Colin F. Jones


In her lover’s bed she reads her soldier’s words,
And sorrows briefly for his need of hers,
And though she hopes his is not morbid fate,
She chooses not in faithfulness to wait.
Hers is not love which brings her daily pain,
Nor does deceit acknowledge in her shame,
For while some weep in loneliness so sad,
She finds a comfort she would not have had,
Without the absence of her child’s sire,
Who scrambles on his belly under fire.
For all those who wait do not wait alone,
For friends do linger by the telephone,
And somehow all that’s fought for seems misplaced,
And God and Love and Glory are disgraced.

… and some

She is not the comrade by his side,
Who fought with him and died,
She’s his briefer calming peace,
When his inward thinking’s cease.
She’s his moment of demand,
Whom he thinks can’t understand,
All life for him was made,
Though she hopes his woes will fade,
Though they seldom ever do,
Because they become his power too.
Of her suffering he does not care,
But demands his own she share,
Because he’s full of shit…
And that’s the end of it.

… and some others

She waited a full two years,
Most of the time in tears,
While he served overseas,
And often on his knees,
Cause them kampong girls you see,
Though they were never free,
Could make a soldier sweat,
And other things, you bet!
But that was all okay,
For men when they do play,
Is not deceit you see,
As most men would agree.
Though what their wives might say
Would sure be different, hey!