Field of White

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: War and Military  |  House: Warfare and Military

I was inspired to write this poem while watching Saving Private Ryan recently. It is from the viewpoint of a mother who lost her son in D-Day and is standing at his grave. I dedicate this poem to
all of the soldiers who fought in the Battle of D-Day as well as their families. I hope you enjoy this poem and will comment what you think! :)

Submitted: November 11, 2017

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Submitted: November 11, 2017



A light breeze blows across the land.

 American and French flags sail in the air;

guarding a quiet field.

Guarding their fallen who died in the line of duty.

Their remains marked only by row upon row of white crosses.

White for the peace they were fighting for.

As their ruby red blood spilled upon the Normandy beaches;

staining the ocean like a red dye.


Listen closely and you can hear the rumble of battle ship guns

hammering the beaches.

Like the rolling thunder of a raging storm.

Machine gun fire is like a cadence;

interspersed with yelling.

Cries of soldiers calling for help;

encouraging each other on.

You can smell the sea mixed with gun smoke

and freshly spilled blood.


You can see the wave of troops storming the beaches;

like sheep being led to the slaughter,

the machine gun fire cuts them down.

“Keep moving!” their leaders yell

“We must take this beach!”

You see the wave slowly moving inland

as more and more men assault the shore.

Medics are running here and there;

under fire while trying to save lives of husbands, fathers, sons, brothers, uncles.


You can hear a car pulling up the driveway

as you watch through the kitchen window;

you were washing dishes.

Your heart pounds as you walk out the front door and onto the porch.

Your legs collapse underneath you as two uniformed officers get out of the car.

You begin to cry a river of tears as they come to console you.

The words “Your son was a fine soldier…” ring in your heart

as you are handed a folded American flag.


The twenty-one-gun salute echoes in your ears

as you stand in front of your son’s grave.

He is surrounded by his fellow countrymen,

his fellow soldiers,

his brothers.

The places where they lay are marked only by

row upon row

of white crosses.


The light breeze brings the smell of the sea to your nostrils.

It carries the whispers of your son and his fellow soldiers.

Calling, calling “Never forget, never forget!”

Their whispers blow the American and French flags,

which stand guard,

stand guard to

the field of white.

© Copyright 2018 Rappwriter59. All rights reserved.

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