War

An Old Woman Contemplates War


I was born as World War Two ended.
No memories of course, but my grandmother had a picture of my 
Uncle David, draped in black ribbon, handsome in his uniform.
When I was a little over two there was a flag and plaque laid in 
cement in his honor, I remember Taps crying through the cold,
chill coastal air and weeping to it for the first time.

But not the last. Not the last.

My Uncle Charlie went to Korea

and came home, so there was
no picture draped in black and Uncle Charlie had a good life.

When I was ending my teens I met the man I was going to marry.
He was a med student and we planned on doing service in 
third-world countries.
Not even a bag came back; he is one of those MIA’s they say
do not exist.

During my nursing career, one of my favorite nurses went to
Desert Storm and came home with a strange disease the
powers that be deny could have been war-related.

Now I am an old woman and still war tears out my heart.
Little children of every color deserve to live and be educated.
Deserve to live without the expectation of imminent death.
Deserve to be hugged without the fear of being blown to bits.

I have a diatribe, oh, yes, dear Readers, I have a dandy.
But I find as I watch the numbers climb and see the pictures
of wounded children and dead mothers, I grow more weary
and cry more tears.
Would that my tears could melt a President’s heart, soften
his determination to annihilate the Middle East.
Until then, children will die, bombs will kill and the maw of
the war machine, in its voracious hunger, will eat on forever.