Second Harvest Poem by Guy Graybill

'WE ARE AT WAR! ' gazettes proclaimed.
An enemy was boldly named.
We donned our uniforms to train
And learned to crawl through barbed terrain.

How quickly other nations armed
As placid people were alarmed.
Then, scared as Hell, we sailed away
To gather in a distant fray.

The battlefield became our home;
With trenches as a catacomb.
Gray daybreak was our time to kill.
The sergeant's order harsh and shrill!

The Reaper had been occupied;
By twilight's pink we saw who died.
How many comrades made the list?
Who will be next? Why was I missed?

Some left us rhymes. They wrote them well:
'In Flanders Fields, ' 'The Bells of Hell.'
Bad wars produce good songs and books;
As gnarly branches make fine crooks.

No one's designed a proper trench;
With depth enough to quell the stench...
The stench we daily stirred afresh,
Of sulphur... gas... decaying flesh!

Just as a scandal's rumor flies,
Until all hear... and then it dies;
At last, one morn, a rumor flew,
Until all heard; and then we knew.

The whispered word inspired release.
Years facing death; we now faced peace....
Our weapons tossed on scattered piles,
We looked about with tearful smiles.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The decades tumbled. Pages dropped.
The hourglass grains have never stopped.
In recent years I cringe with age.
I'm but an elder; not a sage.

Our uniforms ~ threadbare and quaint.
The muster's call is growing faint.
The Reaper stalks o'er field and fen.
He's out conscripting, once again.

More comrades ~ daily ~ miss the call.
Soon, there'll be none; no one at all.
The second cutting of the grain
Will cut each stalk, 'til none remain.

My arms and armor won't suffice.
I hear the rattling of the dice ~
Dice that the Reaper has recast ~
So this campaign will be my last....

]]] [[[