A Mother’s War

This poem is close to my heart, it reflects on why world peace is something I won’t give up on, the idea that humanity can be sensible and respect each other, and stop being scared. I can only give one small voice to this battle, which is the real battle. The fight isn’t with each other, the battle is for peace. Something every child everywhere deserves. This is for the children, all children.

Please note that the ‘centre stage’ comment reflected the woman’s feelings, we all know it’s nothing like that. My heart goes out to all victims of war and their loved ones.

Stars rained down from the heavens above
as a soft silver light bathed the sky.
You surrendered a kiss cementing our love
and we laughed as the heavens rolled by.
For we were then young and the world was new,
and each shining star was a memory of you.
We were strong and alive and the world was bright,
and the future with you would be more than alright.
In 1913

As our eyes met the day we were wed
I heard every word of the vows that you read.
Yet I saw in your heart what you’d already done
you’d signed over your life now that war had begun.
A few sweet days later I waved to your bus,
with a stiff upper lip and the minimum fuss.
A blistering heart and a soul full of rage
at a man who just couldn’t resist ‘centre stage’.
In 1914

Our daughter was born just nine months to the day
that her unknowing daddy went bravely away,
and I tried in my letters to capture her light
for a man now immersed in a terrible fight.
Your letters, at first, were brave and gung-ho.
You said no-one could wait to ‘give it a go’
But you quickly found out that war wasn’t much ‘fun’
and the terrible hun were just humans with guns
In 1915

Your only trip home some three years down the road
was too brief a respite from that terrible load.
Gone was the boy I had courted and wed,
in his place a young man who was already dead.
You were gentle and kind sweet husband of mine
And your heart wasn’t made for the horrors of war.
You got back on that bus saying you’d be okay,
as I waved I knew this would be my last best day.
In 1917

In nineteen eighteen at a place on the Somme
you gave up your life to a hun with a gun.
They wrote me a letter and gave you a gong,
which was no recompense for the life that was done.
I went to the Palace the King was so kind,
I was silent and brave in respect for your name,
but no medal could comfort that child you gave,
whose daddy lay rotting in some far-flung grave.
In 1919

The next months of my life were filled with despair,
Wherever I went I knew you were not there.
You left us alone in the hope I’d survive,
With my future in tatters and a child of five.
The tears that I wept were shadowed with rage,
at the man who had chosen a chivalrous grave.
The people I knew made a hero of you,
While I smiled and smiled.  What else could I do?
In 1920

I didn’t know darkness could be so complete,
Or that terror could banish the pleasure of sleep.
My one light was the child I clung to in fear,
And made her dependant - the poor little dear.
It took me long years to emerge from that place,
where the light never fell on my tear-stricken face.
I had wept through the years when our daughter was young,
This bright kindly child who shone like the sun.
In 1938

She was so much like you, I got straight down and prayed
that love would control the decisions she made.
She was just twenty-four when the madness once more,
Swept over the world, and so swept all before.
I could not conceive that the world could believe
that anything positive was ever achieved,
by just one more battle, a million more lives,
and fatherless babies, and husbandless wives.
In 1939

I begged, wept, and pleaded, I ranted and raved,
but her mind was made up, and her path ready-made.
To do the right thing for the hope of all men.
I felt that I’d died, and I hated you then.
I’d thought I was safe, for a girl would not fight,
But this girl was a nurse who knew ‘what was right’.
So, I stood at that corner and waved to that bus,
With a stiff upper lip, and the minimum of fuss.
In 1940

In the midst of the war, on a ship coming home,
With a giant red cross - which meant leave it alone,
a myopic captain of some submarine, 
sent forth a torpedo and destroyed all she’d been.
She was so gentle and kind that sweet child of mine,
and I gave up a love to the horror once more.
Now all that was left was a mum, old as time,
With her whole world destroyed by another man’s war.
In 1941

By this time in my life, I find that I’ve learned,
luck wasn’t my ‘right’, and joy had to be earned.
That man born in anger suppresses all hope
in a life of surviving and trying to cope.
That war never stops and hate never stands still,
within even families wars happen at will.
That humans will stumble from hope to despair,
and very few people honestly care.
In 1971

I wanted to say, let’s just live and let live,
let’s function from love and let’s learn how to give.
But it never worked out, I was treated as mad,
and I found that so terribly, horribly sad.
At the end of my life I relinquish the task
of finding a way to bring true peace at last,
to a world that believes that good does not exist,
and trial and war are the best ways to live.
In 1985

I hold up my hands and admit I give in,
to a world that’s erased every concept of sin.
Where violence is something that’s swiftly defended,
And evil is something that’s not comprehended.
My man gave his life - he believed he did right,
and my girl she gave hers to diminish the fight.
They now live in peace in a place sweet and good,
And the world that they died for has not understood.
The end

Deb Hawken
2001