Colin F. Jones


A song is written to the numbers of a tune,
A poem is the wind that makes sweet flowers swoon;
Not formed by the numbers of a special beat
But by the meandering complications where diversities meet.
Trees do not grow in lines, nor wild flowers in rows,
And a river meanders where ever it goes;
And one who thinks love can be numbered and measured
Will never be blessed with it’s ultimate pleasure.
My brothers in harm’s way across the wide sea
Were numbers in Vietnam – you all must agree.
Yet the complexity of thought of those waiting at home
Turned those numbers to rhythms only love can condone;
That embodied the power of the brotherhood of man
That was born in the warriors of South Vietnam.