My father age twenty-five.
his desires divided,
stood in line with naked men
waiting for the army to welcome them.
They listened to his slow, weak heart,
and said he’d stay home to do his part.
My father age twenty-five
managed to stay alive.
While his friends went off to foreign shores,
at home he built bombers for the war.
His friends returned broken and stayed,
with their damaged mates from their brigades.
Dad was whole and grieved the loss
of friendships torn by life or death.
On the decades rolled
and now each soul
who stood entwined within that line
is gone, save dad, whose slow, frail heart
turned out to be his strongest part.
Dad thinks back upon that line,
and celebrates birthday ninety-nine.
Shawn L. Bird 
I think that this is a wonderful tribute; in many ways proof of life and death and that we do not control the day or the hour. Beautiful. Ann
Indeed. Thank you.
[smiles & heart]
🙂 ❤
Aw great piece Shawn, it made me smile.
I’m glad
🙂
The irony of life…
I know, right?
Beautiful tribute!
Thanks
Tell you father we said thanks for serving our country!
He has spent many years at the cenotaph, weeping for his friends lost to combat, whether they returned or not.
Moving.
Laurie.
Thanks
Welcome.
A loving tribute. Your dad must be a special man.
He is
A sublime and edifying theme of enormous dimension. Well written, particularly the denouement.
Thanks Mike
What a wonderful poem of love and kinship…My own Dad, at ninety this year, is still healing from war wounds of the heart. He’s talking about experiences and the way he was effected by them even now and is such an inspiration to me. He’s finding a measure of peace and closure after all this time.
I truly enjoyed reading this poem, hearing about your Dad and reflecting on my love for my own Dad. Thanks!
Dad talks about how after his friends returned from overseas, they were distant. They would only spend time with others who had been there- at the legion or whatever. So people he’d loved were lost, even though they returned.
Very nice! Awesome tribute.
Thanks
Beautifully written! He must be proud.
He carries copies of my books in his walker and tries to sell them to all residents and staff where he lives. He sells quite a few, too! lol
Breathless.
My aunt was a nun, over a beer one day we chatted about war and its affects on humanity. She had just returned from Congo. She spent many years there assisting in the psychological healing of the person ravaged by war and poverty. She said this to me which I found surprising. “Sometimes we have to fight, sometimes we have to go to extremes.”
She also said this regarding those who fought and those who contributed to those efforts, and please, could you pass this on to your dad …
“… and they loved us into freedom.” ~ Sister Alice Trudeau
I will! Thanks!
i like that poem
Thank you.
your welcome. if u would like u can look me up on facebook under Todd A. Mooney Jones and please send me a request.