Remember how they walked here, once
– their presence as vivid as yours or mine –
fodder for their leaders’ spoils,
for the glory of the nation,
for the war that would end wars.
There were jokes only they knew
– regaled during long hours in the trenches –
secrets shared and allegiances sworn.
The sole survivor recalled them,
many years later,
in his broken-down home
with paint peeling from the walls
and battered picture frames stacked on shelves.
A response to the freewrite prompt a few good men.
I hate wars. Their ends are full of regrets.
Very true, sadly.
We haven't heard from you for some time, Aisling. I hope all is well.
This poem is a keeper.
My mom's cousin was on my mind, a WWII vet, Purple Heart, and this is very timely.
Yes, a month later, I came back to revisit it!
Thank you kindly, Carol! I am okay, truly, and I thank you for reaching out. ❤️ How wonderful to know that this poem reminded you of your relative. I hope you’re doing well too.