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No Room For Tears
©Nancy L. Meek 03-09-03

Learning too well man is mortal
the proof lying there by his boot
he searches for that elusive portal
the room where solutions lie mute;

tied and gagged by the war insane
answers elude him again today.
Steeling to the horror, numbed and drained
he lights a cigarette and walks away


No Time
©Nancy L. Meek 03-09-03

He is such a near-sighted animal
physical survival the ultimate goal
with all his senses fully channeled
there is no time to ponder the whole

A comrade adorns the sacred ground
a war pawn oozing cooling blood
his fatal wounds, devoid of sound
pool, christening boots in the mud

His buddy tries, but tears won't come
stoic, mumbling the persistent "Why?"
Stomach churning, his knees go numb
on this day, though not his own, to die

He lifts his eyes to a silent heaven
perks his ears for answers therein
to fervent prayers seemingly destined
to drift and disperse with the battle wind

Resting and muddy from childhood play
his buddy refuses to rise and come home
in this teenage graveyard, he prefers to lay
face down, pretending, in bloody loam

The bags, somehow, suddenly appear
out of nowhere, waiting for a moment like this
to hide his silent scream, his look of fear
his arm, his leg...insanity, the carnal kiss

Reality steeps in the heat from the sun
a field reeking carnage the morning fare
the effects lasting until his life is done
in a resiliant thousand-yard stare

No time to mourn, no room for tears
as they lift his remains to the sky
soon to confirm a mother's fears
on this day her baby boy would die

The soldier steps to the battle drum
on a narrow path 'tween God and man
honorable conquest his rule of thumb
for lack of a more righteous plan

From cradle-to-grave he soars
his wings beating hard against solid air
struggling to rise above all he abhors
swallowing the war's morbid affair

But he is such a near-sighted animal
physical survival the ultimate goal
with all his senses fully channeled
there is no time to ponder the soul


War Chorus
©Nancy L. Meek 02-09-03

It's hard to think of naught
but war waiting in the wings
of the many who'll be caught
in the song inhumanity sings

Its tune scooping bits of hell
onto shovels of the damned
urine, vomit, and feces' smell
'tis the first chorus slammed

Its odor mingling with flesh
burnt and charred past hope
whafting with carnage afresh
"Mother!" rung from his throat

Its melody swinging to the beat
of sweet peace and liberty for all
but not for the dead in the heat
swelling beyond mental recall

It's your brother who lay there
the saviour who keeps you free
while you wonder what to wear
or what movie you will see

It's the war song no one knows
but those who've been there before
hard to think, but that's how it goes...
this chorus of blood, guts and gore


The Difference
©Nancy L. Meek 01-11-03

surprise at seeing their bodies...
eyes frozen in terror...staring
at some distant object behind you...
mouths gaping in the widest of yawns...

as if the dead needed sleep!

steals your breath as you stare...
eyes wide with terror...frozen
having so much in common...but not
for you can gasp and scream

and it is you who cannot sleep!


Open Grave
©Nancy L. Meek 10/02/02

In fitful sleep he squirms
fetally crouching over there
too far from too-short arms
to reach him in his despair

I hear him softly moaning
praying for the sun to rise
lids shut, in battle groaning
hands flailing darkening skies

Beads of sweat lace his brow
as he screams his buddy's name
but his buddy doesn't answer now
fallen victim to the game

The stakes are much too high
The cost is buried deep
in a grave exhumed each night
by a buddy who cannot sleep

Morning brings a quiet day...
silence always follows death
Nightime brings the bloody fray
the scope of Hades' breadth

The daily paper brings no hope
of ways to end the war
its tongue flicks against the slope
as it slithers to our own front door

War, it seems, will always be...
as long as evil rules the day
Its fangs spewing venom....free
to poison whom it may


Faith in a Foxhole
©Nancy L. Meek 02-11-01

How can a soldier keep his faith,
Inside his bloody trench,
When a bullet with his name engraved
Seeks him through the stench?

Memories of his former life,
When innocence was bliss,
Come mocking, haunting, asking,
"What golden rule is this?!

How could a loving, caring God
Desert me in such a place
When any moment, I might die
Or lose part of my face?"

But still he prays with fevered heart
Face-down in muddy sod,
"Please, just let me do my time
In this place so far from God.

Then get me home, in one piece,
To those who love me dear.
Help me make it through this night,
To sleep in spite of fear."

A voice beside him whispers
"Who are you talking to?"
"I'm not sure," came the answer
"Just someone I once knew."


You Will Remember Well
©Nancy L. Meek 12-29-02

your eternity in Hell...
your pockmarked trench,
the stench of rotting flesh;

In awe and honour...
your driven blade
as smiling eyes return your gift;

though dead, a soldier...
the Martyr made
who will live for 'The Cause'...

a Broader Rift...
a fresh turn in Hell
for some unborn hero

you will remember well.

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