A poem about child soldiers by David Tombale: The slippery wheel

The slippery wheel addresses my need to work out my thoughts about child soldiers and what motivates a child to become one. It's always been one of the most enduring image in my mind, that of a little boy cradling a rifle in his hands. It's a sad enough sight to require at least one piece.
The slippery wheel

Slippery like the conscience of a soldier
Garbed in wreaths and flags, slippery like
The wheel that turns the trades of industry,
Slippery but never hard like the soil we
Dug to bury his broken body;

Twelve years old and I want to ask what
Are you doing here? Twelve years old
And shooting guns, little boy what are
You doing here? But his broken body only
Stares back at me, no words to speak just
Blood and bone and things he will never
Be;

He lies there so silently, so still, so much
So that I know he’s dead but there are
No echoes, no six gun salute for child
Soldiers buried in jungles in remote
Corners that no one sees;

There are no sound bites or flashbulbs just
This flesh slowly dying, food for maggots
And time and the language of violence, little
Boys what are you doing here? Playing hide
And seek with bullets and landmines while
Your fathers fertilize the soil with their tears
And blood and your mothers, only mothers
Of children they have no love for, forced by
The seed of vile men spurred by speeches
Of hate and I find myself asking once more
What are we doing here?

A war poem by David Tombale: Back home

Back home was my first attempt at writing war poetry and while I've never had personal experience at the war front I was inspired by the works of Wilfred Owen. As one of my favourite poets of all time I felt I owed it to Wilfred to at least try my hand at a few.
Back home

A clear meadow on an early spring morn, I thought,

 I remember my mother's voice, sweet in the stillness

 That preceded waking life and I

Breathed in air undisturbed by polluted enterprise,

 

I remember it all and

It comes back to me on a bloody field in the dead of night,

My breath struggling through a torn cavity,

My flesh seared by napalm and

 My senses assaulted by the stench of my own

 Dying corpse,

 

A clear meadow swaying to rhythm of

The gentlest breeze, a hummingbird alighting on a

 Fragrant rose,

 

Scenes from my memory,

 

An undisturbed day in the bloom of spring,

 

Flashbacks of better days,

Before bitter nights and ricochets of bullet

 Rounds-

 

and I fall back to dream of those better days

 As my breath rattles in my throat and

As I close my eyes darkness creeping

At the edges of my sight I sigh happily and

Walk out onto a clear meadow,

 

Fragrances of sun drenched wheat,

Roses and violets preceding me,

Welcoming me in like a lover who's feet

 Have carried him back home.

 

 

A poem written in honor of all soldiers by David Tombale: Who watches over

I know there are female soldiers out there serving their countries honourably but originally this poem was written for a contest dedicated to a specific male soldier's family. I think it still stands as a testament to the pride we take in all soldiers regardless of gender who fight for their countries. Regardless of if you are in favour or against any war what remains undeniable is that there are brave men and women who give their lives daily for something bigger than themselves.
Who watches over

I have no words left, my frame shakes
as I find myself imagining the faces
that remain, that stay waiting for
my feet to fall upon the porch because
somewhere out there far from here
lies my home;

Oh fellow traveller let us while waging
wars for home and hearth never forget
the ones we are fighting for. Oh mother
I will be back someday, whether flesh
Or spirit for you I will always be your
Son;

Oh broken road do not stray from me
because someday I will walk your narrow
strip, light of heart and happy to finally
be going home;

Those thoughts they keep me, they are
my prayer spoken over the sound of guns.
A litany that keeps me strong as I mention
each word out loud, father, mother, brother,
Sister do not cry for me because from where
I sit I will always remain your soldier, your
beloved boy watching over each and every
one of you.