The Fallen



The government gave him a marble tombstone,

his widow a perfectly folded flag,

the raven-haired little girl,

the handsome little boy tugging at his tie

a red poppy in his lapel

memories wrapped in wondering tears

staining innocent smiles



He died in the desert,

metal shards leaving little trace,

an explosive device, the captain said,

just blew off a once handsome face



He died in a rice paddy,

face down in the filthy muck,

a sniper’s bullet in his brain,

a run of lousy luck



He died on a mountain top,

a wayward artillery round

sent shrapnel into his body

defending some worthless ground



He died at thirty thousand feet,

his plane blown from the sky,

didn’t have time to parachute,

didn’t have time to ask God why



He died aboard a destroyer,

a torpedo ran hot and true,

struck his boat amidships

bloodying the ocean once blue



She died in a prison camp,

serving proudly as a nurse,

comforting the dead and dying

damn wars —-the devil’s curse







He died in a foxhole,

fell upon an enemy grenade,

a posthumous medal for bravery,

war, you see, is no charade



He died some years later,

lungs shriveled by poison gas,

just a simple country boy

not of the privileged class



Gold stars affixed to windows

made dark by clouds of grief,

the agony of time passing

offers little respite or relief



The government gave them marble tombstones,

their kin perfectly folded flags,

and the little girls and the little boys

will remember memories of a time

they will come to understand

when red poppies bloom