An athlete, an artist, a musician, a free spirit, a dreamer, a Renaissance person, and an anthropologist at heart, I am all these things, but I am also a writer. The anthropologist in me wonders which ancestor passed down each of these traits, however, I don’t have to dig deeply into my DNA to discover where my passion for writing came from. I only need to look one generation back at the face of my mother.
My time with her was brief—only 18 years—as she died suddenly during my freshman year in college. I had always been aware of her love of penning poems and short stories, something she did as a teen and young woman, but sadly, once married, she put down her pen.
As I entered adulthood, my own passion for writing blossomed. With many short stories and poems under my belt, I turned my focus to writing feature articles for local newspapers. Taking the next leap, I wrote my first novel, Daughter of Two Worlds: The Face of My Father, and coauthored the memoir of my judo coach, Never Give Up: A Journey from Bully to Brave. Presently, I have completed the sequel to my novel, which will be published soon, and am working on an historical novel. However, for a moment, I will put my pen down, so that I can pick up hers.
Tucked away in my files was a small composition book, yellowed by the years. Carefully opening my mother’s book of poems and prose, several loose papers, nestled between the pages, caught my attention. Six typewritten pages, neatly folded together, appear to be the start of a novel, and one single page, typed, fragile, and yellow, is a poem, and it’s the poem that I want to share with the world.
The timing is uncanny, serendipitous—perhaps divine—and couldn’t be any more poignant. You see, it was on Saturday afternoon, June 22, 2025, that I decided to flip through the pages of my mother’s past. The poem grabbed my attention, and I put it aside with thoughts of publishing it sometime. Later that day, the United States bombed Iran, entering the conflict between Israel and Iran, and igniting fears of a possible escalation into World War III. The irony—the strange coincidence— is the poem is titled, “A Soldier’s Cry!” and was written by my mother as a young girl, living through the emotional pain and horrors of World War II. On an autumn day in 1944, she wrote:
A Soldier’s Cry!
by
Pearl-Ellen Rogerson
Dear Mom, I cry this fearful night
As I take up my pen, this letter to write.
I’m longing to see your dear, sweet face
Bathed in beauty, serenity—grace.
With this memory of your hand clasped within my own,
I’ve never felt that I stood alone.
Oh, Mom, I’m praying with all my might
That with your help, I’ll see the light.
I’m alone now, dear, alone by the sea;
My buddy’s are dead—all but me.
Joe lying there—spilled over with blood,
He was a swell guy, gentle and good.
It wasn’t meant for him to kill,
Nor for Fred and Mike—even Bill!
They should have lived, Mom, but they died.
For their last breath of life, I heard them cry.
As I write on, I hear a bugle blast,
These few minutes with you, may be my last.
They’re coming closer now—nothing to do
But pray, dear Mom, I’ll come back to you!
The war to end all wars ended none. Decades have gone by, and many more wars erupted, snuffing out the lives of soldiers and innocent civilians around the globe. The numbers are staggering. It is estimated that 20 – 30 million people have died as a direct result of war since my mother inked the words that could have flowed from any and every soldier’s pen. How many more named Joe, Fred, Mike, and Bill lie dead among them?
Man does not learn and never will, not as long as he is driven by greed and the constant quest for more power, control, and wealth. The elite few at the top, the beneficiaries of war, pull the strings, manipulating events at the expense of innocent lives. Only once there is a shift in values, where living in harmony with the earth and its inhabitants is prioritized, will there be a change. Respect of nature and one another must take precedent. When man finally realizes that less is more, there will be no more war.
Like her genes, the words my mother wrote in October 1944 now merge with mine. May the blending of our inks be a message to all of mankind and resonate in everyone’s hearts and minds around the world. Only then, will no more soldiers cry!
Absolutely incredible. So well written. A beautiful tribute. An inter generational prayer for peace.
Thank you for taking the time to read it, and for your compliments! My hope is our words circle the globe and enter everyone’s hearts!
That’s beautiful! Gave me chills.
Thank you so much!
Nancy, This is so beautiful and so apropos for our times, and actually, all times. As you stated, WWII claimed to be the one to end it all. A braggadocious self-aggrandizement that history showed to be wishful thinking! We now see the same kind of boastful hyperbole from an American president who has no firsthand knowledge of the costs of war, except how it can monetarily enrich him. Now I fear that this escalation could lead to the true END of it all: a nuclear war that could snuff out all life on this planet, our one and only home! It is imperative that we all must strive to do whatever we can to prevent this from happening!
On a more personal note, I too, had a wonderful mother who had a penchant for poetry. Unlike you, I did NOT get that sliver of genetic material from her. In fact, she always had to help me with my English homework when we were studying poetry. Being a perfectionist (got that from my dad), what I wrote was never good enough or up to my own obsessive standards unless my mom helped me. Then it was good to go! I wish I had saved (or even found) some of her poetry after she died. Like your mother, she stopped writing once she married and had children. She at least got to share some of her talent and wisdom by tutoring my young self.
A bright note: She started writing again in her mid 70s until she passed at 81 (I was blessed to have her that long) and kept a little, lined note pad in her purse with her all the time. She showed it to me once when she was visiting us here in Maine. I was so stupid not to make a copy of her sweet little scribblings, and I never found it when I cleaned out her apartment in Arizona. But, low and behold, my partner Meggan, while cleaning out HER purse one day, found a slip of paper from Mom’s little note pad, squirreled away in some crevice. My mother had written her a note to encourage her when she was searching for her first teaching job in California. Enclosed was a poem. The theme was “to never give up”. She was starting to get up in age and her rhyme structure started to fall apart a little bit at the end (see: the perfectionist in me!) but it just turned into loving prose. Meggan keeps that gift in her wallet to this day! That reminds me: I’ve got to make a copy of it for posterity! Get on the ball 🏀 Gish!
PS: Loved seeing the photo of you and your mom at your PC graduation (I immediately recognized the good ol’ brickwork behind you!) You look SO much like your her! Your smile and your eyes, especially! Sorry that you lost her so soon. I lost my dad in my sophomore year at Rutgers. It was tough, but it would have been excruciating if I had lost my mom then. She was my best friend and the most loving mother a person can have! Miss you, Mom!❤️
Thank you for such a wonderful and personal reply. Cheryl, you write beautifully! You DID inherited your mother’s penchant to write. Perhaps her niche was poetry, while yours is prose. I honestly think you should consider writing about topics you have a passion for – the world could benefit from your insights, thoughts, experiences, and wisdom. One of the secrets to writing is to understand two things. First, you write best about what you know best, and what impassions you. Secondly, and perhaps most importantly for you, know that some of your best writing might come in the rewrite. Get your thoughts out and then let the perfectionist in you mold and shape your prose! Do it! I think you’re great at it – I can tell!