This Poem was Submitted By: kevin Dunn On Date: 2015-11-06 22:55:45 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!
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Copyright © November 2015 kevin Dunn
Down the road there came a soldier,
Seventeen, or barely older.
Beneath his grimy uniform,
His wounded body, tired and worn.
Furrowed brow and sunken eyes,
beleaguered soul, who pondered lies.
That brought him here to spill his blood,
Midst agony and gore and mud.
His innocence lay scattered here,
across the fields, where freedom dear.
He'd purchased now with mortal sin,
upon a politicians whim.
For Remembrance day.
This Poem was Critiqued By: Ashni Irey On Date: 2015-11-24 04:35:27
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.80000
Very simple poem with a strong message that doesn't show till the last line. I don't see that you need the period at the end of "dear" in the third quatrain. With all the goings-on in the world at the moment, I feel this message needs to be in everyone's mind. Truly, so easy for those who enjoy freedom on their living room couch to forget what allows them that luxury.
This Poem was Critiqued By: Joe Gustin On Date: 2015-11-13 15:36:15
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
So true. My father fought in WWII. but rarely speak of it to any one,even my mother. You treat the subject matter straight on. No sugar No spice just the reality of life in war. Well done
This Poem was Critiqued By: Wanda S. Thibodeaux On Date: 2015-11-07 02:14:54
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
Hi Kevin, you surely know how to go for the heart...I really love this poem...I'm afraid war is almost always having to do with a political stance,from before the Civil War and forward. It's even worse now, look at Vietnam. You tried to make it a simple poem but it just wouldn't let you because of its urgency, its desire to serve, its love of soldiers, its ownership of war. And so it is, we all know war and have seen loved ones go and return, not always the same...my father was such a meek and humble person but when he was drafted into the Navy in 1943, he was a 2nd gunner and after seeing his friend standing beside him get his head blown off, he came home waving a forty-five and beating my mother which he had never done but he was just messed up. He never worked again in his life time. Wars do things to men/women and I would like to think there would never be another one but I know not to believe that...Thank you for this poem...
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