There persists the calling of the faint echoes of years soft-passed,
Almost imperceptible at first, steadily creeping as sirens in stealth
Until entangled with secret, silent memories
My swaddling of truth lies in patience, waiting
-- A flash brings it all back --
The persistent bass-drum beats
Fall into the arms of the booming bugle calls
Which cascade into a 21-gun salute
And as the silent smoke rises,
Not pope-white, but it still advises,
With the smoke rising and the shells falling fast and often
Onto the dewy grass blades rooted to their dirty coffin,
The infidel corporal shines from all corners of himself
As he sends all the death knell with hollow, bravo-foxtrot, notes
My swaddling of truth lies in patience, waiting
And some day will ensconce me as its lading
In the hall the major darts past portraits of commanders
Then pauses, mid-stride, allowing all the years of neglect
To be reflected in her chiseled face,
Realizing there was something pretty there, once
And the general hands out coins and prose
To all the soldiers he’s told are battlefield heroes
But the stand-to will still rise at oh-six
Regardless of how many hollow coins are flipped
The trumpet from the private was torn
Then bayonets and bullets flew
But the general’s flag remained in view
As two brigades were wasted on the lawn
The wind whips gaily through the town square
Perusing empty street and alley alike without care
And by God, I am telling you, by God I swear
My swaddling of truth lies in patience, waiting
And some day will ensconce me as its lading
But for tonight I fall by its warm glow
And by some simple muse simply know.
Labels: frank marcopolos, poetry, verse
