Old soldiers.

(April is poetry month. New poetry number eighteen.)

1- My stepfather was a paratrooper in WW2. He was six foot in height and 200 pounds. Was a police officer for 20 plus year, he was a drinker, who quit drinking and he was a father. He was the Sunday preacher for 30 years and he worked for 60 years. He was an old soldier who never talked of the WW2. His home, always an open door for his family. He loved to laugh, he loved the Tigers and he loved his newspaper. He played the guitar for us and he never complained. He taught me, old soldier keeps going forward, leaving the bad days behind. Jack was a kind man with the biggest heart.

2- Somehow, I became the old soldier. I remember my father Jack ways. My door is always open for my children and my grandchildren. I am sixty-eight years old and still working. I do not work for me. Grandchildren need things and I am proud to buy for them. I pray for the new soldiers and I dislike war.

Old soldiers.

Us, old soldiers, we stand together at Memorial Day, and we talk about old friends, and we stand silence by stones with names of friends lost in the new and old wars. Vietnam vet told me. We are the leftover generation, fought in wars and we became forgotten. We must be the storytellers of good men who cannot speak no-more. We must say their names, so they are not forgotten.

John