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Monday, May 4, 2009

My War

Also a sestina, but not a perfect one, formulaically.

My War

It was during my war,
where I last saw her,
standing in light,
a tunnel so bright,
there were others as well,
just who I could not tell.

Who could I tell
this tale of my war,
shining a light
on conditions so bright.
Who’d believe I saw her,
and heard her as well?

There was never much light
in the Vietnam war,
reporters were bright,
but they could not tell
of the pain I absorbed, well
after I saw her.

Day and night were both bright,
the bombs casting their light,
in the hell that was war,
madness yes, but love as well,
for seeing my mother, her
face I could tell

radiated the light,
the truth of her
words burning bright
as best I could tell,
in the midst of my war
sending me back to be well.

These words I can tell,
long after my war,
it was my mother, long dead, her
message of light,
from the tunnel so bright,
to live my life well.

In war I last saw her
in light, shining bright,
so I might as well tell.

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