Colin F. Jones

~ God and War ~

Then first let us look at the real
Before we think what is not.
For when pinched most of us squeal
And in horror we die when we’re shot.
Faith does not turn off the battle
Unless shared by the friend and the foe.
And soldiers are robotic cattle
Who go where they are told to go.
Fear is a justified reaction
And dread of it is justified too.
Though faith is an ideal attraction
Tis not for a soldier to view,
For instincts override such perception
To allow soldiers to do what they do.

Part 1

The land fakes death, and men leave it,
To worship the dead and their apparitions,
Later mother nature restores it,
For another generation of replications.

Mystery is that that is secret,
Secrets make smart people Rich,
It is addictive to those who Seek it,
Despite being obviously Kitsch.

All looking for something; a miracle!
Overcoming death is the desire,
But the truth is not very charitable,
For the fire destroys its own fire.

Reality you cannot escape from,
To survive the living must kill,
When all the speculation is done,
Reality will dominate still.

Part 2

It is done what we do, no matter how,
No matter when no matter where.
The furrow is temporary that you plough,
And what was, is no longer there.

If you see with your mind it’s unclear,
But your eyes see that which is there,
Your mind forms illusions of fear
Natural reaction reveals that you care.

If you seek to please you are a slave,
Seeking satisfaction develops conceit,
To believe in yourself makes you brave,
No other person stands on your feet.

God is a crutch when you need one
But is an illusion in the dutiful mind,
And when all your thinking is done,
What is left is all that you’ll find.

Part 3

Persuasion is the creation of illusion,
Or deception should one feel used,
Another’s thoughts causing confusion,
When the sense of reality has been abused.

Sounds unidentified make hearing acute,
Thinking adds shapes to the sound
That we see what we cannot refute,
Though nothing is there when we look around.

We hide our minds in the politics of words,
Where we state a collection of views,
Like a kaleidoscopic confusion of birds,
Wearing each other’s second hand shoes.

We would rather be untruthful and heard,
Than be honest and silently right,
For we run with the flow of the herd,
Or are left hidden in glorious light.

Loneliness is being satisfied with self,
Rebuked by those who are not,
By the seekers of prosperity and wealth,
Which they have already got.

Part 4

Expecting solutions from the heavens,
Is a defeatist way of doing naught,
And anger is the daughter
Of a person called distraught.

Neither solves a problem,
Not even peace of mind,
Though public declaration,
To some is often kind.

Powerful words are spoken,
But only action serves the fray,
Reality is the substance,
Undelivered when you pray.

The earth was never structured,
That it could survive at peace,
That’s why reality tells us,
That war will never cease.

Part 5

No need to shrug the shoulders,
Believers do it well,
They are the hollow boulders,
Who have created war and hell.

It is written in their book,
A long history of foul war,
The path their kind God took,
That I guess some folk deplore

Is this not what believers do,
Raise their children to fight a war,
Onward Christian soldiers,
May there be many more?

Trying, is not praying!
Dreaming of illusive peace,
Pretending and portraying,
A false image that war will cease

It is already mute acceptance
If all you do is pray,
For it offers no assistance,
To the actions of the day.

Ones right I have not questioned,
As you now question mine,
To believe in a God different,
To the one that you define

Discouragement is your own choice;
And you can state your right,
To discourage any other,
By flying your own kite

Then so can I thus choose it,
Since I hear it every day,
Discouraging what is my choice,
To make clear what I say

I cannot move you from your path
That is for you to explore,
These are the doubts you may have,
That cause not peace but war.

A Priest would not accept your words,
For your duty is to spread,
The word of God among the herds
Until the day that you are dead.

When life ends what you’ve really lost,
Is what death takes away,
When you are dead, what is the cost?
I really cannot say.

Only believers think they know,
Tis they who preach… not I,
Despite the fact they cannot show,
One piece of evidence to the eye.

Though I may not share your given view,
That in YOUR God I don’t believe,
It does not mean that it is true,
That spiritual advice I don’t receive.

You did not choose to be born
Or to live where you might live,
You did not choose your tutors or
The text they taught you with.

You speak of choice, how naïve!
It is dependent on the state,
The God you’re taught to believe,
That shapes your future fate.

Ask the children of the lands,
That we wreck and tear apart,
If its reality they understand,
Or the sympathy in the Christian heart.

Where is your God to whom you pray,
Who does nothing to prevent war,
I think I’ll just bid you good day,
For I don’t feel like saying more.

This section (Part 5) was prompted by the poem, “Realists, Gods, and War” – ©Copyright February 12, 2007 by Thurman P. Woodfork

Part 6

When life ends, the loss, not yours,
Is marked when others grieve,
No matter what sweet heavenly shores,
You may sail to when you leave.

If all it takes is a simple prayer
To keep one out of Hell,
Then there would be an equal share
Down there in Hades as well.

Yet take a look tis hell on earth,
To another place you need not go,
Some mothers face it giving birth,
And some babies die you know.

Part 7

Old men can’t do a young man’s work,
The cordite chokes them down;
And everyone who does not shirk
Must learn to wear a frown.
We send them off to fight our battles,
As we were sent before;
We gained a foothold from our shackles,
To protest and deplore.
But we don’t teach them better things,
Like how to make a choice;
Instead we grow our own false wings
With a loud self centred voice.
And all about, while pulling strings,
They march again in force

To fight new battles for the lie
That freedom is their gain.
And us old folk; we all know why.
For we still feel the pain
They will feel when they are done
And return to all the hype
Pretending that the battle’s won.
We’re all a different type
To those we thought, to us, unique
And worthy of our lives,
That of dead comrades we still speak
While war it still survives
As from the war zone every week
Our dead sons still arrive.

What then are our gripes about,
Does anybody know?
Against your own leaders you do shout,
But still to war you go!
You wave your flags and honour them,
How brave such heroes are;
But you still go on burying them,
The whole things so bizarre.
It’s like drinking poison then deciding,
It is something we must not do,
But then we drink a whole lot more,
And start it all anew.
So the senseless slaughter still goes on,
Enacted by me and you.