Post by David Nelson Bradsher on Jun 7, 2008 11:29:29 GMT -5
Iambic tetrameter version
Cold Metal
The passersby, ignoring him,
rush home to Christmas cheer and fires
as afternoon begins to dim
and fades into the shade of night.
He sees the crowds of present buyers,
or friends convening for a bite.
His younger days were much the same
before he lost his pre-war trade;
a teacher, trained to kill and maim,
who sits now like he’s in a trance,
thrusting a can, requesting aid,
still living through that day in France.
He watches Jenkins sink and drown;
sees Hodge’s body blown apart.
Two Germans run; he guns them down.
A jag of shrapnel cuts and stings;
the bullets hiss when soldiers dart
for cover, and the armor pings.
A quarter dropped into his can
is yet another ricochet
on Omaha, where every man
expected he was next to die,
but he survived to spend each day
collecting scorn from passersby.
Iambic Pentameter version
Cold Metal
The passersby, oblivious to him,
rush home to be with families and fires
as he observes the light of Friday dim
and fade into the frozen shade of night.
He watches bustling crowds; the grocery buyers,
executives convening for a bite,
and he remembers doing much the same
before he lost his wife and child and trade,
a grunt the Army trained to kill and maim,
but one who sits now like he’s in a trance,
thrusting a coffee can, requesting aid,
still thinking of a bloodied beach in France.
He watched Lieutenant Murphy sink and drown;
watched Sergeant Hurt dismantled, blown apart;
saw hundreds fall as Germans gunned them down;
felt all the shrapnel cuts the salt would sting;
and thought of how the air, when they would dart
to cover, filled with metal’s hiss-and-ping.
The coins that drop into his coffee can
are like the orchestra of ricochets
around him on the beach, where every man
expected nothing but his own demise.
He had survived, though, to complete his days
collecting coins, and scorn from narrow eyes.
Cold Metal
The passersby, ignoring him,
rush home to Christmas cheer and fires
as afternoon begins to dim
and fades into the shade of night.
He sees the crowds of present buyers,
or friends convening for a bite.
His younger days were much the same
before he lost his pre-war trade;
a teacher, trained to kill and maim,
who sits now like he’s in a trance,
thrusting a can, requesting aid,
still living through that day in France.
He watches Jenkins sink and drown;
sees Hodge’s body blown apart.
Two Germans run; he guns them down.
A jag of shrapnel cuts and stings;
the bullets hiss when soldiers dart
for cover, and the armor pings.
A quarter dropped into his can
is yet another ricochet
on Omaha, where every man
expected he was next to die,
but he survived to spend each day
collecting scorn from passersby.
Iambic Pentameter version
Cold Metal
The passersby, oblivious to him,
rush home to be with families and fires
as he observes the light of Friday dim
and fade into the frozen shade of night.
He watches bustling crowds; the grocery buyers,
executives convening for a bite,
and he remembers doing much the same
before he lost his wife and child and trade,
a grunt the Army trained to kill and maim,
but one who sits now like he’s in a trance,
thrusting a coffee can, requesting aid,
still thinking of a bloodied beach in France.
He watched Lieutenant Murphy sink and drown;
watched Sergeant Hurt dismantled, blown apart;
saw hundreds fall as Germans gunned them down;
felt all the shrapnel cuts the salt would sting;
and thought of how the air, when they would dart
to cover, filled with metal’s hiss-and-ping.
The coins that drop into his coffee can
are like the orchestra of ricochets
around him on the beach, where every man
expected nothing but his own demise.
He had survived, though, to complete his days
collecting coins, and scorn from narrow eyes.
