The guns once belonged to my grandfathers.
and in southern tradition, were left to me,
named specifically in wills otherwise simple
and all encompassing.
They stand, a single shot .22 and a double barreled shotgun,
their wood glistening, the barrels well blued. Heirlooms,
reminders of two men with opposite tendencies
and similar skills.
The trigger guards are locked.
The keys are lost in a drawer full of keys,
unmarked and rarely used except for the occasional cleaning.
Wars come in many forms,
and most never end, except on paper.
Scars, lumps of flesh misgrown over wounds;
scars, hearts torn from the waging of words and worse,
never quite heal.
And so you lock away the weapons.
You lose the keys, praying
you never have to seek them out again.
About this poem.
The poem was inspired by a post by my friend, Ann Watson, as she wrote about her brother who served in Vietnam.
War comes in many forms, private and public, and no one ever, really wins. I see broken lives everywhere I go, victims of wars of all sorts. I nurse my own scars and those of others. Don’t we all?
The picture was taken in my house, of my two guns, each left to my by each of my grandfathers. The bit in the poem about them and the keys are truth. Faith in a loving God is my other trigger guard, the one that keeps me quiet when I feel like ranting with razor sharp words.
Reflective this morning,