Chris G. Vaillancourt

Toy Soldiers

The trumpets sound. Bold noise in
early morning air.
Waking the dead.
Waking those about to die.
Another battle begins
in the never-ending game
of military parades.
Toy soldiers, in a little boys mind.
Lined up in neat compact rows.
Plastic guns and plastic minds
conditioned by visions
of old men's speeches.
'Arise, young valiant ones' shouts the
television screens.
'Go forth, brave sons and kill
all those who disagree'.
Toy battles in a little boys game.
Lines and lines of paper mache hearts
controlled by the propaganda machines.
Flashes of smoke; planes overhead.
The enemy, just straight ahead.
Toy people in an illusionary game.
Pretending that lines exist
in the dirt.
One side of the line is ours, the other theirs.
One side of the mind is empty, the other straw.
Toy victims in a mental institution world,
where fabric emblems are
waved in hypnotic fury.
'Defend the flag, boys! ' yells the
old man with the stars.
'Die for this symbol, kill for this cause.'
Toy soldiers lined up in rows.
Toy people pretending to be real.

In a distant place there is a wall.
It was built by visionary dreamers.
Behind the wall there are flowers.
The flowers are shaded by trees.
God's bountiful gifts gently
growing in the sun.
Two men sat on a bench,
inside this distant garden.
They were silently enjoying
the beauty of the morning.
Both men decided they wanted
to pick the same rose.
They argued, they debated,
they presented their cause.
One man tired of the verbal disagreement.
Picked up a stone. Murdered the other man.
Now the rose was all his.
He was the victor!
His cause was just!
His cause was right!

He stood up, his prize in hand;
danced a dance of victory bells.
Danced his macabre version of hell
in a garden full of roses.

Toy soldiers in a little boys mind.

Topic(s) of this poem: wars

Poem Submitted: Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Poem Edited: Tuesday, May 27, 2014

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