We watched him for hours as summer roamed on, a young boy devoured by legend of old, we led him on purpose to Emory’s barn to detail a wonder and fulfill his hours. A young man may venture and find a wild home, through doorways where hay stands, and omens do roam, and find leather saddles and tack that smells old, a medicine cabinet with salve, nails and comb. Look further young spirit toward rafters above with spiders and sparrows and may be a dove. The wooden floor opens towards shadows of old, his mind all a wonder a secret unfolds. We watched his gaze falter right there by the chair, is it really rocking, is some ghost still there. What now his eye’s flashing, ablaze with gay light, he’s seen the shell casing, so large with its might, from World War glory and Argonne blight, the smell of dark powder, his Papa’s barn this day will bring him new sight.
We are like a council, a grey flock in black, that tenders a young mind to always look back, but it not about us, so quietly defined, it’s more what this young boy in summer did find. We possessed him to wander in Emory’s barn to find a large bullet to hear such a yarn, but there his mind rambled and it did see more, we lost him in Verdun where he did see war, with trench’s and bayonets and blood flowing gore, in Marne we are ready, to fight all the more. What then he moved quicker across the barn floor and there he did find it a blade for a sword. What claymore of Scotland with blood on its rack that spoke of a time entered a Bosch to his back. A edge that saw action near Somme on a bank, when Rawlinson did order attack with the tanks, and one million perished on Ancre soil, their blood spilling over as G-d did recoil.
In Emory’s barn we hosted control, we lost it in summertime, from what he did sow, a young man with vision that entered a ditch,in faraway journeys with freedoms intent. We watched something happen as vision did whirl, a young boy found greatness as image unfurled. Come down now dark Eden, we’ve watched you birth boy, alone in his kingdom while summertime broils, we’ve watched him look distant and see us enflamed, the warriors of Mon’s, retreat with disdain, and yes those light footprints that start from the hay are worlds from lost shadows, now anchoring this boys new day. – 08.24.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל
Many a happy summer did find me investigating my Papa Emory’s barn which rested itself in the Arkansas Ozarks. Among the many beautiful trophy’s I did investigate and find were shell casings, a claymore blade, and many other spoils of war that my grandfather had gathered in France as he served with Pershing’s “Dogs of War” that had returned to favor Lafayette in payment of war debt for his kind service toward America some one hundred and forty five years previously. There in that barn on the upper level alone in the Arkansas heat, my mind did see many things. J