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Prose Poetry Soldier Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Soldier

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

Soldier: An Emblem of Sacrifice

We know only those faces,
We have seen in history.
Yet countless strange faces are there
Who fought for the country.
We can never repudiate 
Selfless sacrifices of those men,
So I am paying tribute to all those
Martyrs and soldiers through my pen.
	
Indulged in your duties,
Far away from your family and loving ones.
You fight for our
Dreams, hopes and liberty,
Strutting boldly amidst the raging guns.
Whether it is scorching rays of Sun
Or it is blood freezing cold,
You fight relentlessly
Standing so strong and bold.
You are the true sons of the nation.
For the sake of our lives,
Irrigating this land with your blood
Is your only passion.

Time will never obliterate the fact…
You stand for us like an adobe.
With lion like courage and firmness of temper,
You have made our tricolor 
Shimmer throughout the globe.
Death can’t cease you to live
As you live even after dying.
I salute your martyrdom,
For you never got older.
Fighting to keep us free,
It is the stiffest thing 
To be you- A SOLDIER......




Details | Prose Poetry | |

Distant Warrior

I get this wondrous chill as night falls
in mountains or desert sand
and I find myself dreaming about
home, my fondest memory
from this far away land.

I miss the special lady who 
stole my heart, my thoughts
and all there is of me;
and I deeply cherish 
our final moments together.

I think about the children 
I left behind, how I miss them 
and pray they’re  fine -
and it’s hard Lord,
it’s so very hard.

It’s times like this that I wonder
why I volunteered and I
get this knot in my stomach -
then I cringe and find myself 
trying to hold back tears.

Soon the battle will begin
when I’ll hear my own heartbeat
through the creepy sounds 
amidst treacherous mountain sides or
drifting sands and whirling winds.

It’s  time spent in worry,
fear, and some regret
as I encounter my fate
in the war so near
and I must admit, I’m scared.

This stench of war, 
the sight of it all,
it’s that awful image
of how I imagined hell
after Lucifer’s fall.

I wonder to myself,
“Does it have to be
that generations of people 
can’t seem to agree 
to the simple concept of peace?”

Soldiers don’t start wars
but they surely fight them,
making all manner of sacrifice
and I doubt that even once
did a soldier ever like them.”

Then I think of  “Old Glory”
and I’m filled with pride.
It’s a warm patriotic feeling
which overcomes me
from deep down inside.

I’m confused, scared
and battle weary.
I worry about those I love
as I cling to my faith  
and pray to God above.

I’m a distant warrior,
an American fighting man;
not an aspiring hero,
but just a simple soldier 
trying to do the best that I can.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Christmas 2005 in Iraq with MiTT 2-2-2

One or two of us
Were home on leave;
For the rest of us,
Christmas came by mail.

Our callsign: Gunslingers.
Our Military Transition Team
Was embedded with 
The "Triple Deuce" Iraqi Infantry,

For a year our home
Was LSA Diamondback
Mosul, Nineveh province,
In northern Iraq

A Team member's wife
Gave us all Santa hats.
I have an old photo
Of us standing on top
Of an old Iraqi bunker,
Bearing pistols, rifles,
And those Santa hats.

My wife sent a small
Plastic Christmas tree,
Which was decorated 
In the Gunslingers' office.

My mom sent a warm quilt.
When you're acclimatized
To wearing battle armor
In the high 90s and 100s,
80-something feels cold!

I remember the nights--
Dark, but full of stars,
With Orion's belt
On the horizon.

Soldiers made bonfires
In the oddest places:
By a concrete shelter,
Or in classified burn pits.

Once exiting my office,
I saw a fire in the sky.
Soldiers were on top of a bunker
Drinking near-beer, singing.

Another night, I stood 
Just outside of the light
Looking at some troops,
And the chiaroscuro image.

I went back to my "choo",
And penciled the scene.
To complete the masterpiece,
I inserted myself
Roasting marshmallos.

I went back to visit them,
Showed them the drawing,
Then completed the picture
By searing a marshmallow.

Christmas was what we made of it.