An Interchanging Poetry View Of War

An Interchanging Poetry View Of War

War is the bane of society. Why do we fight? We do not depend on each for food, clothing, or shelter. Is there a reason for the enormous loss of life brought about through war? The only logical reason for war is population control.

All animals in nature have a predatory counterpart that helps cull the sick in disease prevention, control the number of a species in maintenance of a healthy environment and of course as a food source. In nature, the process is well defined and executed…in other words; it works. This is not the case with man. We have no counterpart to control us.

We therefore, are the control. Is there a genetic code buried deep within the soul of man that dictates war as a population control. Do we use land, ethnicity, resources, and power as excuses underlining the true role of war in human development? I have written the following poetry in my quest to find some justification for the madness of war. I begin with the question, what is war?


What is war if not a culling of humanity,
a methodology guaranteed to impact growth;
preventing starvation in an overpopulated world.

What is war if not an investment in economics;
a depreciable asset in accumulated loses.

What is war if not the nightmare of mothers
who grieve for sons or daughters
who suffer no more.

What is war if not the fuel that ignites passion
not extinguished by previous war,
rekindled again.

What is war if not a culling of humanity;
when extinction becomes evident.
What is war if not the end of humanity?

Sensibility dictates, it matters not the definition, reason, or explanation of war. The determining factor often lies in the availability of personnel, economic wealth, industrial strength, and natural resources necessary to conduct war. Wars are fought more often for natural resources than with natural resources. Those who have not want, those who have, want more, therefore war. Personnel resources can usually be assured. Records and documents describing many wars and campaigns site reasons for men and women to come forth when history cries, and display the tears of sorrow shed with their realization of the impact and consequences of war.


Men come forth
Black clouds hover, answer the call
When history cries

Upon the field, once green
Flowing red, wars bitter friend
Men come forth

Sweethearts love lost forever
Patriotism wounded, refuses to die
When history cries

Who knows the heart of warriors
Uniforms identify living and dead, ranks define
Men come forth

When next the call to arms
Forget not valor upon whose fields heroes are born
Men come forth
When history cries


Young men wanted,
a call to arms,
their biggest challenge,
their deepest scars,
those who die on foreign shores,
those who survive,
to weep forever more.


I am a young man,
as old now as I will ever get,
I lie upon cold ground
trying to forget,
visions of those gone before me,
of whose life I brought to sudden demise,
those who lie before me,
to move not again,
no pain,
only sorrow,
to reach such an end,
another life wasted,
in this troubled land.


Armies face one another in uniforms that define,
leave no doubt, who is on what side.
The ground upon which they stand,
soon bright red, confirm life’s ebb.

Cries of wounded lessen
as death’s reaper claims each,
causing cessation.

Medics roam the field tending those in need,
care not the uniform,
tend all who breathe and may survive.

All now quiet, both sides watch and wonder.
This death and destruction, this hatred inside,
the poison of prejudice,
a people unknown until they died.

Armies face one another across a field piled high,
and wonder why.

With the cessation of fighting and signing of terms that end the war, comes full realization of the economic cost for taking care of fallen warriors and those disabled physically and mentally. When wars end, for many, a far different life begins.


When wars end,
celebration defines,
disfigurement is its blind eye.

I have no feet; I need no shoes.
I have no hands; I need no gloves.
No legs; no need to walk.
No arms; I long for hugs.

What is left, sits in a chair all day.
At night, I turn in great pain.
Some say I am lucky to be alive.
I disagree,
It is through the grace of God
I survived.

I am a testament of how
precious is life.
An American Veteran,
not crippled, alive.

When wars end,
celebration defines,
disfigurement is its blind eye.

As we age, we are enlightened and often reminisce over the actions of our youth. That period when we have no fear of death and there is a feeling of indestructibility. That is until the shooting begins and the body count makes men of boys; setting aside forever the fantasy of youth. Through age, comes the realization once again of death. We therefore anguish over our youth and will not rush to death in our twilight. If old men fought, wars could not be possible.


An old man, looking out his door,
gaze fixed on a distant shore,
reminiscing to a time, not of happiness,
or, the prospect of a bright future in store,
to when he was sick, to his very core,
to when as a youth, he went to war

A time before infallibility had meaning,
patriotism and bravado the fashion,
the future was still a quandary,
zest for life, at an all-time high,
a time for romance, partying, buying,
no thought of pain, deformity, dying

Too young, to understand or question,
ship to foreign shore, medals abound,
sacrifice not temporary,
forever more,
a legacy etched into a wall,
few will remember,
flesh shredded, burned, torn,
families mourn

A time, when he willingly went to war,
will happen no more,
all lost in youth, now conscientious,
no blind obedience,
minimal risk,
long life, his number one endeavor

As he turns back from the door,
he thinks of the youth,
here now, soon no more,
lessons never learned,
the call to war,
to common the roar,
complacency the mood,
another generation removed

The old man laments
over what was
originally not known,
war is preventable,
life too precious to waste,
the solution simple,
his vision, maybe too late

Send old men, to the front to fight,
arthritis, heart disease, poor eyesight,
let the youth enjoy their life,
his near over, it is only right

Send old men, to the front to fight,
ask them, to give up their life,
patriotism and bravado, still right,
will and desire, would not last the night,
old men do not rush to death, in their twilight,
failure inevitable, the old man smiles,
knows he is right

Wars not possible,
if old men, are sent to fight

I wrote this poetry in my quest to find some justification for the madness of war; I have failed. We will continue to fight wars and kill one another through ignorance. There is no honor in the predatory nature of man. Our biological classification as an animal, does not mean we must act as one. Nature did not provide us a natural predator and did not intend for us to prey on each other. We were given the intelligence to develop the means of controlling population and sharing resources without using war to satisfy the animal existing in us all. One day we may look upon each as what we truly are, family, not enemies.


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