As a little boy I was always intrigued by epic poetry. The adventure, heriocs, and triumphs gripped me and kept me awake in the quiet nights reading. Most of my poetry have been deep, emotional reflective poems about War and its aftermath. I’ve decided to start a new project writing an epic poem. I have included what I have written thus far. I hope this meets you well.
Private Grunt and The Unforunate Events of War
In the desert where sand filled light was dim,
There slept a sounding grunt who’s life was grim,
The stars blazoning a whispering wind,
As roaring calls were heard from armoured kin.
As rounds earthquaked the rich metal sleet ground,
A Sergeant rushed in to find Grunt confound,
“Private, Private what the hell are you doing!?”
“I’m sleep I’m sleep!” Said Grunt his face blueing.
Grunt rushed forth, with a steel viper in hand,
To slay the beasts who crashed his slumbered plans,
It’s bite was quick a truth known to scare all;
A flash of light that dashed hopes of the fall.
“To the Fifty!” Sergeant said with a charm,S
As brass rained down with gusto and alarm,
“Roger!” said Grunt, young face covered in mud,
But his weight was too much and he crashed with a thud!
He crawled and crawled till the Humvee was in sight,
His heart was quickened of fury and fight,
The moon hissed full with a glorious kiss,
As Grunt thought of all the family he missed.
But no, there was no crying in battle!
He hoisted himself; the turret rattled,
Into the gunners hatch he went full geared,
The fog of war masked all that he feared.
He raised his hand to caress the cool bolt,
The gun sighed a relief, sprung with a jolt!
The dust was thick, there was nothing he could see,
Only the muzzles of his comrades flushed with glee.
Boom boom, boom boom the night filled with a theme:
Of truth, and lost; of choas and of steam,
Grunt eyes filled with the soft grains from a land,
That bury the dreams of green fledging men.
The .50 jammed! this must be some black art,
But the hue of the barrel did much of it’s part,
Dust quickened to a blinding slick ordeal
A whirlwind of chance, but none of this was real…
It all was a dream a cruel one at that,
You see Grunt was captured by men who hated him back,
Tried and true the fate of war has its due,
And time has its rhyme of the choices we brew.