War Babies

Awoken in a swaddle of trust
Rubbing misted eyes that startled
Adjusting to darkness, pitch black rages
While missiles rain down, side to side
Rattling through ears tendered by a
July birth, summers child knows not to
cry at winters rumble in once clear skies

Bemused, confused, no lullabies for her
Just shells and mortar fire puncture
the clouds that permeate the nursery
Walls like soft membranes ruptured
A burst of sound alerts the heart, sirens
call to mother, blistering through the dark
Met by soothing arms, natures touch
Whispers from sweet breath in song
Her soul’s speak to calm the fret found
in the unblemished brow so new

(though the story does not end here for war babies)

What of the tiny scars that form in the cracks?
As battle cries erupt in babies eyes
Not just reserved to far off places
Where faces line up anonymous through it all
The reporters lens, focused on the despair
Tortured rows amidst fire dusted earth

But also wars in your street, next door
Or on the floor below, the young left wanting
Unknown to them, the feeling of meeting eyes
With support and velvet cosset provided by their charge
Whose war is waged daily with addiction’s addle
Distractions of modern lives that leave
Precious little shared between he, she and baby
No time to reach out and feel the warm return
A trusted hand in hold, security bestowed. No.

Not here. The killing fields lie inside these walls
That they would surely tumble if they knew
of the daggers traded, crosses borne
Wounds split wide and laid out as
sounds once whispered now grow to shout
Screams depressed, mothers on mute, parents
slumber inebriated, stumble feckless, wreckless
Class, colour, currency smashes like the glass
Along the halls, joyless hearts lost in search
Wanting more than this, deserving of more
than one serving, the witless beguiled by celebrity
Not their fault, or is it? Undecided

Were they held in arms or at arms length?
Not knowing leaves love unlearned, unrequited
children turn to mould, evolve in squalor
Then cling to another who knows little more
And together they sink into the pit
The system swallows them whole, falling
Down so deep, ’til the grass grows over
And nobody can hear, the newborn cries
Of another baby born to a house at war
That cries alongside a far flung friend
Also awoken in darkness as missiles rain again

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4 responses to “War Babies

  1. Nicely done, Vanessa. I’ve often wondered why the broken cling to the broken. I used to think it was because they had something in common, but now I’m not so sure. I’ve come to believe that the attraction is more one of acceptance. If I am broken, I can give it all up to another who is broken and they will not turn away. When I cannot imagine anyone loving me, they know the worst, and they do – because they don’t see the fault-lines. – Love, Bobbie

    • Thanks Bobbie, although on reflection there is too much going on in this and it’s all a bit jumbled and overworked. It does not reflect my favoured style and sits uncomfortable amongst my other work, but hey ho, it came out that way so here it is. Really pleased you got the broken people bit tho, that was the most interesting part to me so thank you x

      • I know what you mean, Vanessa. Sometimes I look at things the next day and there are so many ideas competing for each other that I wonder if (even for a moment) I thought this would be the last thing I would ever write – and so I had to get it all in! LOL! Broken all too many times just means ‘not loved enough’……. *sigh* I hate that……. Have a beautiful day, my friend. ~ Love, Bobbie

      • I know exactly what you mean, and I can be honest enough with myself to be pretty sure that’s what happened here. Was debating removing it, but I think it’s important to demonstrate that I am happy to make mistakes providing I learn from them! And yes, with you on the broken thing… Totally. Lots of love to you, have a great Friday x

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