Grandpa’s vacant lot our battlefield,
post hole diggers used to secure the perimeter,
holes dug then covered with grass and debris,
a painful experience for any brave enough to leave the beaten path.
Other traps and snares set along the way,
little Rambos before there even was such a person,
War games not on a television or computer screen,
where the pain only imaginary,
the lessons of war not truly learned unless blood flowed,
dirt clod grenades,
and snipers armed with slingshots taught battle strategies and the dangers of war.
War games then played without computer graphics,
The damage inflicted a reality,
scars upon the body bear the proof.--Douglas Polk is a writer of poetry from central Nebraska. Feeling persecuted most of his life he has published three books of poetry; In My Defense, The Defense Rests, and On Appeal. He lives with his wife and two boys and two dogs on the plains of Nebraska.