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About This Poem
He Was My Sun
He was my sun, my one and only son,
and dressed up as a cowboy for the day.
And so I handed him a little gun
of fastened random sticks, for him to shoot and play.
And dressed up as a cowboy for the day
he found some foes (with bows and arrows made
of fastened random sticks for them) to shoot, and play
the part of redskins in a mock charade.
He found some foes (with bows and arrows made)
in his story books before he left for school.
The parts of redskins, in a mock charade,
were painted with a crimson war paint, oh so cruel.
In history books, before he left from school -
the tales they told, of victories that we’d won,
were painted with a crimson war paint, oh so cruel -
the flow of paint was hard to staunch when once begun.
From tales they told, of victories that we’d won,
he learned to fight for god and country glory, though
the flow of pain, ’twas hard to staunch when once begun
and cruel to both sides (as he’d later come to know).
He learned to fight for god and country glory, though
the wounds of war were still unseen (though nigh)
and cruel to both sides (as we’d later come to know);
and soon he stuffed his bag with several things of youth and said goodbye.
The wounds of war were still unseen. Though nigh,
the hours boomed, the clock struck 12, before his time to leave,
and soon he stuffed his bag with several things of youth and said goodbye
to those who’d stay and even those who didn’t grieve.
The hours boomed, the clock struck 12, before his time to leave -
they brought back bags they’d stuffed with severed things of those who’d died
to those who’d stayed. And even those who didn’t grieve
with tears were stiff, and hid in wooden boxes meant to hide.
They brought back bags they’d stuffed with severed things of those who’d died.
They brought his boots back, camouflaged with mud.
With tears, the stiff were hid in wooden boxes meant to hide
our children from the spilling of their blood.
They brought his boots back, camouflaged with mud.
They said they’d needed him to help defend
our children from the spilling of their blood.
But can they ever see or really comprehend?
They said they’d needed him to help defend,
and so they handed him a little gun.
But can they ever see or really comprehend?
He was my sun, my one and only son...
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