Short Foxhole Poems

~~ Yes, Virginia. There are agnostics and atheists in foxholes. ~~...

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Many pray every day, or so they say
  Others claim to pray five-six times a day

    I think the majority never pray
    But 'in a foxhole' know what to say...

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“I am going to peek out the foxhole!” The squirrel told his troop.
“Don’t call it that!” screeched Finicky Farlane, spilling his soup.
Seriously, it is called that for real, Finicky, said Sergeant McBeal.
They should rename it then, Farlane said, spilling the rest of his meal....

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How very inconsiderate,
dieing in the open;
shirking anonymity
behind the raging green.

You avoided the cacophony,
left random bullets blameless,
then when your God 
abandoned You,
He left

just You,

alone;
refused to leave your ruined face
behind the mangled sandbags,
or in a shallow foxhole,
instead of here,

with Me...

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Take the oath to defend what is dear, I follow to the grave.
The fellowship that is bound by war, true as the flag that waves.
Freedoms that stand, on the ones that fall, an honor to the brave.
To the ones that serve, and sacrifice cost, true as the flag that waves.
Aboard a ship, foxhole or camp, brothers until the end.
The oath we take to defend our flag, the brotherhood, honor and friends....

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Whisper sent form hallowed shore 
Ancient breath of love and lore
In the tongue a silent hope
Gathers near an ancient rope

Hung from stars to sea-bound men
Plucked from foxhole, cave, and glen
Break from clay, a foolish turn
To quench the thirsting heart of yearn

Beyond the grasp of mortal man
Knows no end, yet here it stand
Endless beacon by a name
Reputation: human bane

Cursed crucible remain
Tattered tie in blood is stained...

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I tripped into a foxhole
down 
	down
		down
shiny black button eyes beamed
a dime a dozen for your doe-eyed sins
can you call your mother’s name?

Sleek and shining you
see
	me
		bleed
matchstick machete prick my fragile fingertips
I see you’ve laid out traps for me 
can you call your mother’s name?

Ember red and raging you push me
up
	up
		up
through the blinding lightning sky
smolder there while I get colder 
I’ll tell mother that you called....

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He starts out with arrogance that could kill a dinosaur.
His pompous attitude blowing up his head like a rooster’s comb. 
But when the rest go after him, he slips and slides down on his back.
Landing in a foxhole, alone and embarrassed – possibly ashamed even.

He can barely pull himself out of the mire and the muck.
He is stepping on his hang dog jowls, looking silly
We try not to laugh, but some of us are unsuccessful,
Remembering how pompous he was in the beginning....

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