Poetry Contest Entry

Strike Outs

~By Mave

Worn soldiers lie in rows
Bed ridden
In the trenches of hospital beds.
They don't know who they are,
Where they are.
Some nights they remember
The playful youths they once were,
Playing baseball in the yard,
Lobbing the ball as
Hard as they could.
(1… 2… 3… Strikes…
You're out.)
Other nights they get glimpses
Of the bloody past:
Lost boys in the trenches at night,
Lobbing grenades
(1… 2… 3… it strikes…)
Praying the in the rain of machine gun fire,
Shuddering under the thunder
Of shell blasts,
Counting seconds between strikes.
(1… 2… 3… )
Most of the time,
They are just battle worn
Old, tired men,
The scattered fragments of a children's
Battalion that fought a politicians' war.
Veterans,
Strewn across the country in great monuments
Buried alive for the
Rest
Of their time.
Their families visit
(If the social calendar permits)
(And stay for a minute)
And millions wear poppies
Once a year
Lest we forget
We forget
Forget.

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