Is This War?

War is not war that brings you home

That sends you to play in the snow

That encourages you to laugh at the sky

When has it been so?

It is not true war, but a game.

Simply a game.

You taunt the trees

And laugh at the clouds

You bang on the fence posts

And tickle the enemy.

This is not war.

This is a child’s game.

Their giggles fill the air

And give way to piercing screams

As they run from each other

Brandishing wooden swords

And donning cocky hats

Their silly faces mock the captain

Forts are made to take cover in

From snow and wood and anything

They ride sticks as though they had horses

And the commoners bow and retreat

A muttering retreat

Full of giggles and whispers

Before a crowd breaks loose

They attack the trees

They swear they see Indians

And birds cackle at their mischief

A war party is on the move

The smell of gunpowder coats the air

They poke and prod as they take prisoners

And tiny screams echo

As dolls are scalped with sticks

And handed back to owners

Covered with dirt and sand

None the worse for wear

But all the worse for looks.

Kitchens are constructed

In thickets they hide food

Tied up in bundles to protect from bears

The mothers move about

Taking care of children

Cleaning guns for fathers

And cleaning the dirt from the dirt

The fathers shoulder their weapons

Head out the door and off to war

Mothers peer out windows

Waving filthy handkerchiefs

Before heading out themselves

Muskets are loaded

Shots ring out

Brave soldiers fall to the ground

Holding their stomachs

They lie for a moment

A tragic look on their faces

Before they jump off

Racing off into the woods

To hide the treasure

Of pirates, kings, and princesses

They rescue damsels in distress

And fight the fierce fire-breathers

Defending the lady’s family

And saving the castle and King Arthur

They sit around the round table

And feast for days

On mutton, venison, and birds

They use their knives to cut the bread

And dip thick chunks in goblets

Of wine and hot chocolate

Before they get too cold

Their fingers too numb to chop the trees

They turn and scramble through the words

Towards the warmth of mother

The promise of a fire

The hope of a real meal.

The war is over.

Comfort is sought.

War is not war that brings you in

That sends you to play in the snow

That encourages you to laugh at the sky

When has it been so?

It is not true war, but a game.

Simply a game.

You taunt the trees

And laugh at the clouds

You bang on the fence posts

And tickle the enemy.

This is not war.

This is a child’s game.

When children play at war

The world is at peace.

When the world is at war

The children stay indoors.