Friday, July 24, 2009


All the Bright Mornings

I. On Saturdays

this life no smoke 

lifted off the tarmac

heavy headed to Ploesti

dodging black flack downwind

the wind blows blue smoke

small engine repair

mornings so cold

you can your breath

catching fire watching

the bombs drop

silently framed in his 

eyes sweeping the row

of tools spread out

useless now half or

more fogotten in

the haze oil smoke-

blowing now he stands

as always at his post

waiting for the engines

to warm

before he can tell

if anything is wrong

on saturday morning

when St. Paul came

his tools too dangerous

now for him who once

flew with the Eagles

over Italy


All gone now

the memories flooding

together the ditch

run off water gathered

Gone Now the Bright Son

of father’s day


bent fingers

he stands

middle of the driveway

the robins

Charlie Mike,

as always

the young ones


as always he could

work longer harder

his generation

Old Lions showing

the young cats

how its done

the Youngest Son

stands watching

shaking his head

wondering if he too

Someday would.


The Children

now scattered

the Angels have come

so bright the Son

when it started.

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