|You may surely ask -
Is this a flower in a clouded vase?
And I will say - No, it is a remembrance
of my father, sent to fight a war he could not win.
For in those days -
It was an honor to be a man
dressed in a uniform, leading the band
playing the songs of hope! - To go home again.
My memory of the church members-
Praying safety, God willing this war will end in peace;
no need for tears and a gun salute, mom weeping why?
The promise of a purple ribbon, for bravery lost in another country.
But far away, too late
he realized, a drum and a bugle
were no defence for him and his band
practicing and playing their marching songs.
Where in the distance
the swift new images -
like comets in the sky
could be seen, but not be heard,
until a deafening roar
formed a lightning flash of light,
igniting a billion stars that burned too bright
for my dad, conducting this new music in his mind.
Late at night the stars shine
on the clouded vase in my hand,
where I sit and dream of dad and the band
bold enough in mercy, and compassion for others.
Saluting the brave
playing in a green beret,
justice served without fear
as the last note floated in the air.
Fragments of a premonition
written by my father so long ago -
Crying mercy on his knees for friends;
being the poem of him in a world of turmoil.
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