Veterans / Memorial Day Poem #18, Untitled

Veterans / Memorial Day Poem #18, Untitled

The Farmer He rents a room in town now at a hotel just off Main
His hair is gray and thinning, his style of dress is plain.
His eyes are dim and failing, with a gait thats stiff and slow.
The limp he got at Iwo, so many years ago.
He spent his life a farmer, till the hills just got too steep.
The auction was the hardest day, his life had gone too cheap.
They paid him for the machinery, the livestock and his land.
But you can't buy the sweat or blood or the callous on his hands.
His wife has been gone two years this fall, forty years she was his
mate,
And his son has slept at Arlington since nineteen-sixty eight.
"I miss her more each passing day, she was the stronger one."
"And the boy I taught to work the land, Semper Fi, my son."
He still gets up at five o'clock, a habit he can't shake.
He'll dress and eat and sit a spell and wait for day to break.
He'll sit down on the bench out front and while the hours away.
Perhaps someone will stop a spell to pass the time away.
Aw, he knows it ain't likely, they'll just pass on by.
They've no time to hear his stories.
And inside himself he'll cry.

Written from the heart by Charles Bowen Jr.

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-- Otis Willie (Ret.)
Military News and Information Editor (http://www.13105320634.com)
The American War Library, Est. 1988 (http://www.amervets.com)
16907 Brighton Avenue
Gardena CA 90247
1-310-532-0634

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	#1
Otis Willie PIO The American War Library	Veterans / Memorial Day Poem #18, Untitled Veterans / Memorial Day Poem #18, Untitled The Farmer He rents a room in town now at a hotel just off Main His hair is gray and thinning, his style of dress is plain. His eyes are dim and failing, with a gait thats stiff and slow. The limp he got at Iwo, so many years ago. He spent his life a farmer, till the hills just got too steep. The auction was the hardest day, his life had gone too cheap. They paid him for the machinery, the livestock and his land. But you can't buy the sweat or blood or the callous on his hands. His wife has been gone two years this fall, forty years she was his mate, And his son has slept at Arlington since nineteen-sixty eight. "I miss her more each passing day, she was the stronger one." "And the boy I taught to work the land, Semper Fi, my son." He still gets up at five o'clock, a habit he can't shake. He'll dress and eat and sit a spell and wait for day to break. He'll sit down on the bench out front and while the hours away. Perhaps someone will stop a spell to pass the time away. Aw, he knows it ain't likely, they'll just pass on by. They've no time to hear his stories. And inside himself he'll cry. Written from the heart by Charles Bowen Jr. More Poetry http://members.aol.com/warlib/poems.htm Submit a poem http://www.amervets.com/poems/mypoem.htm -- Otis Willie (Ret.) Military News and Information Editor (http://www.13105320634.com) The American War Library, Est. 1988 (http://www.amervets.com) 16907 Brighton Avenue Gardena CA 90247 1-310-532-0634 Military Webmaster Site Link Request Form: http://www.amervets.com/linkreq.htm Military and Vet Info-Exchange/Discussion Groups http://members.aol.com/warlibrary/share.htm