Friday, November 11, 2011

11 / 11 / 11


No war here,
no blood here,
but tears shed yesterday,
spilled for warriors,
over there.

I remember a song
that they marched to,
up the steps, just cargo,
to sail the waves
to go to war.

Not here,
but there,
no blood in the street here,

bread instead
sliced to order.
Where is the war,
is it here?
It's over there.

The body in torn shreds,
under the lid,
arrives here, home,
no open coffin.

Whose boy is this,
maybe mine,
maybe not.
Bones look like
the last war,

not here,
over there.

copyright/ all rights reserved/ 2011


Elisabeth said...

A stunning though disturbing poem, Lyn, and I think once more of Flanders fields by John Macrae.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders Fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders Fields.

Thank you.

dori said...

I'm not good with snappy commentary, but this poem brought a tear to my eye. Well done, very profound. You took the 'eternal witness' vantage point, jumped in and out of the body to give full perspective. Well done.

Lyn said...

Hi Elizabeth-
Thank you so much for the inclusion of Flanders Fields..and your gracious comment..

Lyn said...

Hi dori-
So glad to receive this deeply felt comment..thanks so much!


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