The War Statue

My great-grandfather fought for the Union

through the whole Civil War

and lived to continue his study of the classics.

He convinced his home town to erect,

at the terminus of their Decoration Day parade,

a memorial statue of a Union soldier

made entirely of wood.

When a boy I marched to it during WW II

and noticed its severe weathering.

The bayonet and part of the rifle barrel were already gone.

And the wheezing soldier before his WW I bronze statue

vilified the Germans who gassed him.

When thirty I marched to the statue again

as The Korean War was winding down.

The face was disappearing,

the hands had no fingers.

And the armless sailor before his WW II marble statue

vilified the Japanese who sent the Kamikazes.

When I was fifty, I journeyed to Greece.

How wise of the ancient Greeks to dictate

that their grave memorials be made of wood.

Only a tumulus of dirt remained at Marathon.

And the legless vet before his Korean War fiberglass platoon

vilified the Chinese who laid the landmines.

At seventy, I visit the statue alone.

Crows caucus loudly in the surrounding evergreens

and a cold winter rain drenches us.

I can no longer discern

the uniform and cap.

◊

©  Sherman K. Poultney  3 August 1999            The Frost Place

published in “Breath of Parted Lips II” (CavanKerry Press) 2004,

Her Outing to Victory Market

Her Outing to Victory Market

He wheeled her into the grocery store.

They passed the bakery and were immersed

in the aroma of fresh baked bread.

He took her from the nursing home once a month.

She liked the colors of fresh fruits and vegetables,

especially the oranges. He would hand her one

and she would feel the pebbled rind.

She could eat only pureed food.

She watched and listened to the children

count their coins at the candy counter.

A stroke prevented her from talking.

He bought her a piece of chocolate fudge

that she could melt in her mouth.

By the coffee grinder, she was drawn

by the aroma and the dark brown of the beans.

She used to be so independent.

He brought her to the fish counter

to look at whole red grouper,

magenta slices of tuna, and

bright orange claws of cooked lobster.

Before he helped her into the car,

he bought for her to eat that evening

a pint of coffee ice cream.

She smiled at him broadly

and placed on his arm her hand.

© Sherman K. Poultney  21 February 2010