I could do nothing
else but stop
and step inside
this blessed shop
to breathe again
the heady air
of knowledge that
is stacked in here
on quiet shelves
in dusty lines
of books that would
look nice on mine
but I have spent
my money so
I'll just choose one
and quietly go.

Shhhhh!

Here, and over here -
The fortunate sons

Those who made it home
To fields and hills of native tongue
In the soil their people toiled
- They listen quietly when we come


There, and over there -
Beneath crossed lines too many

Still - they man the trenches
Along the Marne and Somme
Below the woods of Belleau
And the forest of Argonne

No sonnets in a foreign language
Rendered where they languish -
The distant rest far and away
In a cold November grave


We should remember
Here and there
The old lie -

And the young.

r ~ 11/11/14

Holed up in a bunker, a soldier dreams that the war is over.
It's just poetic justice, a dream for an emerging new dawn.

See, every soldier defying orders, leaves the post and embrace
the one whom he was made to think as enemy in his naivety
they dance in the no man's land, where they plant a rose garden

With them aloud, let's chant,"Bury the guns fellas, war is a tale
told by perverts of the worst kind, just to sell deadly warheads.
that **** happiness, book the culprits that make war, allow them not
to fornicate truth, blatantly like this, deceive the world , gift turmoil."