soldier

Blue eyes, brown eyes
something in between
blonde hair, dark curls
time and nature made them all
and he is somebody’s child;

climbing trees with the boys
standing tall on the fields of pretend.
She is somebody’s child

with a ceiling yet to touch
a divided sense of place, a home or a wide world, or both.
She sleeps and dreams, just like him;
someone places a blanket over closed
eyes and soft breath, until morning.

Playing soldier and fall-down war, then get up…
he and she learn about life and chance;
how places faraway become so near,
for God and country…and love.

[ among blasts and burning bullets]

He did not feel the sheet they lay over his face
the fixed stare to ceiling did not change
when he joined so many brave young ones
profiles beneath linen, young life and done
a pocket full of unspent days;

yet I see him as he was.
When he talked of home and love
family there and the family yet to be,
dinner room aromas and lights on a tree of peace…
always of the moments we hold in peace.

There is life and glory, a story of bravest love
the grateful gift to an ideal held by such unequal hands

as poor and rich

and privileged lines claim their country’s pride
of deeds done, battles fought and won.

For some the price is the pain of hearing
others must stand in the near shadows of death
where each moment brings risk closer;
until reaped,  these real rewards  -
a look back in laughter or tears -
for the shoulder near, is friend or the missing one.

He never saw the bright stars that night,
their songs of cosmic weeping for the brave
to hear… to ease their sleeping hours; grown to days
and to slow forgetful years, to parts of lives;
until she thinks of somebody’s child…
perhaps by the shadows near her arm
on a winter day and wonders…

what would he say about this?