Colin F. Jones


~ 1 ~

A tiny flint of shrapnel left him dead
All functions of his form deprived of life
He lies no longer useful where they tread
Participating not in their ongoing strife
To those a thousand miles away it matters not
It matters not to most folk on the Earth
He’s just another soldier who’s been shot
Losing all his value and his worth.
A hero or a fool; the great debate,
Though who would call him fool would be brave
He withered by the power of someone’s hate
Another willing subservient well-trained slave.
Yet soldiers are so proud of what they do,
Perhaps because they fear to state their view.

~ 2 ~

When they are done those who the war survive,
Then look for reasons why they fought at all,
For they seem like sacrificial numbers in the hive;
It matters not which live or which ones fall.
With youth expired and structured learning passed
With shocked eye he seeks a place in life to fit
But what he reaps is short and never lasts,
Despite his best he can’t come to terms with it.
He lives addicted to those days of war
Which infect his mind and contaminates every vein
Flaring up an ugly open sore,
A mental anguish sails on perpetual pain.
There he lives to cry and claim and shove
Or to turn his pain into a worthwhile love

~ 3 ~

They cry in wind sometimes or not at all
The engine wears quicker against the rivers flow
The more they charge the more the numbers fall
And in the end go where all creatures go
Tis not enough to lose one’s youth to war
There’s still the duty left to serve the foe
Who live in sorrow on the foreign shore
Victims of the tempests fiery blow
None really know the reasons for their quests
Pretending that it was for their nations fame
Responding to their leaders forced requests
Lest they be called as cowards to their shame
And those who died don’t feel it anymore
As we discarded see our sons go off to war

~ 4 ~

I knew not my brother till we later met
In wondering what tomorrow’s scape may be
We looked alike in green and sweat-rag net
That matched the jungles drape of sodden tree
We served the metal monster drab and brute
Fed it shell and cordite till it spewed
To leave a hundred noggy soldiers mute
Shattered bone and sinewed ripe and crude.
And we came back intent on growing old
Though old already most were simply glad
Yet minds do have their limits what they can hold
That seizure leaves them staring cold and sad.
Such is the fate of soldiers who return
To live out life, to watch their comrades burn.

~ 5 ~

Mothers now whose husbands went to war
Relive the trauma as their sons depart
Brandishing weapons, as did those before
Their fathers left with an eager heart
For time does not progress beyond repeat
On battlefields the blood will never dry
Still loud are echoes of past soldiers feet
As now young soldiers march off again to die
More white crosses more ladies dressed in black
More fatherless children more soldiers being born
Veterans consumed by those who can’t come back
A long, long chain of rusted links forlorn
Though many claim ‘twas all for King and Gold
Most know that they just did as they were told

~ 6 ~

Then are we proud of war; warriors of the gun
Proud because we killed and maimed and bled
Raised above all those who would war shun
Proud to live with memories of our dead
Or do we define our fear to disobey,
As eagerness to meet a brave and savage foe
That we were willing to charge into the fray
Where no normal man would voluntary go
We are so apt in servitudes employ
At seeking ways to justify our fear
For the soldier in the beginning is a boy
Who faces death most when his skip is near
Now as veterans knowing it’s too late
We watch our sons march of to that same fate