Boots Approved 

Boots approved,

Like a scab once removed;

A tank dances on pavement, 

Click-clink Click-clink,

A pirouette of massive grace,

Click-clack Click-clack,

Metal and asphalt,

Commune in a torrent love affair,

Young and despondent,

An adolescent praise, 

I thought I’d miss it,

The way youth burned my hands, 

Our hearts fell in love with a cure,

That normalcy couldn’t endure, 

Would write to you with inexbriant praises, 

Between the Arabian desolation,

You’d forget my name,

Through western chaos,

Things changed…

Boots approved,

I was once removed,

And came back with someone

I never knew. 

Mulberry Trees

I think of you,

Through the mulberry trees,

Low and deep,

Like your love for me,

Berries as full as your lips,

Seeds as hard as your words,

The sweetness of your touch,

Drips down my lips,

Like the blood of a bully,

Who has done too much,

I lay under you,

And you shade me

From rays determined to darken my face,

I pluck the best parts of you,

From callous fingers red and blistered,

That strum taut strings,

That gives your voice its cadence to ring,

When your branches are bare,

And has lost all its fruit to share,

I’ll till the weeds that cross your feet,

Waiting til winter’s edge encounters its spring defeat,

And think of you through the mulberry trees,

Where the sun sits low,

And the moon begins to sing.

You and Me

A world taken by iron and eagles,
With boys as young as 12,
Could I have stomached the grit of sand and blood at Normandy?
Or enraged frost of Stalingrad?
Lullabied by the rumblings of the Panzer,
And bouncing like a kid on the legs of his grandfather,
It must’ve been hell,
But who am I to know?
We shared the same oath,
And scoured the same earth,
Finding manhood,
In no man’s land,
But I dug no foxholes,
No rancorous winters at Bastogne,
When nights grew distilled,
We both drunk from an initiation
Only a few ever tasted,
As the sun snuggles into a blanket of horizon,
Silence heals our reprisals,
And it’s only you and me.


Anxiety starts to build into a roar.
Sweat glistens restless palms.
“What the hell am I doing?”
Escapes from the lips of a reserved man.
Delusions cease to confound confusions,
As passerbys are glued to screens with high resolutions,
And is it clear,
That I don’t know what I’m doing here.
Rising frost from my breath,
Jumps from a rising chest,
And frigid sleeping fingers,
Awakens like a discovered crest,
I fumble between heighten senses of elevations,
When spasmodic noises amplifies my frustrations,
And is it clear,
I don’t know what I’m doing here.
Congested roads slick with reflections,
Paints a man wandering and broken,
Grappling a pleading proclamation,
Besieging patrons for oil rubbed tokens,
His pleading eyes go unspoken,
And still,
I don’t know what I’m doing here.
Lost in a warm armor of drunken rage,
Shifting through bouts of confession and railing subterfuge,
I light a match and burn off these days,
Between splendor and despair,
Between darkness and light,
Between fury and flight,
I stumble along the path of fate:
Belligerent and sputtering.



Through jeep trails,
And mountain ranges,
Littered with the ore of miner’s ambitions,
I seek a place:
A piece of Earth not scorched by the obsessiveness of hate,
But a calm that drips full of honey,
And brims sweetly of nectar whose bite is tender and subduing,
I sleep during the summer noons,
On logs wiser than I;
Sap glues the sweat of a hundred men to the same condition:
The condition of escape and wonder,
Of redemption,
Of past glories memorialized over sagging guts and wobbled knees,
And the revelation that a satisfying brew surrounded by souls isn’t a time machine.

Now the moon has come out to play,
I sit swayed by the taunting breeze,
As mud hugs my shabby and assaulting boots , I think:
I want to create beautiful things,
Precious and delicate,
Breathing and contorting,
Inspired and reverting.

A Veteran Writes An Epic Poem

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

Canto I.

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.