E.W. Richardson

I SAW A MAN

I saw a man in the park today,
sitting alone, under a tree,
surrounded by a serenity
so peaceful and strong,
even the wind’s gusty play
meekly respected his tranquility.
The man was writing in a book,
whose cover was battered and stained
and though he sat some distance away,
I could hear the scratch of the pen…
an oddly soothing sound…like a whisper
of someone softly singing a hymn…
or reciting from a book of prayer.
Once, he raised his eyes from his work
and in his eyes were anger and pain…
and a hardness of once having seen
horrors not meant for the eyes of man…
and I knew him then…
he is one of those remarkable men,
who have looked the devil in the eye
and laughed, spit in that eye, and survived…
only to be forgotten,
the sacrifice and contributions ignored
or outright denied.
Yet, there he sits, peaceful and calm,
enjoying the simplicity of the day…
perhaps with an understanding
of how to open life’s many doors,
reserved for those
who have fought our wars.