People Murmur as They Pass

Soldiers have their band of brothers
And Christian saints set lights 
On hills to be seen
But poets lurk in dark corners


Writing words that stay sealed in books
That they hide under piles
Of heaped illusions
For fear of being found out


Hearing people murmur as they pass
Saying: there's the poet, the freak
We judge you and condemn you
As being too different from us


But I stand up and throw down the bands sealing my book
Speak word of wisdom and foolish thoughts
And point my finger and say
You too write poetry

Glass and Light and Tears

In the top of the box lay a bit of
     glass from a second hand store
I picked it up and saw three kings
     from the nativity bearing gifts
Excitedly, I stood the glass on its base
     the kings simmered in my lights
I sat and stared and a tear caught my
     eye, I had three earthly kings 
But where was their king? I was missing
     the most important part
Here in the desert, not far from
     where the three began
I was celebrating Christmas in a wooden hut
     far from my home
My friends, my family, so distant
     the sounds of guns so near
Tears ran down my face such that
     it would shame most soldiers
The glass kings changed with  
     light bending through my tears
Colors, textures became muted
     blending 'til becoming soft and real
I looked on a desert land and a
     caravan with the kings
The caravan stood still, camped for
     the night, with 
Servants, drivers, and camels burdened
     with goods needed for travel
In the distant sky hung a star
     I could feel its mission and glory
And I heard the voice of a king
     "Tonight is the night 
"Let us stop to celebrate and worship this night
     and this day"
I saw the other kings nod 
     and the vision faded
And became again glass
     and light and tears
I remembered those kings
     noble and great
Away from their homes and families
     but not alone
I wiped my eyes and left my room
     to find my fellow soldiers
To worship with

Purple Irises Fading

Our feet move more slowly

     resolved, but hesitant

A two liter bottle

     with the top cut of

Balanced in my hand

     purple irises fading

But freshly cut

     from our garden

Overflow the top

     as we pass 

Monuments to soldiers

     past and perhaps present

To a place where

     things are small

Child sized, except

     the trees that stand

A scott's pine is the guide

     and tall it stands to

Guard its burden

     beneath a small stone

I kneel almost bowed

     And place my offering

Down wetly and with no grace

     And wetly the girl

At my side and I morn

     the older brother

She never met

     and the son

I knew for too little a time

PTSD Screening

I wait, looking around the room
The faces are familiar
Though I've never heard there names
Old, young, men, women
The only common bonds
Are service and chains
Connecting them to that service


To days that were filled 
With monotony and time
Waisted for lack of anything
Better to do
While waiting for a time
When their skills
The needed work
Came fast, furious
Without relent


And now they wait
To find the cure for
Such precious work
Or simply to pay
The price for their
Unfulfilled waiting

Constant Rot

A black heart that spreads

Beyond and through the horizon

Neurons fire in rapid succession

Bottlenecking in tender spots

Causing migraines reminiscent of death

Fingers bleed internally

Making them red then purple then

Finally black staining hands

Up through the body

Meeting the horizon

Making all a pain of

Constant dying

Constant rot

Constant degeneration

School will never end

Licorice and Water

The Poet gets drunk on licorice and water

At first it is only a loose tongue and a small waver

But after a sip and a few more black bites

He fumbles with a small bag and brings out a tin whistle

After a few bad notes, he whips out a tune

Before unheard, unknown and now unforgettable

He throws in a second tune better than the first

And passes it on to the firefighter

Better be careful, he’s high on chocolate

I Fobbit or Sergeant Fobbit

‘Fobbits suck,’ I read this

every day as I close the

door of the port-a-john.

Nice to know I suck. Although how

this kid would know, I can’t tell.

I joined in ’87 when I was 17.

Being young and stupid I followed

my recruiter’s advise and

trained in the chemical coir.

I quickly learned that war is

            at it’s best when it only

            features blood and bullets.

Nerve agent and mustard gas

            make those old things seem

            quaint and desirable.

My war plan expanded to saving

            my guys from Cold War

            weapons of mass destruction.

I knew that if I was ever called

            to do my job, it would be

            hell for those few that survived.

And hell for me picking up the

pieces. And likely, doing my

job would be the end of me.

I taught and trained with no

            thanks and no help. Commanders

            and first sergeants shut me down.

The Gulf War came and quickly

            went. My brief moment of

            importance died.

And finally my time was up,

            I got out. I swore I

            would never do it again.

Then 9-11 came, and I though

            maybe I was wrong, but the

            time didn’t seem right.

So I stayed out.

Iraq came back, and I looked

            again. But still, even

            with chemical need,

I stayed out.

2006 and a well placed brochure,

            things had changed and

            I was needed back.

Two years later I stood in Afghanistan, with

a promise from my first sergeant:

I would not leave the wire.

So on this fob I sit, and old

            Fobbit. Doing a job I’m not trained

            for, and not needed for.

But young man, when things come

            down, and you find you’re

            not as hot as you think.

I’m the old, wise sergeant that

            is ready to reach down and

            pull you out of the mess...

You made.