no heroes - WWI -
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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.
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden | Year Posted 2018
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