Of Soldiers or Poets
A soldiers steed falters|
turns at the
front line to guard his trusted rider
drops to his knees and releases it’s last breath
a spear deep in it’s broad chest
the rider
jumping free to miss the enemies sword
stumbles over a boulder field
and marches on
bleeding from these his many wounds
in the rear he hears the bugle
a call for retreat
knowing it’s too late
far too late
The poet in his favorite window
trips over the pain
remembering
of losing her love as they rode his horse
to a beach unnamed
stabbing his soul with the pen
he swears at these drops of blood on
crisp white parchment
swearing to never again
taste a woman’s flesh
or write down the forsaken meaning
of his very soul
taking a novel of love poems
he searches for deeper meaning
I came from these two opposing worlds
the soldier of every war known to man
some a hero’s lament
some of defeated kings
And the writer of songs and sermons
standing at many podiums
and kneeling on broken hearts
for the favors of tearful wives
But of which I’d rather have been does even
Socrates know
of which I’d rather die
did Cleopatra ever care
And such is the dilemma of soldiers
and too the poets left conveniently behind
to clean up the
blood and the tears
perhaps only the steed knows for sure
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Soldiers we are as poets we hold our pen riding on the steed of creativity. Let the steed never die, nor the pen run dry. Great poem, Ed.
Ed, what a brilliant work. You had me at every word, I was moved by the valor of the soldier and the sadness of his dying steed. The poet’s who gather inspirations from battle fields, wounds and scars pen the invisible blood of those who served and passed into the history book of time. The civil war was one of the deadliest wars of all time, so many lost, so many claimed victory, for what? LAND, so sad.
Wonderful metaphor and take on the travesties of life and pain and realizations that shudder our flesh and bones. Excellent work my friend.
A great parody Ed! Slain soldiers and the question of who cared. Our minds must be moving along the same venue since I just wrote a poem about this too. Where is the romance in a dying soldier? Yet we poets have made it so if it isn’t really, haven’t we?
This reminded me of the conversation between the soldier and Rilke. Actually this poem could be the same conversation between poet and soldier. Well done. Jamie