Robert A. Brown
He was a quiet man
Can’t remember him raising his voice,
He took what life gave him
Rarely having a choice.
He loved Mama dearly
Long before they were wed,
As a child I didn’t give it a thought
Why he slept in a separate bed.
He talked little of war
And when he did he would say,
That my two sons never go to war
This I hope and pray.
France, Belgium and Luxembourg
Was the little that was said,
The Ardennes, the Rhineland
And the shrapnel wound to his head.
As a child I never heard
Of the night mares and sweat soaked bed,
The beating of my mother
These are what they dread.
After Vietnam a long, long time had passed
Not till years after both my parents had died,
I woke to my wife calling my name
I then broke down and cried.
I woke from my nightmare
Hands around her throat,
From my enemy
His life I would choke.
I told her of the life
That my parents had lead,
But to this day she remains beside me
Holding my hand and sleeping in my bed.
©Copyright November 20, 2008 by Robert A. Brown