Wrote this a few days back. Edited it this New Year’s Eve. Sorry, it couldn’t be happier, but I hope you perceive the wish for that which is peaceful.
I hear the blunt of your hammer,
Your riffle as it clambers;
If only to block out the ruckus,
While I’m tucked in flannels.
The world spins and stammers,
Your barrel it twirls, the gun’s reloaded.
I’m a maid of ages,
So, bring home my man, prisoner of war.
Life in medicine-hands, he’s grave and damaged.
No one plans life’s intense dramas, when they’re a blood-bath.
Bullots locked and loaded,
Zipping through air in motion slowed, air ripples —
As a surgeons hands riddle, shells from a civilian caught fleeing —
From a soldier he knows not, from a war he caused not;
From a visage of war, he’s not committed to fighting.
So, bring home my man, he’s the prisoner wounded,
The civilian in shackles; although, you’d never recognize their weight.
He’s the media image — the child crying enamored —
Of a wrinkled photo, the last of his mother.
Or, a soldier’s son’s tears dripping rivers,
Afraid and stammering, the stream of saltwater.
His sister caught snitching, but a morsel to spit-out.
And they’re all dying in masses,
But we peeped through fire-ball wreckage,
Rusted 3rd-world problems to obscene to believe.
We couldn’t perceive a media of glorified killers; crosses blunt ashes.
Of people left bawling as the bugle was calling —
Oh, bring home my man,
He is lost in bombs crashing, the stitching of wounds,
Tumors, fractures, and a machine gun’s destruction;
Stomachs bloated hungering, and cataracts gleaming.
Smoke-ridden eyes granted sight, now horrified —
To realize their home’s a wasteland of dreams.
Oh, bring home my man, he’s lost and he’s broken.
The terrors too much, pain scarred soul-deep,
And his child is weeping, no control is frightening.
Oh, bring home my man from your war of terror ageless,
Be you pagan or Christian, Muslim, or Jewish;
You still war with Aries and feed Jupiter innocent flesh.
Oh, bring home my man, no more cause him anguish,
Not the dreams of a ‘silent night’ lost.
Not another year ridden with gun’s reloading,
Gun’s we’ve packed centuries,
To a place mermaids once swam.
The memories paper-bag brown, curled;
Worn like faded leather; a letter disintegrated.
A story once told,
Where three sisters met,
As poppy red blows in lands long forgotten.
1st world woes, claim to expose,
3rd worlds implode, and no one knows;
Root of the evil, that grows and grows.
So, carry home my man, let his feet not in Opium fields drag.
He’s healed your wounded, your dying;
Now he knows he must leave, lest forever he sleep;
Support his weight, his shoulders slumped —
With night terrors, violent streams of woe.
As the new year comes upon us,
Think not of war’s carnage, let all children —
Of every age in existence,
Live in a land of peace.
Never a gun’s bullets ricocheting;
Never a nightmare, but a life of opportunity;
A day without weeping, words tucked —
In the pocket of a heart that beats, not bleeds.
©️Mandibelle16. (2018) All Rights Reserved.