Before a war we think we know
exactly how the war will go.
Accountants happily project
raised GDP and its effect.
Predict each country will adopt
a free economy and co-opt democracy
who’ll bloom just like a desert rose
but that is never how it goes.
During war the News Hour lists
each soldier whose return is missed
and the places they called home,
a soldier’s life reduced to loam.
No locals named, not friend nor foe
who is who? How can we know?
The war drags on, a swamp, a mire
repeating tours, souls under fire.
It’s forgotten once we start
wars pay for nothing not a part
of their pile of pain and loss
yet we ignore the total cost.
Lives, limbs and minds are left behind.
We're told the same lies every time.
The goals and actions are a fake
leave ravaged landscape in their wake.
Once home, our soldiers dream the war
and wonder what it all was for.
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Cynthia M. Sheward
Cynthia Sheward has written poetry since she was a child. She was born in Massachusetts but spent her young life in New Jersey. She applied her English degree from Arcadia University teaching junior-senior high school in Vermont the 70’s. In the 80s, she and her husband built their own house with their own hands in the mountains of North Carolina. In the 90s, she returned to NJ where she worked for a Fortune 500 corporation until her retirement.
Her work has been published in Friends Journal, Evening Street, the Bennington Banner, Fiber Arts Magazine, the Mountain Times and various other print media.
She currently resides in Jupiter, Florida.
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Another good poem. Very sad but true.
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