Tag: Writing

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If you would like to support my writing you can do so monthly for $1 or $3 through Patreon. Your support will help me continue writing and bring my poetry collections into print form.

You can also purchase my first collection of poetry titled War Poems: Over There digitally for $2.99 here.

War Poems: Over There is a gut-punching journey into the soul of a solider with striking imagery relating war experiences in Iraq and the latter acclamation to civilian life. It is a collection of deep and honest thoughts on war and its aftermath without glamour or flag-waving. Regret, suicide, love, lost, naivete, destruction, are deeply woven within the candid poetry of Over There. If you have ever wanted to feel and discover what Veterans face both in the great of battle and in the silence of suffering, Over There will open your heart.

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War Poems

Streets

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.

Clouds

You tore my heart out,
And that’s ok,
I wasn’t using it anyway,
The holes you bored,
Have closed,
Now they murmur a sigh,
Maybe of relief,
Maybe of the freeing reconciliation leaves:
Like a cold brew during the summer tunes,
Or dust that blows against sleeping dunes,
Out of disappointment beauty blooms,
And you gave me more than I could ever chew,
I grew too use to your taste;
Forgiven my taste buds for their apparent lack of loyalty,
With fingers I rubbed you away;
Hands sprinkled with graphite and sweat,
And balled you up like a school house paper filled with regrets,
I let you soar on wings of air,
Rising higher and higher like a ballon on a birthday’s afternoon,
Freeing helium to find its way home;
Letting the clouds have their way with you.

Journal: 5.2.15

Poetry is the breath of life. It lives, it breathes. That’s what poetry does. It’s alive. It can evoke the strongest emotions from humans. Poetry is spiritual and shouldn’t be taken lightly. Poetry is the mana of the soul. It feeds hunger, and it comforts despair. It is the lasting vestige of hope that man feeds from. It’s the cool water at the end of an 1000 mile journey. It propels. It sustains. It’s the glue that repairs broken hearts.

Out There

Out There

Out There,
I’m afraid of my shadow,
Because it’s already dark enough inside my head;
The sun dances between concealment and ambivalence.
I step in footprints that are not mine,
Playful like a child;
For a moment, I laugh, deeply, taken,
Skipping unabashed through tentacles of beauty:
Of mountain songs, of listless clings, reconciling demons that burned a depth falling in lifeless pits.
I stretch my arms like mountains,
Fingers brush the wind,
Standing firm upon the snow caps,
Resting amongst the clouds,
Steadfast until you come to me like a wandering Eagle
And you’ll love me when I’m better.
Out there,
You’ll find me,
Nestled in the waters,
Drowning,
Gasping,
Until the damp shores are within my grasps,
I heave and lay,
Wet with spittle,
Until you find me unafraid.

Nightmares

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