On occasion of Remembrance Day and being pissed at white poppies

It is just a Symbol

I don’t remember
His quiet stories
Or the caress of his father’s hand
I don’t remember
Alphabet lessons
Or our playing in the sand

I don’t remember
The holidays
Or have memories of happy words
And I don’t remember
The uniform
Or the shriek of iron birds

I don’t remember
His touch, his smell,
The nature of his tones.
And I never knew his reasons why
or the lessons that he learned

But I remember that he once served
whatever his reasons why
And I’ve been taught that
he took flight
and flew across the sky

It’s true I’ve always known
He’d been there when I was oh so small
And whatever else that he may have missed
He must have smiled to see me crawl

But of the many skills
he had to share
moments and emotions
and souls to bare

There was no time,
no place, no song
His few moments were
too swiftly gone

In here and now, all that remains
Is history taught at nother’s knee
The images and old stories
passed down, just history

And yet they have now become,
And are my reasons why
As eleven eleven comes round again
I step aside from my conceits
and spare a glance for the sky

To take second to
Now that I’m grown
And think of things
That I have never known.

And wish that you Remember
Wherever your thoughts may dwell

That whether or not you knew them
They’re owed their silent, fare the well.

For the first time in history I find myself reluctant to share a poem or rhyme; indeed when I have ever been shy to share the nonsense that escapes my lips. I can see that the bones are there but it doesn’t do the idea, the raw purpose much justice. Still, as amateurish puling doggerel goes, it makes my heart move a bit so I guess, for me, that it is enough.

But do me a favour and sing your own song or scribble your poem or paint your own picture and remember always, that on the backs of others our lives rest.