Member Poem

My father’s younger brother
followed him into World War II
like a pesky little brother would
ready to do his part
ready to make his mark
These two blond, blue-eyed boys
one year apart in age
Uncle Dail followed my father
down the dirt roads
that they drove sometimes too fast
from a place where time lay easy
fields spread out in a place
harboring more sand than trees
They left the small farm
with perfect rows of beans
a blackberry orchard
and a grapevine that made
small sour grapes
no matter the careful tending
of my grandmother’s slender hands
in the middle of this still world
they left for chaos
Uncle Dail was
not old enough to go
when he signed up for the Navy
there my grandmother stood
broken hearted
twirling her auburn hair
natural highlights of golden honey
hands nervously smoothing her apron
tears welling up in her green eyes
as a mad man raged
as a mad man fumed
on a mad mission
of mad hate
to change the world order
My Uncle Dail
slight gap in his front teeth
with his All American boy smile
determined and good looking
but he had to keep up
with my father
Evenings found my grandmother
writing furious letters
the Department of Defense
“checking into the matter”
and not caring much
for that war must be won
relegating combat now
to the farmers
Off they went
my father and uncle
on two different ships
My grandmother picking up
her crochet needle
halfway around the world
Loud she was
in her criticism of war
her only two sons
now both gone
My father on board
the USS Ticonderoga
My uncle off to Europe
both coasting upon
the destiny of the seas
Uncle Dail mastered the camera
both from behind and in front
documented his adventure
sent his mother poetry
I see kids now
that won’t stand for the pledge
and they tell me
history is useless
Are they freaking kidding me?
I tell them
ordinary people make history
write it too
Uncle Dail was on board
big ships, giant crashing waves
sea storms while
airplane strips cleared for landing
Forces aligned, the Allies rallied
with the emergence
of these fresh-faced American kids
called to defend
proud to defend
way back in another era
before detachment
and eroded family values
Uncle Dail sent
home his letters and cards
teased my grandfather’s politics
My grandmother engulfed
in each correspondence
sitting on the screened-in porch
her copper-colored tresses
gleaming in the sun
her elegant fingers caressing
the envelopes
praying for safe returns
In the middle of it all
on the USS Ticonderoga
my father figured
his weekly pay
the distance to and from
this port and that one
went to the ship’s shows
made photos with
blonde Hawaiian girls
all was quiet
D Day came and went
my Uncle Dail
sailing those mystical seas
fortunate for no hits
filed to go home for leave
back to the farm
with the beans and berries
Then somehow in a car
on his way home
all adventure ended there
like James Dean
on a road
with a hitchiker
My grandmother was never
the same after that
this ironic life to blame
she had to face that flag draped coffin
after all
I held her hand
long after those
two little boys
put their little hands in hers
I held her hand
when her fingers turned knobby
with age, her eyes grew dimmer
but there was still some fiery copper
in her hair
She would tell of these moments
as her thoughts strayed down
one of those dirt roads
when I was her youngest
tomboy granddaughter
on an isolated farm
where the blackberry vines still bloomed
and the grapes stayed a little bit sour
“And how do you like
your blue-eyed boy now,
Mr. Death?”