Here’s a poem that I wrote years ago. Enjoy!
Sitting in the coffee shop
Outside the window, a bus stop.
I sit and watch people waiting,
My actions for the day I’m contemplating.
It’s almost two thirty in the afternoon
The bus will be arriving very soon.
A shell explodes to my right
Dirt and blood spray in my sight.
There used to be men; now a shell hole.
Oh God, please save my soul
God, protect me with your heavenly shield
I am in Hell here on the battlefield
More shells rattle and strike in the distance
More men are wiped out of existence.
Coffee is spilled, a shattered mug on the floor
Waiters rush to clean and to get more.
I stared down at my own table
Standing up, I am not able.
I want to leave but am compelled to stay
It’s a typical occurrence in my day.
My sergeant yells to me to move on
Adrenalin takes me where my comrades have gone
Bodies strewn across the ground
Nightmarish slaughter is all around.
I dance around the fallen and the dead
While machine gun bullets fly past my head.
I trip and land amongst some corpses
Drawn to one face by cruel forces.
“Would you like some more coffee?”
The waiter smiles after asking me.
I wave him no and he walks away
He won’t ask me the rest of the day.
My mug is empty and at it I stare
A man bumps into me but I don’t care.
My body exists here in this time
My mind is elsewhere where the devil has dined.
There is a calm look on my brother’s face
Despite his body torn in half at the waist.
His eyes forever open, staring up at the sky
His final thoughts never told before he died.
My sergeant grabs me and pulls me along.
Alive, and leaving my brother, both felt wrong.
With my sergeant, running at his side
Hoping this offensive will help turn the tide.
In the enemy’s trench, in killing mode
Firing my rifle and his head explodes.
I continue to add to the collection of death
I have the unwanted job of stealing their last breath.
The fighting is over, exhaustion sets in
To comprehend it all I don’t know where to begin.
I’m on the bus, on my way home
Memories still haunt me deep in my bones.
I cannot escape the images in my tortured head.
The faces from war: both the living and dead.