What one would at last gather
From listening to father:
Certain things go together;
The valiant and go-getter,
A genius and pace setter,
The heart and a pace maker,
Leather,gums and shoemaker,
An entrance and gatekeeper,
Attacker and goalkeeper...
You just have to be super
To join French Paratrooper,
From head to toe vigorous
To contain The Rigorous...
You don't meet night marauders
Obeying patrol orders:
Never assign mysterious
To the ever boisterous.
Plunged to terrain plagued, tasty female options
Surge of adrenalin pulses choices unsuitable
Piquant aroma pulls him closer, allure accosting
Sentient favours solacious flower so beautiful
Hurtled descent drops watchful onto hillock haze
Swayed seed laden willow heads have halos
Hedonistic impulse picks silken stems with craze
Seraphim surround a torn aura in dewy daos
Preordained mistake palates spasmed heartbeat
Shrews drawn to Stu allude to transformation
Prurient dripping pores warble wanton indiscreet
Strident serpentines permit desire incubation
Heathen has escape, wrapped parachute harness
Preparing his tortured innards for due launch
Hazards bring unbridled enthusiasm for newness
Pride hides a tarnished ego, attempts reforge
11th February
Whenever waking,
Lady tailor making
Soldier
Paratrooper
integrity driven
adhering to creed and code
courage
As I call my wife and children to say goodbyes.
I tell them do not fear for I am with them always.
I leave the booth to take the most terrifying adventure yet.
As I enter the plan I see men All of them allies.
The plane shakes and jumps as it takes off it was all quite a haze.
We are now over them the bombardment has begun such a quartet.
The air itself feels like it will tear at any second.
Then... we jump 1, 2, 3 and then me something hit me a deep graze.
I hit the ground softly, un-clip and begin to run I must not fret.
I meet up with my company but were pinned within a millisecond.
This is what my grandfather told me before he died in that minute.
nerves fiddle-string taut
heavy pack upon his back
free fall into fray
This blots the names of battlefields
away. That bloody butchery. There
he is, standing on top
of the old chicken coop. My boy
standing four years old
like he’s on the top of that world
we tried to fix. All of us.
The ones who didn’t come back
to kids.
My boy and I, we’re not afraid.
I’ll hold my arms out
to him, standing on that chicken
coop. I’ll tell him,
“Jump.”
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