This poem first appeared in the first volume of my poetry: 'Beware the Cheshire Cat'. It has recently been included in the huge collection that is 'Butterfly Mind'.
Only when we have felt, even once, the clawed caress of strife, do we value the soft warm hand of peaceful days in our life. Give me boredom and humdrum over adventure and interesting times; a quiet corner in a calm house to write and edit my rhymes. Oh, war has driven the pen stroke and sorrow versed in the bomb strike, but I’d rather read all about it in a book and only imagine what it’s like, than breathe the smoke of burning - the death scent of a home. I do not need to personally bleed to scratch out a war-time poem. Better to write of cows and apples, than Flanders field and poppies; to write of a Luve like a red, red rose, than a requiem for the Croppies; and though the poet much values his words I’ll bet that each war-torn bard would’ve chosen to write first hand in the soft than ink pain in the trench of the hard.
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Be the first to comment on this poem. Encourage this poet.