A letter home
- by Harry Boslem 59I left home at seventeen to fight for King and country,
I signed up to a heroes welcome and proudly marched away,
We departed with pride in our hearts, sure we'd be home by Christmas,
The Hun was an easy catch, at least that's what they told us.
But reality soon set in and brought us down to earth,
And now, here, in a foreign land, I wonder what it's worth.
Finding space among the rats and lice and all the mud and mire,
It's cold out here in winter time, we can't even light a fire.
And the Hun is a formidable foe, not such an easy catch,
Many of us have already expired trying to meet his match.
But tell me, how are things at home? They can't be as bad as this,
Is papa still proud of me? Give mama a kiss.
Tell all the others I love them, and miss them very much,
But for God's sake John, promise me, you won't sign up.
I know you see me as a hero, and want to be like me,
But there's no glory over here, just death and misery.
We go over the top tomorrow on another big push forward,
Pray for me John, pray for my soul, as I fear the worst.
If I should go down tomorrow to a bullet from the Hun,
Remember me forever, remember what I've done.
And if by chance, another war should start while you're still young,
Please promise me you won't sign up, it won't win you anything.
Before I finish off this letter, I have one more thing to say,
If you never hear from me again, you'll know what's happened to me.
Tell mama I still love her, and papa to be proud,
And I will meet you all in heaven, when your turns come around.
A mother's tear
- by Amy Peterson 58There's more to the story,
than what just appears.
A war written story,
from blood and from tears.
My son went to war,
a very proud man.
He fought in Iraq,
on the hot desert sands.
He witnessed his buddies,
his comrades, his men,
bleeding and dying,
he witnessed their end.
Where is Pvt. Tommy?
He's blown up all around,
his comrades spent hours,
picking him from the ground.
Sleeping in holes,
dug in the sand,
dreaming of home,
but it's become foreign land.
He can't tell his enemy,
from family or foe,
as he watches his friends sent out,
with tags on their toe.
He knows his Mama,
is sleepless like him,
and he tries to send word,
whenever he can.
He tries not to worry,
his family at home,
the horror that he faces,
he faces alone.
His mission is over,
he's sent back to me,
he fought for our freedom,
but he'll never be free.
He yearns for his buddies,
that died over there.
He's caught with the living,
in a doubled looped snare.
He screams in the night,
for the battle still roars,
as he lays in his bed,
he re-lives all the horror.
Nobody heard the fight,
he still fights,
except for his Mama,
who comforts him every night.
He never will be,
the son I once knew,
the war killed that part,
for freedom, for you.
Great Nation, Great Leaders,
and all those who will hear,
on a mother's first tear.
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