[Erik Olson]

The bells our floating fortress ring sound rude.
The church’s calmed or fortified the mind,
These make us sailors sprint, and, bravely blind,
Fire the short thunder at planes' altitude.
War cycles from the chime-cued shootout round,
To dear remembrance of blithe marriage bells.
Wind the shrill horn, the twangy anthem swells,
On either side off ocean strafes rebound . . .
I often wish to hear no brass again
That wears your ear and echoes war’s alarms,
But those that sing when sailors meet the arms
Of sweethearts and the shore receives her men.
Bells ring if I get purple blooms and medals,
Or come home bathed with white and mourning petals.