commissioned to the colorful meadow
when I reached one hundred years
there were no celebrations
for the world was at war yet again
though unable to wield bow & arrow
I could still shoot a rifle
I tried to explain to the chieftain
but he pushed me aside
and called for the next in line
three days passed
and I showed up yet again
this time with shovel in hand
explaining how a man my age
could still dig graves
he kissed me on both cheeks
first this one and then the next
followed by shouting out
my marching orders
august two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
jdubqca 
I love your writing
means so much to me….thank you very much, Lara
It’s a gift to read you every night
The dismal reality of war—the young dying while the old bury them. A sobering piece.
thank you for sharing your thoughts on this piece
wow.
thank you very much mk
my pleasure jdub
Loved this poem!! Beautiful!!
thank you very much