Steven Cooke Poet I do not know?

Harry

Harry (written by Steven Cooke)

He stairs through the window
In wheelchair he knows,
Gabriel is just a pause behind him.
His last duty, to open a door in his mind
Of memories torn from 1917, where he left,
Jack Fred and Bert, Pals forever.
 
A moment singled out from a thousand days of torment
Bully Beef, Baccy and sweet tea in the Morning.
A pair of socks from a loved one,
And friendship forged in the baptism of War.
These were his treasures, His only relief
 
Then the guns of Britannia, manufacturing widows by the gross, as
 Gas and Shell screamed for their quota of today’s carcass.
 
For a moment Harry felt sadness for his foe
Then it was gone
No time,
Heart Beating, Breath quickening, Stomach in Knots,
Fear held in check to avoid the Officer’s gun,
No time left, Stay Close Jack, Fred glanced,
While Bert squeezed a locket around his neck
A quick nod, The Soldiers farewell
Then the whistle, Gabriel’s Horn, over the top
 
His refuge abandoned, for the embrace of the fog,
It masked the land, as if to avoid offending God
Slowly creeping its vale of death,
 
Gun in hand they walked into the grey.
Fodder for the Machine gun, No defense, we fall.
Once more our lads are summoned into oblivion.
There blood sanitizing the soil with England’s youth
Like a red carpet, for their comrades to walk the next day.
 
Then the retreat, back to his rat infested trench
Gods reward he thought,
Then Role call, Silence for Jack, Silence for Fred, and Silence for Bert
Harry felt shame in answering, for a second; he too wanted to embrace silence with 
his pals.
 
But Soldiers must go on, as do the righteous
And England expects
For I fight for a Heavenly cause, so I’m told,
 Though I do not know what that is
All I know is fear
Although this impostor, I can live with
You see my friends are gone;
My humanity is lost
And my soul awaits its next trial
Is it a blessing that I am alive or,
Just a delay,
 
For death stalks me, waiting for his reward.
My sanity saved only by the sweet tea and a ***,
Dry socks, and a letter or two from home.
No time for sentiment, the whistle,
Memories, memories.
Oh, there you are Gabriel welcome.
Hello lads where you been.

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Mohammad Taha Effendi September 16, 2011 at 1:34 PM Brilliant write portraying the thought process of a man torn between duty and morality. A mesmeric piece of writing! If only humans learned from their mistakes then their would be no need to go to war. Thanks for your kind comments on my poetry "The Rongtern Mansion". Blessings, Taha

Chiquitachiamaka Baity August 12, 2011 at 5:20 PM This is an excellent poem Steven....well penned!!!!

James Fraser August 9, 2011 at 8:21 PM Flanders, the Somme resonate in your words Steven. I take it your ex-forces or know of someone who may have lived this. It's a fantastic piece. Thank you for sharing your writes :)

Elizabeth Wesley July 26, 2011 at 3:22 PM So sad the devastating consequence of war. Your verse if filled with the evocative images that I guess every war has. Well done.

Sidney Hall Mad Poet July 23, 2011 at 11:50 PM This is an excellent poem Steven. Welcome to the soup

John Smith July 20, 2011 at 7:01 AM Going 'over the top' in that war has to be the greatest folly in war's history; particularly that the tactic didn't stop until a generation of men was gone. Your elegant poem poignantly captures the harm done to one man who survived it.