A Soldier's Life

[68degrees]

We leave one step at a time from many things:
the table after eating, a failing job, a disproved
belief, a broken argument of a home, one hand
against cold glass, the other on the key to the door.
It was like this at our house when I was a kid...
father would argue with mother about whatever
married parents have always argued about;
he would storm out of our small house and march
down the street like some kind of middle aged married
soldier; later, he would return and they would hug
and mother would cry like a little girl and things
would seem fine like the weather seems to be fine,
but one never knows the weather always, do we?
Sometimes we pretend the day is fine when it’s really
raining and the picnics we had planned for what seemed
like a thousand years are cancelled but we go on
to the next day with smiles on our faces and tomorrow’s
dreams on our beds anyway. Once, when I was maybe ten,
it was dark by five-thirty, and I was in the woods
and father came marching by and I called out to him
but he kept marching and I called out again
like a ten year old might when it’s dark out
and you don’t want anyone to know you’re afraid
of the dark, but he kept marching, crazy steps,
with wind clatter at his back, and me following him
as far as the big hill, the one that went up-and-down
and we all knew we weren’t ever supposed to go down
in the dark by ourselves, but father did that night and
even though I called and called he never did turn around
and acknowledge me; it was one of those times I didn’t know
my father, kind of like the time I went to his funeral but there
was nothing there but an urn and ashes and I was scared to call
his name for fear he wouldn’t answer me yet again.

[the mingo]

68 - this one is
A#1 to Portland on the 19

- meateater all the way -

[judih]

68,
yes.
a good write

[revolutionR]

My mom and dad moved from Wisconsin when I was three
somebody told my dad to go west, young man
so my dad got a job in an aircraft factory
I was the only child that my parents had
My fist memories was coming through the desert in summer
like Jim Morrison wen he saw the car wreak and dead Indians
on the side of the road, I remember losing a little dog
when I was four, my dad bought me an abba zaba bar
something about the name of the bar, and the checkered wrapper
At five my dad bought a tracked home in Anaheim, that same year
Disneyland opened up five miles away, my mom took me there
My dad did not like Disneyland, for some reason that I never knew
my dad did not talk much, he went to his factory job, I loved my dad
but he did not pay much attention to me, he taught me to play catch
but he only came to one little league game, he did take me and my mom
on road trips to the desert and mountains on weekends
by the time I was seventeen, it was the late sixties, i had a lot of anger
about school, and because my dad was like a stranger to me
being an only child, with no cousins, or aunts and uncles around
I was lonely, my dad just keep working at the aircraft company
i began drinking a lot as a teen, but it was pot and LSD that saved me
I told my dad I was going to do what I wanted to do, all he ever said
was "get a job" and a few times he told me to get a hair cut
my dad died when he was sixty two, we would not quit smoking
and he died playing soft ball two years after he retired, I never
had a chance to really get to know him, the best conversation
I had with him, was a few months before he keeled over
he was kinda happy because we wasn't working at the aircraft factory no more

[68degrees]

This poem has taken many forms now. It was recently accepted as a monologue for a Theater magazine. The version here is a longer poem version. It started small. Has grown up a bit. Kind of like me.

I appreciate the positive comments. Very much.

@Revolution...I was born in Wisconsin. Moved away in 1983. Still have family where I grew up and visit often. This poem is based in my Wisconsin life. Thanks for yours.

68degrees

[Arcadia]

gracias for sharing this poem with us, 68degrees!. Also for revolutionR reply. Poignant title!

[revolutionR]

I was born in West Bend Wisconsin, 9/11/50. I only went there a few times as a kid, the last time I was there i was 12. My Aunt lived on lake Pewaukee. My mom's Uncle was a history professor in Madison, he was the lefty in the family. My Dad was from Milwaukee, I never knew much about his family, his Dad was Irish, and my Irish grandfather gave me my first beer at 10. My mom's side was mostly French Canadian. I always wondered what my life would have been like, if my Dad had stayed in Wisconsin. But I grew up in sunny California instead.

[68degrees]

One of my sons is currently a student at Madison.

I grew up in northwestern Wisconsin...Indianhead region (look at a western border of WI on a map...you'll see it.

68degrees

[68degrees]

Arcadia:

Thanks. "Gracias" is the kind of word that makes the world a better place.

68degrees

[justwalt]

feels weighty, I like it and can mostly relate...
but what's a father?

[68degrees]

"...but what's a father?"

A guy who died of Alzheimer's five years ago. He went down that hill one night and never came back.

68degrees

[justwalt]

dint really mean to...
meaning I'm an only child, (54), of a single parent.
the dad split when I was 3, but there's quite a
mystery to his death in vegas... not the cause,
but the year, see the gov't says he died in '60.
but he was sure alive in '63...

that's all I'm gonna say 'bout that

[68degrees]

Thank you for your words...all words.

[Terri]

68 (and revR, too) i've had to get used to your no-breaks style. my eyes didn't like it at first, but this - i got done reading and re-reading and was so glad for it. it does make for a very good monologue, glad someone's publishing it.

[68degrees]

Terri,

Hi...and thanks. I'm not generally a "block" type writer. I prefer brevity, but hanging here has influence

68degrees