The most beautiful masculine sounding name I've just learned
This was my grandfather's given mane,who I never had the privileges
Of knowing him personally, never saw him no one seemed
To evertalk about himin any conversationin my presence,he passed away
Before I was a gleam in my father's eyes, a valiant dough boy
Of the First War (WW1)I was informedHe was a quiet and humble
Tall, thin, soft spokenGary Cooper type of mansilent, kept to himself
Carried a lot of baggagefrom his war years he wished no one, to ever know
He wore the truth uponHis uniform's chest,fruit salad (ribbons) seven rows high,and the reality of his private LifeHe had hiddenin an old foot locker
Locked in the attic of his mind soul and house, all the secrets withinthe locked foot locker unfoldedupon his death,Died of a poisoned inside his heart and soul, he stored within refusing to ever discussthe contentsof a life he left
Behind in a European war.
His hidden recorded life’s story, openedlike a moviefrom the silver screen
A platoon sergeant who was proclaimeda gentleman by an act of Congress
In grunt lingoa battle field commissionwas promoted to the rank
Of Lieutenant, He had been observedby witnesseswho swore on bibles
Upon an investigationsthat on one early morninga’mids a heavy fog
The enemy had silentlyBroke through, the barb wirebattle front lines.
He defended his positionwith the precision of an Apache warrior
No weapons were being firedJust loud criesof fighting men dyingscreaming with the pain of warscreaming to confuse in hand to hand combat.
The weapon he possessedwas the first thing he grabbed foras he was Awaken, from a deep sleepwas a trenching toolknown as a short folding
Shovela basic piece of equipmentcarried by all infantrymen,he swung it
From left to rightup and down,from side to sidefrom oblique to oblique
Some said he worea strange expression upon his faceit was blank
No smile, no frownno tears, no frightjust a thousand yard stare
Into the endlessnessnowhere of hell.
A sounding of metal clunking of shovels striking heads echoed with every strike, upon the enemy’s heads thirteen in all, heads rolledthirteen men, never againwill answer to their roll call
Nothing will ever be the same,he lived the rest of his life on the razors edge A balancing act, one side was the bottlethat eases the pains of war,on the other side awaits insanity, yet he never took a drink in his life, he still stands in our family archivesas a legend, once the secrets he held within his heart and soul swallowed him whole.
It was saidThe Army's top Generalsattended his funeral
The nation's highest combatcommendationwas posthumously presentedbefore the lone piper Paced around his grave to the sad hymn of Amazing Grace, echo taps was played,a salute of four volleys from rifle Honor guard
Was fired escorting his soulto the pearly gatesof heaven where once againHe takes full commandOf his platoon.
This is a very touching story, but I'm having trouble following the grammatical scheme. I would like to learn more about modern poetry, as I haven't read much post-Bukowski. I guess I'm wondering, mostly, how the choice was made to capitalize at the beginning of some lines and not others. Also, "homourously"--is that a typo or meant to be a statement about the death of laughter? Any insight into this would be greatly helpful, as I feel very out of touch with modern literature asking this. I've talked to those who have been in close hand-to-hand combat in my generation's war (The War on Terror, or Global Struggle Against Extremism), and it's this type of respect that I hope they get one day.
If this is fiction, the fiction are reflecting the painful truth with bold strokes.
If this is the truth presented as a fiction story based on the truth, it does convey the message to the readers about forgetting the romanticism attached to any war and the untold heroism of many not yet old enough to comprehend life but that understood death.