Poetry With A Mission

...a thought provoking poetical exercise.


Dear Sir

My dear son was killed in the war — thus, his young life was snatched away,
And his pup still waits at the gate thinking that he’ll come home some day.
We’re taking this loss very badly — I have lost the son I bore,
And I just cannot believe, sir, that he’ll not come back through the door.

My hubby has gone very quiet, and I am shedding tears all day,
Our life is just not the same now, for its sparkle has gone away.
Now each day seems rather empty, and the dreams we had lie shattered,
For the blood of our much loved son, sir, on foreign soil is scattered.

Was this war avoidable? If it was, who has blood on their hands?
Who is therefore guilty of murder? Who devised such monstrous plans?
Yes, who is guilty, sir? Perhaps many, I really do not know;
And I’m just hoping that my son did not die pointlessly so.

His younger sister has his photo in a frame beside her bed;
“Oh, mummy”, she keeps on crying, “I just can’t believe that he’s dead".
Her other brother is angry, for his best mate has gone for good,
And he won’t talk about his grief, even though I think that he should.

Daughters too, sir, have been killed — oh, how such news shocks when it arrives,
Oh, how I hate all this warring, for such shows no respect for lives.
Some have lost a husband or wife…excuse me…"What did you say, dear?"
Oh no, another soldier has just died — thus, more folk grief will share.

Ever since our dear son’s death, every new death has just fed our pain,
For it seems that there’s no let up, and it’s so hard to bear such strain.
And we can’t help but wonder, could these deaths have all been in vain?
Though war's always a dreadful waste of lives — all this killing insane.

My heart has been badly broken, sir, and the hearts of others too,
For my son won’t be coming back — no, someone’s son my son slew.
Thus, our lives are in tatters. Tell me, was this war necessary?
I mean, really necessary? I need to know. Yours sincerely.

By Lance Landall

All The Blood That We Spill

It might be noble to fight for your country, but whose war is it? — so let’s mind,
Lest some nasty wound and horrible experience later, bad news you find.
Because no wars should ever be, folk slow to take up arms and kill another,
For given we’re humanity, we’re each others long lost sister or brother.

All need to have an appreciation of the heinousness of killing, and
Should uphold the sanctity of life, war being a curse to both man and land.
And this why people become pacifists, they anti harming their fellowman,
Against which, given the preciousness of each of us, no one should plot or plan.

It's seemingly only leaders who go warring, not common men in the street,
Who are forced to whether they want to or not, encountering success or defeat.
Hence those loved ones who return in a body bag, or who still lie where they fell,
War but the product of evil and mindlessness — oh, all the blood that we spill.

By Lance Landall