War No More
Veterans Day reminds us of the real costs of war. Our generation paid heavily for our pointless war that inflamed the Middle East causing us to remain engaged in a hopeless high tech war of rivals who are united in their hatred of us. It has spilled over into homes and families thousands of miles away. Fear of violence, viral warfare, hacking and local terrorists are an everyday emotion for many of us.
In War No More, I was guided by the quiet, powerful idea that we are being given a folded flag in exchange for the lives of our sons and daughters, now and in the future unless we can change our thinking about war and its real costs. Our former President George W. Bush is painting portraits in oil of severely wounded veterans who survived our war in Iraq. The seven thousand folded flags of the American military personnel who gave their all, lives only in the hearts and minds of their family and friends. The fact that casualties were limited to 7,000 is seen as a tribute to modern medical science, but there are still 970,000 veterans who were disabled in some way, many with PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder) that are surviving in our country today. Our ex-president won’t live long enough to paint them all. In this poem, written in the form of a classic French Villanelle, I brave to offer a new way of thinking: “see the path and walk away”.
WAR NO MORE
She can't accept that might makes right
A folded flag a gift of war
Her son is gone. It’s just not right.
Power and greed fuel a bitter fight
Political rhetoric a reason to kill
She can't accept that might makes right.
Media compresses waves of light
Anger drives the need for more
Her son is gone. It's just not right.
Fear is here. We're all uptight.
She pours another cup of tea
She can't accept that might makes right
The Eastern sky brings a new day's light
A chance to forget the searing pain
Her son is gone. It's just not right.
From early on, we're taught to fight
She sees the path and walks away
She can't accept that might makes right.
Her son is gone. It's just not right.
This poem follows the form of a classic French Villanelle, and is similar to the English Ballad.
