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.


I remember what you said to me,
Covered in the grains of my juvenile determination,
“Come back in one piece” said with a deceiving
grin; crisp words you knew would never be.
I carried them like a wanting child,
Full of helplessness and curiosity,
Smoothing the turbulent rumblings,
That jolted me from inklings of the dark cloud,
That hangs and waters the reservoir of ruins.
Those words carried me along asphalt baked with defeated dreams;
Roadsides: the waiting point for the chariot that delivers us from buffering.

The Foxhole

God does not live,
In the worn stained carpet of churches,
Or in the deceiving tongues of serpents,
But in foxholes mired with subtle cries
Of green fledgling lives.
And still is the wind that carries the want of a mother’s embrace;
A face implanted in the bosom of chance and pace.

In search of military Veteran writers and artists

I’m looking for Veterans who write poems/short stories to include in the hardcover version of War Poems. Works should range from gripping experiences overseas to the realities of returning home. Artists are welcomed.

If interested contact me below

Call of Duty

We will not be written in books,
As names,
But numbers.
We will fade into the dust of time,
Our sweat dried from the escaping cracks
Of ground.
And we will carry whatever remnants
We have left,
In the coffers,
Brazen with smiles behind broken lives.
We hide in the early hours of the night,
Our faces enamoured with killing objects
on digial screens.
Yelling into a microphone “fuck you dude!”
Bitter between championed teams.
Mountain Dew fuels aggression and suppression of innocence stolen.
Chips are crisp with salt and plucked from fingers that pulled triggers.
Memories blare like trumpets inside lucid dreams,
And a drink soothes the nerves of a dream deterred,
Or so we heard.

We pray that light will shine,
Maybe for a few precious moments our minds drift off into a bliss of calm and contentment.
If we are mindful maybe our resentments will transform into forgiveness.
And addiction doesn’t run rampant,
Unchained in a field riddled with avoidance,
Transported to console the suffering.

Still in the lonely hours we needle every thread that quilts us to a time,
Where heroes dined on succulent dishes of mission.
Now we are confined to living our former lives through pictures,
Depicting a time where life and death were a line shorter than this sentence.

The Wound

The Wound

Where are the cuts,

When there is no flesh to see,

Beneath the layers of dirt,

And grime,

And time,

There’s the wound,

Open and undertakened,


And confused,

Of feelings born anew

Amongst the soil of fear and anxiety.

Thoughts of being damaged,

Ravages the inner sanctum.

The Click

The sharp touch of metal,
Caresses my fist,
As the light,
Devours a lonely glimpse,
Of what life has become,
For the boy,
Who left the shielding arms,
Of Apple pie and Monday night football,
To save a world from evil,
Without a uniform or flag.
As the faucet drips,
The tune of the forgotten,
Is lulled to sleep,
By the lullaby of the safety.
Click, click, click,
Is the rhythm of thought,
That dances between,
The present,
And forever.