The Pensioner Poet and the Contents of His Pocket Book

I heard of a man who fought the cause
He wasn't violent but he fought valiantly
With words. Mostly couplets but sometimes obtuse.
Alliterative in his reasoning
He could make the connections
At least in his own head.

Long retired, he would regroup the battalion
At the bar counter every morning
Between Monday and Friday at O-eleven hundred
Sergeant ballpoint and his company of Moleskin pages,
Rations of tea and a will
To win the war.

In his eyes, his thoughts harked at personal epochs
He remembers clearly history as it truly happened
The violence of the past was understood,
Not least because of the futility of oppression
But even because they who reference history
Are blind to its lessons.

Blind. In a way that has no cure,
For while you might learn braille,
There is no assistive aide
To wash away hatred, especially when
It is reinforced with culture
That trains its troops on oppression.

A poet always will return to love
A soldier will continue to leave his love
Whatever the reason might be
And a soldier has no right to deny his violence
When his holy grail is violent
And to be remembered in a poem

So therein is the true conflict.
How to be archived fondly as a killer
By bards who see murder as wrong
As those who pen the soldier's song of death
Write words as base as sewer water
And turn the vehicle of love to threats

By thirteen hundred in the barrack room
The quarter master is changing the kegs
And our erstwhile poet has
Composed another set of peace bidding stanzas.
He trusts completely in the collective conscious
And knows somehow people hear


...the contents of his pocket book.