Before the Veterans Die

Poetry of World War II by Dale R. Carver

Note: Reprinted without permission for private use only. No copyright infringement is intended.

Colors

Some were olive-drab knights of old --
their courage the color of burnished gold.

Other, indifferent, driven or led,
burst forth at times with blazing red.

The courage of most, to endure, a shade
with the dull sheen of a honed-steel blade.

The "B A R"* Man

He wore G I glasses and a worried grin,
was five feet six, and bony thin.
One cheek framed a shrapnel scar;
one shoulder sagged with a B A R.

I offered to carry the thing for a while;
we had walked through mud for many a mile
and the day looked old in the murky light
as we walked through the curtain and into night.

"Keep your hands to yourself, you great big slob,
It's mine to carry and I'll do my job.
I'll lug the thing on my back till dawn
and I'll be here when the big men are gone."

*Browning automatic rifle

Home Is the Hunter

The shotgun with the broken stock,
wrapped with wire winters ago
by the hands of one who thrilled to know
the explosive rise of the pheasant cock,
stands in the corner by the cane-backed chair
gathering dust. From fields of corn
the call of the pheasant cock is borne
true and clear on the morning air.

There's frost in the shade of the old stone wall;
the hedgerows beckon; the headlands call.
Dark green are the clumps of winter wheat;
the black earth yearns for the hunter's feet.
The pheasants pipe with voices shrill,
while the hunter lies on a numbered hill.

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