The Poems of Danny Walker, Part 2.
By Amy Fortuna

On Peace (age 10)

Inside of me
there's a place I go
a place I see
belongs to me.
What is it?
I don't know.

On Peace (age 16)

Life is too quick;
we tumble through it
like clowns in a circus.
And yet,
when I'm with you,
everything goes still
like a lake, silver tinted,
reflecting the clouds --
as I reflect your passion
and turn it to peace.

On Peace (age 22)
(some think this is the last poem he wrote. it was found in the breast pocket of his uniform after his death.)

Eternity slips out a long grey hand.
Invites the embrace.
A whisper of life sings through me.
And for a moment,
For a moment everything is right between us,
For a moment there is no fear or pain.
I let the love shine out,
Let it dance across your face,
And I know,
I know,
At last,
The meaning of the words
"Do not worry about tomorrow
For tomorrow will take care of itself."
I sink down slowly into peace,
and love enfolds me.
I embrace eternity.

On War (age 10)

Guns bang in the woods.
I look into the sky,
want to know
where the fighting is.

On War (age 16)

"It is fitting and sweet
to die for one's country."
Horace said the words
long ago, and here
I echo them. On this
July Fourth my eyes
are wet with patriotic duty.
I vow. I vow.
If my country is ever in need,
I vow to not be the last,
I will not shrink from war.
I will be the first in the sky,
the first to defend my America,
my home of the brave,
my land of the free.

On War (age 22)

The times have broken me.
I sit idle in my skin,
while one I love
follows his heart.
Into battle. I gaze,
fragile-feeling,
after him as he leaves.
Cold. I stand with both feet
firmly anchored to the ground,
to keep from running after him.
Be safe, Rafe. Be safe.
And my breath catches.

On Heroism (age 10)

Why is it that
men can be heroes,
come home,
and the world
forgets them?
Why?

On Heroism (age 16)

My mother was a hero.
She loved my father,
caught fragile in the winds
of change that she
could not control.
And she died.
I cannot remember my mother
but every day I thank her.
She lived,
she loved,
she died.
She died a hero.

On Heroism (age 22)

We're all fragile,
broken mortals whimpering
our way through time.

We're all wounded,
heartstruck warriors struggling
our way through pain.

We're all shattered,
aching souls yearning
our way through life.

We're all heroes,
women, men, living
our way through war.

END