Grandpa Gilmore Left Me a Poem

I’d heard he earned a medal somehow 

late in the Great War, capturing a squad, 

or perhaps a platoon of German troops. 

Hell, he said, through plumes of blue smoke 

rising from an end-table ashtray littered 

with unfiltered Camels. Grandpa paused. 

The Friday night fights flickered.

We listened to the Gillette jingle 

as welterweights bounced in their corners. 

Hell, I was lost in the fog,  when a shell 

burst nearby. I like t'shit'm'britches –

a bell pierced the ring-side shouts –

so I jumped in the nearest trench 

which was full of … Granpa winked 

and shot a sly smile … full of the finest 

German gentlemen, who threw up 

their hands before I could raise mine. 

His husky laugh dissolved into coughs 

and I thought I heard scattered jeers 

as weary boxers clinched on the ropes, 

pounding to the final bell. 

Grandpa came home, but not quite 

whole, his left leg locked stiff for life. 

I’m sure he could've cursed with flair, 

but deferred for his bride. Tamed 

into temperance by stomach ulcers, 

he moved through his days with a dignified limp 

and always left a room laughing. 

We shared Grandpa’s jokes at his funeral – 

that was his gift to a too-solemn world. 

He'd left me a well-creased poem, 

a cheesy paean to partisan peace 

which I read to embittered fraternity brothers 

the week after Nixon squeaked in. I mouthed 

the earnest platitudes to weary groans, 

till eyeing our tidy Republican tribe, 

I channeled my grandpa, shot a sly smile,  

and landed the final lines –  I’ll hug your elephant 

and you kiss my ass. 

Here is a link to "The View from Grandma's Kitchen"

and here's a link to the post-election poem.

Awaiting Passage into Fall

When a Southern August lays on hands, 

a lush embrace of steamy weeks
sets in before the fall. 

Through waning days I run the dawn 
by tidy lawns refreshed with dew. 

Their scent and sparkle stir anew 

 
as memories reconstitute 
old seasons born so long ago 
in stain and sweat and schoolboy pride  

forged from summer football trials 
in heat and pads on high school fields 
that to young minds must surely yield  

triumphant Friday nights to come 
if only August days would end 
at last in break of fall. 

Those Southern rites of passage echo yet 
in aching muscles one-time strong. 
They burn inside my body  

decades on as by degrees 
the morning dark seeps into day 
and evening light melts away.  

Locked in August once again, 
the weeks pile up as all await 
the break of heat that snaps the spell  

while age and darkness creep, encroach, 
and claim their share of fading light 
for passage into fall.  

More poems of August:

Coming Home

Jurassic Dreams and Katydids

Weeds Have Names