THIS OLD VETERAN

This old Veteran

can't walk barefoot anymore,

have to get the shoes nailed on,

like an old horse that don't need hopples any more.

Still, I keep casting 'em off,

putting up with the bruises,

I notice my shadow is shorter,

or the Sun is smaller,

and my hoof marks are deeper.

Even though I tread wearily,

towards it,

I'm sure it is hotter,

than it used to be.

I never brought my work

home with me,

until I became a soldier.

I went to war,

in Vietnam, you know.

I am thankful that I had no children

because I would have passed

Vietnam on to them,

and no kid deserves that.

But ... yes, there is regret,

a quiet sadness …

I did not have time to love,

before the feeling was,

destroyed …

I cared too much you see …

so the army was a good place for me,

and war.

I fell from the pedestal

I was born on.

Everything was taken away

except my dignity.

Even God left me,

and I loved him.

I wasn't made for the darkness,

but I thrived in it …

I was too clever,

for the shadows.

I sat under the pale

street lights,

surrounded by fog.

Shrouded people came by

like tricky mist nymphs,

but they could not

steal my lamp light.

They all tried; they taunted,

they tempted,

but alas they failed.

Being poor was a crime,

people saw your clothes ,

not your mind,

and the Police

seemed to be taking

revenge because

they were old

And I was young.

They never really remember

their youth, you know,

only the doctrine,

stamped on their brains.

I was a criminal

for wearing a Red shirt.

Back then I went barefoot.

And in the City ... well !!

Went back to the bush

wearing ripple sole shoes

and black,

stove pipe jeans.

The girls goggled at my

Red leather Jacket,

but I didn't know.

Girls were to be feared,

and were too nice

for me to touch.

But wow . . they were

really something, hey ?

Hell I would shake like

a tree in an Earthquake

when they came near.

Didn't think much of myself,

you know …

couldn't even spell anymore !

I could hardly write!!

I could talk posh,

but that was going too,

drifting away with the tides.

I tried hard to talk the same

as they did.

You see, everything I said was wrong;

even when I knew I was right,

I was wrong.

I started writing …

in the margins of newspapers,

on pickle jar labels ...

on the inside of cigarette packets

on toilet paper on cardboard ... ON MY SHIRT TAILS ...

poetry. Poetry, and more bloody poetry !!!

Pouring out of me like tears,

Atrocious, pathetic stuff ... then …

soft and gentle,

talking to God, until

I realized he was not there.

That was before they landed on the Moon,

and I imagined it a ship,

sailing through heaven,

with God at the wheel.

Nobody cared ... I was just

scribbling rubbish.

I saved what I could ...

when they read it ... they

didn't believe it was mine …

I was too young to know such things ..

but I knew,

and they didn't.

But I was just a youth,

with nowhere to go,

no friends, no nothing ...

siting under a lamp post,

surrounded by fog.

There is such comfort

in loneliness,

sounds become your friend,

the wind the rustling trees,

the driving rain ...

I still wondered,

if God was there,

watching ...

somehow I always avoided

falling over the cliff,

maybe ... well maybe .. no

why would God look after me ?

i walked along the edge,

and discovered how stupid,

evil people are.

How bloody stupid ..

the more of them I discovered,

the more I realized ,

how much smarter I was than them.

Most of them were

hollow boulders,

big, strong and stupid ...

but even a stinking sewer,

has clean water in it.

My knowledge base was growing.

In their way the criminals,

have a certain dignity.

They seem to posses a bug …

a worm,

an addiction they are born with.

Some of the prostitutes were nice ..

I was tempted …

but no I did not take up the invite.

Perhaps they did not

try hard enough …

I was willing to learn

they didn't know that.

The homosexuals made me laugh,

but there were others,

of ill deviance.

I planned my escape from the dark side,

and caught a train home.

I was still clean,

and sitting under my lamp post.

But I had not taken home

the treasures I had sought

to rid my family of their poverty.

I would try again.

End of part one at least …

© 4/9/2005 Colin F Jones