Dust and Dreams-A Journey
Johnny Smith-A Soldier's Story (Loss)
Look into this young man's eyes,
See his doubt, feel his fear,
Amidst his mother's needy cries,
He hides in shame his tears,
"Johnny, don't go off to war,
We need you here at home,
What is fighting really for?
Your mere name engraved in stone?"
But Johnny, he's a soldier,
Good soldiers answer duty's call,
Brave fighters are taught to be bolder,
To shoot the foe until dead he falls,
In dirty trenches, soldiers lie waiting,
Armed and ready on the frontline,
Fearful men sit anticipating,
The hollow blast of a live landmine,
Clutching his rifle, beneath a makeshift fence,
Anxious sweat rolls off his brow,
Terror mounts to the height of intense,
All his courage lies here and now,
In a split second, his young life flashes by,
A young boy of nineteen lies dead,
As wounded men spread down the mire,
Split nations weep for what lies ahead,
As Johnny's loved ones gather 'round his grave,
The echo of taps splits the still air,
His mother's weeping so like a tragic tirade,
"He was my boy," her cries proclaim,
An old woman turns eyes heavenward,
"'Dear Father, my John was ever so young,
By another country's fued he was lured,
Dear God, why my boy? My only son?'"
She weakly walks toward the coffin,
clutching a single, tear-stained red rose,
Which she places upon the flag-draped lid,
Forever her John, in spirit, close,
The darkening clouds of sorrow,
Overtaking all semblence of hope,
Her wrinkled hand etches his epitaph,
Lingering tears still stinging her throat,
"Johnny Smith, beloved son,
Lies a hero in the quest for peace,
One of many children for whom,
Sounds of war of evermore ceased,'"
As the blood-red sun runs sky to dusk,
A cold gray stone now sits alone,
And on top, the silouhette of a marble bust,
Soldier Johnny Smith, forever gone.....
Copyright 2003
Cristine M. DiMario
See his doubt, feel his fear,
Amidst his mother's needy cries,
He hides in shame his tears,
"Johnny, don't go off to war,
We need you here at home,
What is fighting really for?
Your mere name engraved in stone?"
But Johnny, he's a soldier,
Good soldiers answer duty's call,
Brave fighters are taught to be bolder,
To shoot the foe until dead he falls,
In dirty trenches, soldiers lie waiting,
Armed and ready on the frontline,
Fearful men sit anticipating,
The hollow blast of a live landmine,
Clutching his rifle, beneath a makeshift fence,
Anxious sweat rolls off his brow,
Terror mounts to the height of intense,
All his courage lies here and now,
In a split second, his young life flashes by,
A young boy of nineteen lies dead,
As wounded men spread down the mire,
Split nations weep for what lies ahead,
As Johnny's loved ones gather 'round his grave,
The echo of taps splits the still air,
His mother's weeping so like a tragic tirade,
"He was my boy," her cries proclaim,
An old woman turns eyes heavenward,
"'Dear Father, my John was ever so young,
By another country's fued he was lured,
Dear God, why my boy? My only son?'"
She weakly walks toward the coffin,
clutching a single, tear-stained red rose,
Which she places upon the flag-draped lid,
Forever her John, in spirit, close,
The darkening clouds of sorrow,
Overtaking all semblence of hope,
Her wrinkled hand etches his epitaph,
Lingering tears still stinging her throat,
"Johnny Smith, beloved son,
Lies a hero in the quest for peace,
One of many children for whom,
Sounds of war of evermore ceased,'"
As the blood-red sun runs sky to dusk,
A cold gray stone now sits alone,
And on top, the silouhette of a marble bust,
Soldier Johnny Smith, forever gone.....
Copyright 2003
Cristine M. DiMario
