Frozen In The Foxhole

I wrote this poem a few years ago and happened upon it today. I wrote it as a two-fold dedication to those whom have experienced and died in the intensity of physical war, as well as to those who have experienced and died in the intensity of mental war. I, myself, have experienced the intensity of mental war. Living my entire life with a mental disorder has been no less an intense battle than the Battle of the Bulge. Upon research of the Battle of the Bulge, I was so intrigued and so intensely felt the pain of those soldiers that I had to write it down on paper. I hope that this will help you to feel the agony and sorrow of the extreme difficulties and tragedies of war. I hope you will see how human these young men are and how brittle their lives are. They have sacrificed everything for our country’s freedom. This is not a “happy” day. Today is a day of empathetic sorrow. That is what Memorial Day is about.

 

Frozen In the Foxhole

By: J. Philip Harris

 

In the hole the cold and bitter shake.

The terror blanket keeps warm the fragile pill.

The knives blow from east to west redundantly stabbing.

I lay down with guns and bombs, bullets and hand-grenades.

Laying silent as the soil eats into my face.

No noise, though the sirens bleed decibels like gaping wounds.

I quietly drive my mind away to far off lands

Tucked neatly out from all the cacophony.

 

Sleep sweet soldier boy

Lay your musket down

Drift off swiftly to the dreaming town.

All the booming lion’s lungs

All the vicious serpents tongues

All the chords of chaos strummed start to quiet down.

Sleep down deep your soul

Rushing off to your foreign bunker

Making safe the fragile pill

 

In the absence of my frozen mind

There on the forest loam

The empty soldier vessels lie.

The peaceful look upon their face

As if to say they’ve won the race.

Enduring no longer the battle.

Enduring no more the wolves of malice.

How happy lay the precious boys.

 

But I am here upon their grave.

A sitting duck of war enslaved.

Lost in uncontrollable chaos.

I hear the volleys one by one

Like slow knocks of death upon my door.

The rhythmic clicks like therapy.

Seconds pass like years

And suddenly they sooth me

And I hunker down to sleep

Frozen in the foxhole

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