My Jotter

No Other Way

And the soldier grips his sword despondent;

its bloodied blade heavy in aching dread.

The verdant grass and azure sky resplendent;

unstained by the still steaming pile of dead,

unlike his conscience, forever tainted

by his role as a pawn in this game of kings.

Sister Courage closes her large wet eyes,

power long since fainted

to let creep open those coal black rings,

those orbs of fear from which he cries.

“Why me?” he calls out to forces unseen.

In the sullied name of King and Country—

he has poured blood from chest to green.

One last man standing — a tearful sentry;

guard of gold in tight pockets uncaring

behind towering walls in vaults immoral,

while his reserves ran low, devoid of god—

infant mouths despairing

at home while he fought another’s quarrel.

Now friends lie at his feet in soil and sod.

But the rallying roar of those on high

rings in his ears in the deathly silence;

that he must fight that his children not die

by the hands of a savage foe’s violence.

For his cause is noble, righteous and just

and his English descendants will thank him,

singing songs of his great battle today.

Then in John’s eyes he sees sand dunes and dust

centuries hence; a boy losing a limb.

Our soldier asks, “Is there no other way?”