no heroes - WWI -

heroes? there are none here, now ... ever ... don’t feign to look, for your eyes will beg their smiles, true … these are my brothers, these weary fools entrenched, muddy, beside me - there is no one else that matters ... not now ... the sting of mustard gas in our eyes, the ache of hunger, and the stench of necrosis, bind us as surely as blood or Bible, and the prospect of mortality seals our covenant, birthed in dire conflict ... yet ... I consider this place at another time, another life and care, (this field of bent bone and burnt flesh), its feral beauty: an August breeze once tickled this wheat, I’m sure - a lover's picnic, perhaps ... gingham cloth laid out smartly, a basket of bread and cheese, fresh-picked pears and cream, an aged bottle from the nearby vineyard, and fresh daises and blue-bells, pulled, just ... or maybe a lazy July eve … aye, the belly laughs of children, chasing fireflies with their jelly jars, wishing on each one caught ... tall blades and blossoms staining their play clothes with dewy tears of dusk ... or perhaps, even, a late December afternoon - two Morgans pulling a sleigh across the drifting, snowy flats, headed for a Christmas party ... oh, a thousand moments were lived here, ago ... all decidedly more important - more vital, and far LESS horrific and vile, than these … and any of which I would gift to these shimmer-eyed boys I love, if I could but trade my life for it ... this bounding meadow, once heaven's delight, is now pregnant with death, red and rotting, waiting to gasp its last ... but who will first bear honored witness to these souls, lost and lamenting? who will barter the price paid by these men, once the blood and gas are weathered off these gentle, weeping grasses? Who will ply this soil for the vain anguish given to garish greed? who will raise a port for our milled marrow, when rain and wind have washed this hell to silence? Who will dampen a cheek? Time cares not for these lads, who could be home ... and happy ... spirited boys who should be waiting for a bus or a first kiss, not considering their final moments on this wretched, soggy battlement, or bloating in the sun, gazes now glazed and dim ... staring. no, there are no heroes in war, only the dead ... and the weary. But these dear spirits are my brothers, and their bones build a temple of dreams, lost - an inglorious garden of crude crosses, blooming ... no bold medals spangle their breasts, hushed and still … no garlands dance upon their tender brows … no laurels wait for their observance, but they are everything that ties me to home, to honor … here, now ... always. ~ 1st Place ~ in the "2019 Poetry Marathon Mile 15" Poetry Contest, Mark Toney, Judge & Sponsor. ~ 2nd Place ~ in the "War" Poetry Contest, Kai Michael Neumann, Judge & Sponsor.