What’s The Point. a poem by Mitchell Sheffield

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What's The Point

  What's the point of tanks if you can't have a little fun?
Riding on the rusty turret and swiveling the gun.
Computer games are all that war's about,
Say hungry soldiers grabbing little piggies by the snout.
 Just a game of hide and seek ,as 
artillery triangulation is  adjusted just a tweak.
The suits  have listed  their  criteria,
as we  twig the stench of  rotting and bacteria.
You crane ,I crane ,we all crane for news of  Truth in Ukraine.
Truth is the first to die,some say,but real folk are down the cellars,
hiding from the  button pushing fellers.
Blood and mud  never  date in Cinema Verite,
 Loveless missiles often go astray.
There's the pus and the stench
as insect little humans scurry in their trench.
A Kremlin full of criminals and the Pentagon is too far gone for a proper gander.
 We that give and they that take, all are on the make.
Peasants and Profs all attend the wake.
The soil  can wait for quiet, after this expensive riot.
In Summer  sunflowers grow.
Who is right and who is wrong is not for God to know.
Mother's child stamps his feet in the trench beneath the snow.
This is for the Motherland,it seems.
Those who wait  can dream  such dreams of  summer wind,
as if nobody had ever sinned.
Death videos put to music,
 as  desperate cameos are enacted.
The causes and agendas  heavily redacted.
History is for tomorrow and yesterday,
 but never for right now.
Soil is frozen against the plough,
In Luhansk and Melitopol and Moscow.
Brother  kills brother at  distance,
unlike boxers who embrace.
Taunting one another in the language of Solzhenitsyn.
Resignation amid the shouting and the shredded skin.
The brass are in their office,waiting for the word,
to release the brothers  who crave the homeward turn.
The icons tilted in the rubble churches.
Splintered oak and silver birches.
Scattered rations where once Iron Crosses were won.
What's the point if you can't have a little fun ?

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Mitch Mitchell is 66 and lives in Sheffield for the friendly locals. He holds a degree in Japanese, has climbed cliffs since 1973 and is a part-time Buddhist and environmentalist. His mum was a feminist and labour union representative, and his dad a professor of flight engineering.

Published by darcie friesen hossack

Darcie Friesen Hossack is a graduate of the Humber School for Writers. Her short story collection, Mennonites Don’t Dance, was a runner-up for the Danuta Gleed Award, shortlisted for the Commonwealth Writers Prize and the Ontario Library Association's Forest of Reading Evergreen Award for Adult Fiction. Citing irreverence, the book was banned by the LaCrete Public Library in Northern Alberta. Having mentored with Giller finalists Sandra Birdsell (The Russlander) and Gail Anderson Dargatz (Spawning Grounds, The Cure for Death by Lightening), Darcie is now completing her first novel where, for a family with a Seventh-day Adventist father and a Mennonite mother, the End Times are just around the corner. Darcie is also a four time judge of the Whistler Independent Book Awards, and a career food writer. She lives in Northern Alberta, Canada, with her husband, international award-winning chef, Dean Hossack.

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