A Soldier's Child - A Poem
Follow Me
My Dad, the Soldier
While lying in her bed in the pitch of night,
She listens to wars gone by
(Knowing, she dare not cry),
Painted now before her in plain sight,
Her eyes wide and bulging, filled with terrors of the night.
Why?
Suffers, does he, with unrelenting pain.
His speech is full of such disdain.
Her dad now home safe and sound, so she thought?
No, his mind, crippled from wars long since fought
---It travels back to where it should not.
Why?
His way home he has found,
Which is, in itself, accordingly profound.
Outwardly signs of wounds, there are none?
Internally, a battle-scarred mind cannot be undone?
Why?
Coming from the front of the house,
Criticisms of someone, he does douse.
Her dad's voice is clear and commanding.
Of whom is he demanding?
Talking to himself, is he? No, no, Captain, is with him,
Reality quickly becomes very dim.
Why?
The hard clank of a glass against the table, she hears.
The sound of which increases, as do her fears.
Vehemently, he claims aloud, Captain, don't be so stupid!
Do you know what you just did?
Vivid now are the scenes of war,
Of which she has come to most abhor.
Why?
While lying in her bed in the pitch of night,
Her ears, she covers with all her might.
Still, she hears, they are all dead, he cries.
Fallen ---his every comrade dies,
On that hill, even Captain.
Why did you have to die too? He cries again and again.
The only survivor ---is my dad's dreadful sin.
Understanding.
The bondage, ever will it cease
For the soldier and his captive child?
Yes, only with Your peace,
Freedom comes for the mind gone wild.
Hope.
Take care, dear soldiers, not your child to scare
For a battle-scarred riddled mind, you must be aware,
Is what you will find, in your child, filled with much fright,
Lying in her bed in the pitch of night.
Caution.
I had written this poem from memories I had as a child after my dad had come home from war. (He fought in both the Korean and Vietnam wars, and believe me they were wars - not conflicts!) PTSD was not known of at that time, or if it was, my family never knew of such.
© Copyright Faith Reaper, June 11, 2006 (All rights reserved)
Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.
— John 15:13In Memory of those who paid the highest price for their country
I dedicate this poem to all those who paid the highest price for their country with their lives, and to those who did come home, but who are still suffering, many visible wounds, and many who have those battle-scarred minds.
God bless you all and your families.
Thank you for your service and we will never forget!
Me and My Dad
