Leaves fall
Trees left bare
Thoughts
Are laid to the side
Flowers grow
On yesterday's battlefields
Blooming in the fresh breeze
Where deadly gases
Once flourished
On soft winds
Flowers blossom
Their perfume silence
The stench of death
Wounded soldiers mended
Minds left unhealed
Souls darken by terror
Heading home to nowhere
Embraced by love ones
They once knew
When sanity
Led them through
Their allegiance vows.
very powerful and evocative. It brought to mind stories my grandfather told me. He was a veteran of WW1. He was always quiet about his war experiences until I returned from Vietnam. Thanks for the memory lane, William...good job!
powerful poem, William ... it explores the aftermath, men of honor endure, after the will of their allegiance is tested on the battlefield ... a difficult scenario indeed ...
Great write from you again. I have always wondered how anyone can be the same after a war. These young guys in their early 20 over in Iraq right now,who will heal their minds? Very sad the way humans chose to live...
You honor the fallen so beautifully in this poem, William. Perhaps one day, all battlefields will be flower fields and war but a bitter memory as the kiss of freedom lives on the lips of all mankind.
Take care,
Sherry
You write with depth of sadness on how humanity is always in a war whether its right or not seems not to matter, it's just always there in the background like some giant monster hanging over us,and we just go on the best we can, hoping it goes away. Excellent william!
You hit it on the head Jerry, this war is like a giant shit sandwich
and we all have to take a bite of it
Reviewed by Jerry Bolton (Reader)
Reviewed on May 6, 2005
War. We poets and would-be scribes like to make our points about it. We are all basically right. The peacenicks: their voices are viable, for the most part. The warriors: their voices are viable, for the most part. When a society is threatened and its leaders are of the sort to take the fight to the ones that threaten it, they and their followers are called warmongers. Those opposed to doing anything are called traitors. Sometimes, I scratch my head and wonder how in the hell anything ever gets done anymore. This poem is a good one. I know some would consider it anti-war and it might be, but I read it and the words to me are just honest observations about the awfulness of man's inhuminity to man.
A further collection of poems, many from years in the Middle East, but also the California San Francisco and Central Coast areas (Santa Cruz, Carmel, Big Sur, Berkeley, etc.).
Robin Ouzman Hislop's poetry is certainly in dialogue with some of the key architects of the 'poetics of indeterminacy' – both the Modernist strands represented by the likes of Beckett and Stein, and the postmodernist strands represented, initially,
Take care,
Sherry
Peace and love, Carole
Well penned!!
Love Tinka
This is truly a poem of Respect and Honor for All who give so Unselfishly, Body, Soul, and Mind.
~Salute!~
Tracey
Makes one definitely think!
BRAVO!
Bonnie
Well done.
Elizabeth
and we all have to take a bite of it