spirit was worn out before
his body followed suit.
And, as happened way back then,
the frabric of his life and death,
got frayed and thin, like him.
So, this is all I know;
hardly a memory of my Grandad,
save a grainy photo...
...and the Bugle, the beautiful Bugle!
A symbol of hope and courage,
a reminder of a savage war,
a symbol of souls being taken,
and the futility of it all.
| Author Notes |
The photo is of the bugle my Grandad George brought back with him from WWI. The inscription on it reads:
"Presented by the Officers of 31st Infantry to Lieutenant Colonel Dobbin for 1st Battalion of Expeditionary Force, September 12, 1914." My Grandfather's name was George Bathurst Weston. My family weren't too clear on family history, and many questions I asked either went unanswered or were inconclusive. When Granddad enlisted in WWI, he was aged 20. At least I know that much, and also have this incredibly valuable piece of history in my possession. It is the closest I can ever get to Granddad George. Thanks for reading! |
By Gypsymooncat
| Author Note: | These are the things any absent parent would want their children to know |
Part I
When you were born, my heart was split in half by two emotions:
one was an unbridled sense of fatherly devotion.
The other one was fear for how a Navy man like me
would keep you safe -- it seemed like an impossibility.
For years, the Middle Eastern pot was getting set to blow,
the when and how not something anyone could hope to know.
The situation, like a bomb attached to shortened fuse,
could go off any time while ever it was not diffused.
I took this worry with me every time I was deployed,
(but hid it while at home; that time was ours to be enjoyed).
I called you when I could and kept the conversation light.
You'd talk of school, your friends or I'd describe the sea at night.
I'd tell you of a fiery moon that rose from black horizons,
how she'd slowly change from flaming-red to icy diamonds.
You'd sigh in pleasure, saying that you'd love to see it, too.
No war would stop me doing that, or anything, for you.
-00-
On eleventh of September, zero-one, we witnessed hell,
when through an act of terrorism, both the Towers fell.
The world at large grew sombre, looking on with grave concern.
For life the way we'd known it ended as the Towers burned.
Just over twelve months later, bombs exploded throughout Bali:
in Paddy's Bar, the US Consulate; the Nightclub Sari.
There were many hurt with many others being killed.
Retaliation loomed - the threat of global war fulfilled.
America stood poised, its arrow aimed upon Iraq,
we knew that once that arrow flew, there'd be no turning back.
The US and her Allies raised a piercing battle cry
and stormed the desert, armed as one, beneath a blood red sky.
-00-
A coward I was not but I was scared for leaving you.
How I yearned to be at home, beside my Princess Boo.
A glance across the clouds just as the plane began to lower,
showed you standing there, in that pink dress and feather boa.
Your image disappeared from sight but lingered in my mind.
I took it as a message - as an otherworldly sign -
to keep my troops protected, for they'd be my family too.
So, silently I vowed that all of us would make it through.
Part II
Twelve long months went by before we stepped aboard a plane
that bore us home together, and I never left again.
And yet I felt a subtle tinge of insecurity;
those months apart had changed you, like the war had altered me.
You'd grown so tall and even lost that chubby, baby-face.
My Princess Boo was gone and left a lady in her place!
You looked so like your Mother that I had to hide a tear.
I knew I had my work cut out and wished that she was here.
Picking up where I'd left off; the milestones I had missed,
and learning who you were, filled up the top spots on my list.
We took our boat out late one night and watched the moon rise up -
to see your face alight with wonder overflowed my cup.
There were times, though, when I lost my temper and withdrew.
You thought it was your fault. You need to know, it wasn't you.
Other times, you'd ask to hear my tales from "over there".
I'd speak of heat, the lack of trees, how sand got everywhere...
I chose to hide what evil I had seen inside a box,
the lid shut tight, no key would turn in either of the locks.
I couldn't share that horror - it was mine to bear alone.
I couldn't share the misery that settled in my bones.
For I still got the war-time chills right up and down my spine.
I still expected bombs, and checked for snipers or for mines.
The bodies of the children and their mothers filled my dreams,
and one I shot by accident...I always heard his screams...
-00-
I may have done my best protecting you, but just the same,
I suffer for that little boy and wish I'd known his name.
And if I were to meet him in another time and space,
would he agree his death helped make the world a safer place?
| Author Notes |
Not entirely auto-biographical.
Thanks for stopping by! |
By Gypsymooncat
I found your letters in a box
when I'd cleaned out the shed.
I took them all inside and
read each one, tucked up in bed.
Many things came flooding back
that I'd tried to forget:
the bitterness, the pain,
the angry words that I regret.
Mum had left once she'd run out
of things to say or do.
I'd thought of moving in with her,
but chose to stay with you.
I couldn't leave you, Dad, because
the bond we shared was strong.
And though I missed her so,
I never saw that choice as wrong.
Even when you brushed me off
to sit alone outside.
Or the times I walked on eggshells,
miserable inside.
I loved you, Dad, regardless
of the cards you sometimes dealt.
I wanted to look after you,
neglecting how I felt.
But I had no idea of what
you went through every day.
I thought it was my fault -
like somehow I was in the way.
You also shared some stories
I suspected weren't quite true.
I felt offended and began
to put less trust in you.
As I read some more those walls
began to slowly crack,
and I recalled the laughter,
day trips, camping out the back...
Or when you'd tickle me I'd laugh
so hard my tummy hurt.
And wrestling matches that I won
while you laid there, inert.
I remembered when you said
"You are my Princess Boo,
and I'm the hero who will do
his best protecting you."
My soul is aching for the loss
of those light hearted years.
It knows there's nothing else
can change why I am sitting here.
If only I had seen back then
how I would feel today.
There'd be no need to grieve
for all the years we threw away.
If only we had realised
the truth would set us free.
There mightn't be a headstone
or a two-page eulogy.
-00-
Now I stand, saluting you
and biting back the sorrow.
There'll be more time for tears
when I'm alone again tomorrow.
| Author Notes |
"If Only" is written from the vantage point of a daughter, looking back over the years of her father's military career, and the angst and sorrow following the breakdown of her parents' marriage when she was in her teens.
Photo courtesy of 123RF.com, Google Images. No copyright breach intended. Thanks for reading! |
By Gypsymooncat
Beneath a cloak of indigo where night-birds soon will fly,
I stop and watch the fiery sunset lighting up the sky.
Where I've been I never saw the night look quite so grand,
for all the sunsets blended in to hills of desert sand....
I'm driving my old ute with my past life packed in a bag
(a pleasant change from army trucks or sleeping in a swag).
I hear the rustle of the trees and entertain the thought
that they are saying “welcome home” from battles I have fought.
The road ahead is reminiscent of a domino --
a chequered coat in black and white reflected in the glow.
The rhythmic crunch of tyres on the hardened rock and loam
speaks to me of feather quilts, serenity, and home.
I stand before the door and contemplate a little while,
delaying that fine moment when I'll see my lady smile.
She'll never know how much the thought of her has filled my heart,
and kept it beating all the time we've had to spend apart.
She stands before me, hesitant to make a move that's wrong --
afraid, like me, to break the spell, for it has been so long.
The months have slowly wound on down, a year I've been away;
and though I had a speech rehearsed, I can't think what to say.
She runs to me and wildly throws her arms around my neck,
kissing all my tears away while hers flow down unchecked.
The tour was never meant to last for more than half a year,
now we must pick the pieces up from when I left her here....
For all of us returning from the Middle-Eastern war,
we can't explain how we have changed from who we were before.
We all went in with purpose, yet have come out feeling lost,
from fighting battles that may never end, at such a cost.
The "Holy" War will stay with every soul who played a part,
by plaguing us with inner wars we know are sure to start;
for though our thoughts of home kept us alive, that desert sand
has left its mark on us in ways we'll never understand.
| Author Notes |
Dedicated to all who fought, and continue to fight, the endless war in the Middle East.
Thanks for reading! Picture courtesy of Tim de Groot, Unsplash Images. Video: Here is "For You" sung by Johnny Cash and Dave Matthews from the album, We Were Soldiers (2002). https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v1mQT1u_45I |
By Gypsymooncat
The dogs of war are out for blood in search of easy prey.
In the trench a fledgling soldier wills his fear away.
The looming threat of death embeds a knife of terror deep
within this frightened soldier's heart; he's trying not to weep.
A second's thought of his dear mother flits across his mind --
her peaceful, loving ways a distant dream too far behind.
Will he make it home or even make it through this day?
Without an answer or a choice, he drives those thoughts away.
They're closer now, he hears them crunching stone beneath their boots.
The fledgling takes position, cocks his weapon, poised to shoot.
Stench of danger permeates, his nostrils widely flare,
like his reddened eyes with drying tears no one will share.
Battle cries are deafening, his foe comes into sight!
A pair of eyes materialise before him, wide in fright.
Too close to free a bullet so he draws a vicious knife;
a second to decide who gets a second chance at life.
Screaming he deploys the blade into another heart,
piercing skin and bone all sense of reason blown apart.
What choice could he make except to kill or else be killed?
Even though it means the blood of innocents is spilled.
He kneels beside the body of his fallen enemy;
gently closes eyelids, signs the cross, but doesn't see,
a bayonet, so stealthy, from behind now makes its mark,
he's plunging downward, senses fading, all is growing dark.
There, beside his victim, lifeblood soaking hardened land,
he reaches out for absolution from a dying hand.
Those still fighting do not see this joining of each son,
who fought in life as enemies, in death becoming one.
-00-
Miles across the ocean, washed in silver by the moon,
a grieving mother sits beside the window of his room.
Against her breast, she holds a photograph of him at three,
and from this day, to her, that is the age he'll always be.
| Author Notes |
In this poem, I have tried to bring across the absolute terror young soldiers felt when the enemy was upon them. Our memories are that of the hero. Yes, they were heroes, all of them. But they were just as afraid as a child on his first day of school.
Let's remember not only the sacrifices members of the military have made, but also honour their humanness, and how they overcame such abject fear to do what their country, and each battle, asked of them. Picture courtesy of Conversation Films, Google Images |
By Gypsymooncat
| Author Note: | The hopeful side of war that we don't always see |
| Author Notes |
The above is a photo of my ex-husband Glen, with nine Iraqi youths. Those of us at home never saw this, or anything like it, in the media. And why? Because, death, dust, bombs and blood make the news; rarely does kindness, humanity or the joy of children.
He, and every single person who fought - and still fight - in the Middle Eastern war are unsung heroes in so many ways. Lest we forget. Photo: Glen Ivins and the youth of Iraq, 2004. |
By Gypsymooncat
I'm an Aussie Digger, who was also called "True Blue".
I went to war afraid, between the gatepost, me and you.
Just the same I wore my khaki proudly, every day;
the uniform and Flag were where I tucked my fears away.
Nowadays I've earned the term a "Veteran" of War.
"Fugitive" sounds better, 'cause I did things I abhor.
None of us were killers, though they trained us up to be,
but training ill-prepared us for the battles we would see.
The things I wish I could forget affect my sleep at night
(watching mates succumb to death was not a pretty sight).
I'm a hero am I? Thanks, but gee, I disagree!
I cried till snot ran out my nose, 'tween you, that post and me.
I'm telling you the way I saw it, nothing more or less,
with no intent to shoot you down or sully your bequests
of gratitude or admiration - those are yours to give,
but hard to take when it's myself who's hardest to forgive.
So let us honour those who lost their lives instead of me,
and pray that all we did has helped to keep our countries free.
Please try to understand that I can't get my head around
the fact that better men than me lie cold beneath the ground.
The only thing that comforts me, is that I did my best
in honouring the call to arms at Uncle Sam's request.
Even though each battle took us far away from truth,
we all were soldiers once, and young, but war destroyed our youth.
| Author Notes |
Firstly, I want to acknowledge the movie "We Were Soldiers", which of course, inspired the heading of this poem and the last line.
Secondly, I have written this in "Aussie" terms, or at least, from the perspective of an Australian Soldier. There is one term that is often used in Aussie-speak, ie: "Between you, me and the gatepost" - which means to keep it between you, me and the gatepost. For the poem though, I had to flip it around a bit for the sake of rhyme, ie, "between the gatepost, me and you" and then " 'tween you, that post and me" for the sake of syllable count as well as rhyme. Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed! Picture courtesy of Darkroom - Baltimore Sun, Google Images |
By Gypsymooncat
I was just a young'un when I joined up for the war
(the three-day growth convinced 'em, plus I lied about my age).
They shipped me off to places I had never been before,
and taught me how to load and shoot a rifle, stage by stage.
I enjoyed the training, but knew I would hesitate
to kill another man, though that was what I'd have to do.
An older bloke named Ray became my mentor, then a mate,
he said "Just stick with me, I'll show you how, you'll make it through".
I wasn't well prepared for what a battle really meant,
like losing fella's I had known a week or even less.
Or crawling through the blood and guts, my spirit fairly spent,
longing for a bath, a bed that's soft, a game of chess.
So, Ray would share a smoke and tales of youth in rural Perth;
like how a kangaroo upended him with just its tail,
and being whipped within an inch of what his life was worth,
for nicking half the Christmas cake or sculling Poppy's ale.
He made me laugh, and eased the fear I felt most every day.
When I missed my mother and my dad and sisters too,
he'd crack a joke, or slap my back, demanding, "What'd I say?"
I'd straighten up and vow to stick with him, like super glue.
We were quite a pair, avoiding bullet, bomb and mine,
and nearly bought it more than once, but still came out alive.
It seemed we were a unit that their eye could not align,
and I convinced myself that, maybe, we would both survive.
'Till a bullet found its mark and caught Ray in the neck;
the blood gushed out, I couldn't stop it, he was plainly dyin'.
I tried to lift him up, but he yelled, "F*ckin' merry heck!
Just leave me here, don't let 'em get ya, stop that bloody cryin'!"
I stuck with him a little while, though knew I'd have to move,
and promised that I'd keep his memory alive instead.
I mowed the bastards down, 'cause I had something else to prove:
a promise to a mate, whose legacy lived in my head.
-00-
Ray was like an angel, shielding me from all the strife,
I stuck with him and made it through, but miss him every day.
So, once a year, I make the trip to where he lost his life;
I'll place a poppy, crack a beer, and stick with my mate, Ray.
| Author Notes |
Drawing courtesy of Finn Wigforss art. No breach of copyright intended.
Written with some Aussie slang. Thanks for reading! |
By Gypsymooncat
| Author Notes |
In memory of those who never made it home
Thanks for reading! Pic courtesy of Google Images. No copyright infringement intended. |
|
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