A Private War by Dennis R

In the evening, Bradbury plays his violin
until the sun has passed its hour. The chill
and street light filter through the door and in,
when daily grind of industry is still.

His foot has kept the time for most an hour
and bow has burned the strings until they’re raw.
By now, his drink has lost its stain and power
and none can dare imagine what he saw.

His love was once entrenched in surgeon’s skill.
A noble and a lofty oath he swore.
His mind was numb but numb could not refill
the hole that war and all the killing tore.

He took a limb sometimes to save a life,
removing oft what only seemed as parts.
His hands were skilled to drive the surgeon’s knife,
but war and only war destroys hearts.

The music cannot soothe the savage beast
when men are those who fall beneath its spell.
War does not choose the greatest or the least
nor is a man to choose his private hell.

Laraine Smith (209.132.169.142) -- Friday, September 18 2009, 06:34 pm

:(
This poem breaks my heart.

shiloh (67.251.100.215) -- Friday, September 18 2009, 06:36 pm

your poem...
...is like reading a beatiful work of art in a museum... the results cause me to feel as if i am in a hushed and quiet place, all the better to ponder the words you have given.

Tarna (22.16.238.52) -- Sunday, September 20 2009, 05:19 am

great write
the last two lines say sooo much. I could feel this writing as I was reading.. That is the way I like to read a poem.

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