Jennea Coleman-Cubero

Old John

“This Coward Soul Is Mine”

In fair Europe where we lay our scene,
A war broke out because of some fools.
Thanks to them, there’s so much I’ve seen,
So much that are not taught at schools.
Only 15 when given the white feather.
Only 16 when jailed by the red fetter.
Gangrene, amputations, mother’s tears,
Broken dreams, in a daze, full of fears.
Truly, my friends, I say unto you,
This low, wimpy, coward soul is mine.
I had gone what heroes would go through,
I had felt pain that was solely thine.
I’ve been through it but at least I’d lived,
I had lived to never tell the tale.
A lie. A fib I still wish to leave.
I live in this prison with no bail.
My dear son was born in ‘22.
A bright, cheeky wee devil, he was.
Living his life passed 22.
He became a soldier with a cause.
M.I.A., at first, then D.I.B.,
Hope was lost in this depravity.
Son, your purple heart is solely thine.
For me, this poor coward mine.

“A Bloody Haiku”

The bombs are blowing.
Grey skies filled with white ashes.
Arms and legs are off.

“Curse of the White Feather”

I remember it like it was yesterday.
I was only a school boy-
A simple lad who would curse, pry and goof off like the others-
When I was having dinner with my mother and father.
As we ate, it was then my sister came home with a group of her friends.
All of whom were glaring at me.
My god, their eyes!
As if they were the chosen 12 and I was Judas!
I didn’t even know what I’d did wrong that time!
But, my “darling” sister gave me an answer.
Putting a white feather on my plate,
She whispered in my ear, “Coward.”
Mother was not pleased.
Father was about ready to yell.
But “darling” sister brought up my disinterest in the war.
Her three girlfriends joined in on the fuss.
“Call yourself a man, why don’t ya?!” they yelled,
“You’re more of a frail chicken! A traitor!
How could you betray your Mother Land?!”
They were only four women...
Only four girls.
Yet, I still felt threatened and started to cry.
“Knock it off!” father chided at me, not them.
“You’re supposed to be a big boy!
Don’t tell me you’re going to take that!”
That night, everyone slept.
As for me, I took a few things-
Clothes, and some bread-
And left without a trace.
And without a cause,
I passed myself off as 16 (I was really 15),
Then went off to No Man’s Land.
A real man I was.

“Christmas in No Man’s Land”

Silent night,
Holy night.
For once it’s calm.
Never again, it’d be bright.
In the short-lived truce,
I’ve made a friend.
A German called “Peer.”
18 and already married,
With a newborn son.
Silent night,
Holy night.
For once it’s calm.
Never again, it’d be bright.
After the holiday,
It was back to normal.
Peer was no more.
Neither was his wife and child.
They were killed in a bombing.
Sleep in heavenly peace.
Sleep in heavenly peace.

“A Hero I Am Not”

Leave it to you, great rulers in the European skies!
Leave it to you, oh gods of Austria and Britain!
Playing a game of chess with kids as your pieces.
Fresh from schools, they’re ripe for the killing.
I was ripe as an apple myself in my day.
A bright, mischievous rogue.
You gods saw me as someone,
A hero of strength, speed, and craft,
When really I was none of these things.
I am not as strong as Hercules.
I am not as clever as Ulysses.
I am not as fast as Hermes.
I am only me.
I am only human.
A species you-Oh European Lords! -
Don’t know the meaning of.

“The Battle of Mind and Body”

In 1919, I found myself in wonder.
In life all I could do was wander.
Along the path I came across,
Many things I had loss.
To Armstrong and Calloway,
I would dance through the day.
My body would cry,
“Why go on? Why?”
Then my brain would go,
“Hush up and go low!”
Body couldn’t take no more.
Got out of bed at four.
With clothes and some bread,
It wouldn’t go back to bed.
Instead, it took me to a ship,
And so, I went on a trip.
From the arms of Britannia,
I was adopted by Columbia.
For a time, Body could relax.
As for Mind, it’s about to crack.

“To My Generation”

After the Great War,
I would join old school chums at the cafe.
We would speak of many things;
Food, drinks, politics, women,
How the youth of today are dumb and careless,
And how they should’ve been beaten real good as toddlers.
I would say nothing. I would just listen.
Though I don’t recall anything about the battles.
Nothing about the unfortunate Romanovs.
Nothing about those other royal fools.
Nothing, just nothing about anything.
Same thing when I’d immigrated from Britain to America.
When Carole and I started dating, I’d join her pals at a restaurant.
They too would not speak of the war.
They wouldn’t dare.
And for that, I curse them.
“A plague upon their houses!” I oughta cry!
“A plague upon ALL OUR houses!”
I danced, drink and paraded about!
We talked, laughed and cheered,
As if a war never happened here!
God! Zeus! Vishnu! And Allah!
I beg of your vengeance for my boy!
My poor dear John!
For my peers and I lived in ignorance!
Let us die with knowledge!
Knowledge that the blood of our children,
Are on our useless hands!
We’d failed to talk!
We’d failed to act!
We’d failed to scream, shout and protest!
We’d drank nepenthe,
And forgot we were living in Tartarus!
And for that, we are murderers!
Forgive us, children, for we’ve killed you! And, yet...
We’ll end up blaming you.

“Just Like Papa”

In the year 1922,
Dear John was born to Carole and I.
A wee, cheeky devil he was.
Bright as morrow’s light,
Hyper as a tiny chipmunk,
He was our little valiant.
“Our ‘Little Lord Fauntleroy’” in Carole’s eyes.
“I don’t want to be like him!” he cried,
“I want to be like papa!”
Somehow, he’d got a hold of me old helmet,
Wearing the hard, green shell, he gave a stoic salute.
Carole smiled-how could she not? -
I grinned as I ordered him to put that old helmet away.
Doing just that, he lovingly said to me-
“Just you wait, papa! I’ll make you proud!
I’ll be just like you!”
Just like you.
Just like you.
Oh! How flowers grow!
Dear John was in his prime,
When he decided to become a soldier.
“Worry not, father.
Your son can now be a hero!
Just keep calm and carry on.”
That was his last words to me.
In 1944, we were given his purple heart.
In 1945, a Japanese girl turned up and gave us a grandson-
You-Little John-You!
“Just wait!” your mother would laugh,
“One day, he’ll be a courageous, wonderful man like his father”
Like his father.
Like his father.

“A Letter to My Son”

Dear, John,
How are you, son?
It’s been too long since we’ve talked.
Your mother’s well and so is Ushio.
Poor Little John’s got a cold, but I think he’ll be fine.
Ok, the reason why I’m writing you now is to apologize.
I’m sorry for not being there for you.
I’m sorry for letting my griefs get in the way of your happiness.
I’m sorry for not doing anything to prevent another war.
I’m only one man, yes, but so was Hitler.
I have no excuse.
A father should be spending time with his kid.
A father should do what’s truly best for them.
Not neglecting them!
Not dying before they child would even be born!
I’m sorry, son.
I’ve failed you.
Please, as you are now a heavenly being,
Forgive me.
I’ll take good care of Little Johnny.
I promise.
With love,
Your father.

“A Letter to Little John”

Dear, Little John,
Your mother has told me about the draft.
Seems like nothing’s changed.
Nothing but puppets to “The Gods.”
Still, I’m proud that you’re going along with it.
It really shows how brave you are, you know that?
Much braver than I would’ve been
Anyway, I know you might not have the time to read this,
But your mother had been keeping a letter from your father.
He knew you were on the way.
But he also knew he may not live to meet you.
So, he decided to right you some advice,
And had asked Ushio to save it until the right time.
Now couldn’t be any better, I suppose.
So, here’s John’s letter to you.
“Dear, son/daughter,
If you’re reading this, I’ve been gone.
I wanted to see you.
I wanted to know you.
I wanted to be there for all your life events,
From your first day of school to college graduation.
But God must’ve wanted me to be with you in spirit.
You just gotta forgive me for that.
Look. Folks may deem me as some Greek hero,
Like ‘Ulysses’ or ‘Agamemnon.’
Others may see me as a mute robot.
And a few may even see me as a demon for what we’ve done to Japan and Dresden.
The sad part is, people will make such judgements about you.
Scary, I know.
But, remember these things:
(1.) Leave it to God.
(2.) It’s okay to cry. Even if you’re a boy.
(3.) Don’t lose yourself.
(4.) Feel free to disagree with me. I’m dead but I ain’t no deity
I wish I had made it out alive.
I could’ve done so much for you-
To make this world a bit less crummy.
But I’ll always be with you.
No one is alone.
I love you and your mother. Goodbye.
Your father, John Daniel Owens.”

About Jennea
Jennea Coleman-Cubero is a Holy Family student majoring in English. Hoping to be a good writer one day, she gives her devotion to her craft along with drawing and going online. This is her second time on Folio, and she wishes for her readers to enjoy what she composed.

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