The readjustment was the hardest part
Not leaving the war zone
Or coming home back to his country
And to his wife and family and friends
But actually readjusting to the fact
That fact that he had no legs
He left them back in Iraq
Not as a war victim or injury
To a vehicle accident instead
His Hummer left the road and rolled
He was lucky to escape with his live
The medics took him to the hospital
It was touch and go but he made it
The army will pay for his recovery
And give him a pension
Plus a pair of tin legs
And keep him on the books
An advisory role for future wars
He did ok from his accident
But readjusting is still hard
This is his new normal...

When the last shell fell,
  and the ground was cold.

The land was marked
    by the red petals
that had fallen like the
            lives now cold.

Names of those wrote on
every flag of crimson that
                           had departed.

It was the eleventh moment,
           of an eleventh occasion.
Where the guns fell silent
       like those not going home.


We honour the past,
                   to live the future.

For without there sacrifice,
     we wouldn't be able to live

the life we have now.

Thank you for those who fell,
            those who came home.
Leaving apart of themselves that
               is over there even now.

The last shell fell, but some echoes
                        never fade over time.
Echoing through life hoping to
             never fall like that again.

guards up, defenses strong
holding an indifferent glare
treading, walking, running on this path
confidence strongly shielded from attack

charged on the embodiment of strength
adorning armor of pain and feeling
crafted in bitter portrayal and forged
with the much hurt he had caused

presumptuous ego from long nonchalance
a journey coldly carved so clearly forward
time only reaffirming the deepened beliefs
that the unguarded to feeling are indeed weak

unbeknownst to the soldier, a universe
would soon make itself known, inescapable
dawning in the most inconspicuous ways
it would seem as though it were all his doing

creeping in oh so subtly, fear greets the soldier
alas! The enigmatic enemy slipped his defenses
the birth of emotion announces itself gallantly
fireworks shoot through his long barren skies

never anticipating that his ultimate defeat
would be through brown eyes so kind
they bring life to a heart deadbeat
hope illuminating a hallowed mind

by falling into the trap so greatly feared
he found solace within unending chaos
bridging insanity an epiphany so sure
he had lost nothing that was his

in belonging an ego is not owed to man
rather amass the one treasure which he
had long been running from in twisted irony
accepting fate that he, possibly was worthy
After all love, he finally embraced his savior.

War.
The cycle is always the same.
Two parties claim that the other is to blame
and soldiers without names, who think they’ll gain fame,
are slain.
The reasons differ, but peace
is sure to be one.
Tell me, please,
how you can say you fight for peace,
when humans are falling to their knees
without cease,
and dying?
And all I can do is write a poem.
All I can do is leave traces of graphite on wood pulp.
A poem will not change the facts.
or make up for empathy we lack,
or bring the dead back.
We must make friends out of foes
to slow the blood flow
before all that we know is
War.