I'll Come Back, I will!

A Poem By Libby // 4/12/2017

There at the door he stands with hope,
A lad of fourteen, tall and broad;
He knows not to what end he goes,
To take the ship that sails abroad
That sails to places without hope.
Yet when he sees the pain that shows
On tender Mother’s brow so still,
He kisses her and softly says
“Dear Mother, I’ll come back, I will!”

Now on the ship, dry eyes, now full
He fiercely blinks and lifts his head,
Vows to return, whate’er the cost.
Already life looks bleak ahead
And weariness now takes its toll.
The scene keeps coming back to mind:
His little mother waiting ‘til
He returns, reminds himself
“Dear Mother, I’ll come back, I will!”

As years go by, and winters leave
A man is now in place of boy;
A steady man with stalwart mind,
The army fails still to destroy
The love his heart did once conceive.
His mother’s letters, full of hope,
They moderate his stubborn will;
He still repeats that noble phrase,
“Dear Mother, I’ll come back, I will!”

On Sunday morn, this man you’ll find
His back against a tree of pine
His thoughts on Mother dear are fixed,
The gentle woman he calls “mine”
These feelings run throughout his mind.
An urgent note was sent that day
Dear Mother is now deathly ill
Those loving words recalled with haste
“Dear Mother, I’ll come back, I will!”

A lonely house sits by alone,
Our man stares at the empty place,
The home that he once called his own;
A grieved look etched on his face
His mother gone, now cold as stone.
How loath is he to say those words
That fine farewell to her he bid;
The only words he finds to say—
“Dear Mother, I came back, I did!”


Oh Libby, this is beautiful.

Oh Libby, this is beautiful. Very, very well done.

Damaris Ann | Wed, 04/12/2017

"The lines and verses are only the outward garments of the poem and are no more really it than your ruffles and flounces are YOU. The real poem is the soul within them . . . and that beautiful bit is the soul of an unwritten poem. It is not every day one

Thank you

Thank you

Libby | Sun, 06/18/2017

"Evening news is where they begin with 'Good evening,' and then proceed to tell you why it isn’t."

"Oh, I'm sorry...did the middle of my sentence interrupt the beginning of yours?"

Very beautiful, Libby!

Very beautiful, Libby!

Madalyn Clare | Fri, 04/14/2017

"To live is to love with the passion of a thousand stars. To love is to live despite the pain of a thousand scars. Anything in between is a passing shadow." ~Michael Joseph Murano


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