Stars from a peaceful, darkened sky

Iowa grows so much without trying.

Look beyond the fields green with life

Dusty brown with harvest

Black with Spring’s potential.

Look within the silos that mark

The efforts and tears of families

And you will find seeds of hope

That promise another year of home.

Friendships in Iowa grow fast and strong.

Small towns know this by heart.

The seeds of laughter and comfort as children

Stay with you long after you leave.

The rhythm of cicadas that is

The heartbeat of an August night.

Lightening Bugs that remind you of

Stars from a peaceful, darkened sky.

When the winds of change blow some

Of us to other places that still think Iowa is

About Potatoes, we politely correct them,

And speak proudly of our land, again.

_____________________________________

orn b.

Fire Would

When I think of all the passions within us.

Emotions locked inside collective humanity,

It’s like firewood stacked high by the cord.

Unsure of its natural use.

We block doors open with the small pieces.

Tripping as we enter rooms dark and scary.

Hoping to catch the hallway light to our beds.

As if to chase away the ghosts of our mistakes.

We sometimes hit each other (in unfathomable rage)

With the ones that are shaped like bats.

Cursing the splinters in our palms

When the conflicts we start, at last, end.

If left too long unattended,

Termites and spiders take nest in the pile,

And we never use those pieces again,

Fearing we might get bit by neglect and decay.

Yet, when it is so cold in our world that we can see our breath,

(But can no longer reach for each other),

We still remember how to stay warm.

What it takes to survive the bitter nights alone.

We stare into the flames that come from us and to us,

While pondering on what will keep us human.

What will slay our hatreds, and return us to Eden?

Fire would.

________________________________________ 

orn b.

28 June 2018

A Silent Thanks

 An eagle named Eddie

And a turkey called Tom

Called each other brother,

“just from another mom”.

They laughed and played as children do

Each day and every night.

Tom grew big and ruled the ground,

Eddie, was king of flight.

They knew the worth of freedom,

The cost that kept it true.

They shared ideas of what it meant

And of what they had to do.

Tom said, “Freedom should never starve,

And I have all this meat.”

“I will give my life for this,

So all free men can eat.”

Eddie said, “My sight is sharp.”

My beak and talons strong.

I can soar above the land,

Protecting it from wrong.

Eddie and Tom then said goodbye.

Tom’s life was soon to end.

His sacrifice, his bond, his word

Was all that he could send.

Eddie symbolized strength and hope.

Our freedoms he’ll defend.

But he always gives a silent thanks

To Tom, his steadfast friend.

_______________________________________

Sacrifice, when freely given for the good of the many,

Shall always be held as the most courageous

In the ledgers of Heaven.

orn b.

27 June 2018

Gardening Thoughts

Is there a human being among us

That has not harvested some fresh toe fungus?

I think of how my feet might look

If I scrub them clean (all crack and nook).

I could be proud of my sparkling toes,

Except for the corns that grow in rows.

I pray my foot-shame soon will pass,

And hide them in the soft crabgrass.

The grass is cool, and doesn’t judge

My nails that look like rancid fudge.

I’ll stop for now, I get the hint…

Don’t start me on my belly-lint.

_____________________________________

orn b.

26 June 2018

I Speak for my Dog

I speak for my dog.

His voice has a loopy, uneducated sound.

It amuses me to think he would talk like this.

His comments on life limited to food and walks,

If he just could form the words.

When I take a moment to really see him,

His eyes appear sharp and wise,

Sympathetic to my plight:

I’m just a “two-legger”.

He probably has a clipped, British accent:

 “A chew bone, please. Do make it fun”.

“There’s a good lad”, he states with his tail

As I fetch him another chew.

If only I could be him.

His howl beckons others

To echo his call.

His trust in me is complete.

He knows no war

Nor the endless, savage drive

To be better than another

For the sake of promotion or ego.

He finds that getting belly-rubs is

The best way to relax humans

As we don’t seem to know any better.

I hug him sometimes

Because I don’t know what else to do.

I lose sight of important things

And feel small.

Trapped in a kennel of my own design.

 “What’s all this, now?”

He asks by putting his head on my lap,

“It’s going to be alright. Now there’s a good lad”.

Muscle Car

My car and I have much

In common.

We are older models,

No frills, American made.

Muscle all the way.

Going slow when days

Are grey with ice,

Threatening snow.

The reservoir for windshield fluid

Is empty in my car.

A leak somewhere underneath

Dries it out when I need it most.

I refill it (now and then)

Vowing each time to get it fixed.

The place where my tears

Waited for release is empty, too.

My eyes remain cynical and dry

With the dirt and grime that comes

From the pain I see in front of me

And that I leave in the past.

I’ll fix it (me) next time.

Later.

After I need it most.

A Valentine's Day Poem for 2018

A New Rhythm

I thought to myself

I have not danced in a while.

Then spun in ballet’s discipline.

The world became a blur,

And I lost my balance.

Dancing in front of the mirror

Brought self-doubt: That I was

Just an aging man

(wondering in embarrassment),

When and where youth had hidden itself.

I thought to myself

I have not danced in a while.

No matter what music played,

My feet no longer laughed.

I was looking for the exits, and leaving alone.

Then you walked into the room of my life,

And my heart skipped to a new rhythm.

My soul kept step with my eyes as they

Were held in the embrace of your smile.

Holding you, every song became my favorite.

With you, my whole being dances

In combinations of old and new feelings.

(Finally) belonging to another who knows the same steps.

We glide into feelings neither of us knew could be ours.

With you, the band never stops playing.

I am tired of thinking to myself.

Let’s dance.

Of Wind In Her Wings

When an angel worries,

She loses the grace (that so delicately)

Feathers her wings.

She can no longer fly in clouds

Equally beautiful, and lands in the world,

Unable to see herself as she deserves.

Without a chance to debate

The outcome: She is human.

She cannot transcend the mirrors

Of the earth, or the uncertainty reflected

Within their shadows that darken her sky.

I have no grace to give this angel.

Cannot compete with the memories

Of wind in her wings.

I will hold her, love her, and try to quiet

Her moments of self-doubt, so she can see how

The sun rejoices when it touches her face.

Heaven has lost an angel.

And I have found what it’s like

To soar in the clouds, (untethered)

When graced with the sun that

Nestles within her heart.

Dedicated to the Transgender Community

Roses All Around Me

Lost roses in a gardened room

Stood gazing out a windowed pane.

And waiting for their chance to bloom,

Hoping (as flowers do) to gain

Belief that they are beautiful.

The roses felt the Garden’s scorn

When they refused to take their place.

Then shed themselves of leaf and thorn

And showed themselves (all stem and face)

As something new and beautiful.

They could not make the Garden see

That worth is not the way you’re born,

But how you live when you feel free.

And never again have to mourn

That no one thinks you’re beautiful.

There are roses all around me

And they are beautiful (I know).

They bloom whenever they are free

But they’ve so very far to go

(I hope they know they’re beautiful).

One day I’ll mourn the Garden’s loss,

After the final rose’s bloom.

When all is grey from winter’s frost,

And Heaven saves from final doom,

Lost roses, all quite beautiful.

___________________________________

Inspired by some of the most courageous

and genuine people I have met.

b

Vampires on the Fridge

A good friend of mine gave me a box of 200 magnet words (the type that goes on refrigerators) that were "vampire themed". The challenge is to ONLY use the words provided in the box. So far, I have written four poems from this box (the first four below). It was, to say the least, very challenging. The last poem is just a silly thought I had at work. Hope you like this Halloween fare!

_______________________________________

I will rise forever Hunt by moonlight Our ancient need to embrace Immortal with desire For your love _____________________________________ I am damned Demon and human With bloodlust Tasting your heart My teeth thirsting To pierce your darkness Save me From the undead night ______________________________________ I am Vampire Immortal The creature parasite A demon enslaved Drinking forever the blood Of the lonely Lusting to possess you Your fear tastes so sweet In my graveyard embrace You then undead rise We wander as moonlight will Eternal Damned to darkness Feed me humans too afraid Of life and desire Our hunger can never end ______________________________________ I am blackest evil An enemy to feed on a friend Destroying your lifetime Making you a victim Embrace my dead heart We will walk our lonely crypt Taste the blood of angels And desire moonlight Forever _____________________________________ Vampire Tan (or: I'm Smokin' Hot) Vampires want to suck you dry, Be you baby, broad, or man. They like their very pointy teeth, But boy, they hate to tan. They won't go to salons to brown So tanning beds are out. They like to go where blood is found And drink it from a spout. Don't expect them to oil up Or lie upon a beach. Expect them all to sleep in dirt Then suck you like a leech. Don't laugh at them or at their skin. Albeit so white and pasty. Just stand out in the sun all day, And worry you might be tasty. ______________________________________ Happy Halloween!

Christmas in June.

I wrote this for one of my best friends for a Christmas Party she invited me to. Her name is Husted, so "hustedian" logic refers to her. I realize I am 6 months late, but it was fun to write.

Just Like The Mayans

  

The Mayans wrote it down in stone

That our world would never end.

We got it wrong, like some forgotten

Song whose words we did not attend.

And with our dawn, we staggered on

Some happy, and some to fret.

Husted falls into the former group

Because “she ain’t done yet”.

So day to day and year to year

We’ll live our lives with relish.

Habitually playing down our smiles

And do our pains, embellish.

Our metaphorical stockings hang

Expecting a charcoal fare.

We are appeased, if not half pleased

When we find nothing there.

Christmas comes and then it goes

We plan, we drink, we eat.

We laugh, we love, and decorate

Our lives with friendships’ treat.

  

So Here’s To Happy Holidays,

(To waxing full PC).

Make a toast to our Hustedian Host,

And drink most merrily!

  

We’ll March into our futures-

As lambs, or maybe lions.

We’ll carve secure, just to be sure,

Our songs (just like the Mayans).

b.                                                           

 I hope everyday is like a holiday.

Let me know your thoughts. 

Newtown

After almost six months, I am putting out my thoughts about the shootings in Newtown, CT. Let me know your thoughts.

A Perfect Flake of Snow

Stifled in darkness so god doesn’t notice

The (‘hallmark moment’) sobs,

Will angels have any

Tears left for us

When existence slips back into

God’s pocket with the other lint universal?

When angels can’t stop their grief

We call it climate change.

Each tear a perfect flake of snow

Falling.

So many from heaven, drifting deep in sadness,

Recalling the last moment of laughter

From the littlest snow angels humanity can still cherish.

Perfect, tiny impressions of wings on

Fresh blankets of frosty, diamond white.

Looking back and beyond our chaos,

With ancient cheeks forever moist,

Weeping eternally for our lack

Of understanding of how it all works.

(To love another more).

Their hearts will break until time is silent.

Embracing forever (our lost) innocence

Of Newtown.

______________________________________________________________________ 

Brian O. Butler

8 June 2013

Challenge Poem

Hey Everyone...thanks for hanging in there with me. I am trying hard to get back to writing more...I am hoping that with the holidays upon us, I will get more time and inspiration. Today's poem is a Challenge poem from a dear friend of mine from Georgia. Dee G. wanted something inspiring. I hope this passes muster, Dee!   Let me know what you (all of you) think.



Of What Can Be…



He should have been blind.
20/20 hindsight stole away his vision
For a better life.
Doubting all he heard (about love)
He played it dumb & deaf.
Better off (by far) to stay unconnected to the world.
He knew only that:

despair is empty/cold/dark.
when it defines our lives it frightens us less
(as we starve slowly and burn to a cinder).

He was burned raw and brittle by hope.
Saw it all around him and how others were warmed by its light.
He languished in the smoke-choked shadows of loss and hurt.
Running for his life when the beams of dawn touched his skin,
He heard someone say (from somewhere near himself)
That there was no hope to be found anywhere out in the world.

At last someone understood his life of ashes!
Stumbling to a stop, he listened so hard he didn’t notice
That sunrise had kissed away his fears and was waiting on his hug.
Someone continued:

Hope is made from within, not found from without.
The only place you can “take hope” is from your heart.
It cannot be taken from the tables of others
Like leftover scraps of a feast.
Place your hope on the table of life,
Feast with others in the sunshine
And unwrap the world’s tomorrows in warmth.
Then you will not be soul-hungry (or life-burnt).
Now he understands that:

Hope is the fire of every star in the night.
When it defines our lives it fills us with the courage
Of what can be..

______________________________________________________

orn b.
24 Nov 2012

May you feast every day on the best of tomorrows. Let me know your thoughts.

Has been a long time since I published anything. Sorry about that. Will try and do better. So....today is a poem I wrote in April this year. It is for a friend of mine that went through a tough time and came out the other side better and happier. He never had a tatoo before, and when he got his first one, it was of a Phoenix. It was HUGE, and covered his entire back! I thought about the fact that he was a fireman at one point in his life, and how the metaphor of fire and rebirth plays in his life. He gave permission to print this poem, and for that I am grateful. I also have a challenge poem I am working on from a friend and reader in Atlanta, GA (thanks Dee!)

Phoenix Rising

Myth would have it born anew

From it’s own ashes.

Flying to the sun,

Awoken from death

To live again.

Brighter than the fire of life.

Legend would have it become

Like man.

Passion ablaze,

Consuming all it touches with

It’s first breath of sky and wing.

But I know it is a fireman.

Smoldering from the burns

Of his older, other life.

Glowing with embers of a slowly

Realized future.

Bursting from his burdens like

The blazing symbol on his back,

He rises to the challenge of

The dawn on his horizon.

Becomes like his dreams,

Immortal.

______________________________

Let me know your thoughts...

orn b.

From the Psychologist's Office

Hi Everyone! This poem was inspired by accounts of my soldiers telling different stories the same way. So often, soldiers feel guilty about surviving combat when a friend did not. The guilt haunts them in their sleep. This is a dark poem, but I want to let others know that for so many, the war doesn't end when our men and women leave the combat zone.

Survivor’s Guilt

In a resurrection
As sweet as the smell
Of pine trees on the
Hillsides of my innocence,
I laugh with you
While all about us darkens.

We start running to
Bunkers that shrink and fade
With each slow-motion stride I can muster.
Concussions (purple-white) rack my sleep.
I flatten
Clutching my sweat-soaked mattress
Shielding myself from murder.
Moaning awake (screams from my dreams)
You die again.
A victim of jagged shrapnel
(My survivor’s guilt).

Awake and dead again
I edge from room to room
In a security sweep.
Check my locks for violation.
Scanning my lawn for
Shadow craters in moonlight.
I stay awake in silence
Wondering when both of us will stay dead.
______________________________

Let me know your thoughts.
b

Well...here we are again. Sorry I've been away.

Thanks to everyone who have checked for signs of life on this blog. A lot of personal stuff kept me occupied. But now that I have my life back in order, I can write again. The next three poems are a trilogy, although they did not start out that way. Rick Weinard challenged me to write a poem and it took three poems to finally get it right. Thanks for the push, Rick. Two of the poems, Quota and The Uncertainty of the Moment I have posted before. But I want to present all three at once for continuity. I know....the subject matter is very serious/dark, so don't be suprised.

Capture The Flag

yellow neckerchief/cubscout blue.
parents smile
clueless
as he chases friendships (clueless) with
bangbangyourdead-count to twenty
in a picnic park at the edge of town.
he swallows ice cream and body counts from Viet Nam
numbers stare stark from
the family TV.

mainstreet marching/cadence singing
weblo medals sparkle sunshine and innocence.
crowds cheer/laugh in celebration.
their little soldiers place tiny flags on
graves in the cold spring sun.

flags/etched stones mean little to him.
yelling jokes to his friends
hearing their laughter shatter the solemn
silence that surround him.

grey clouds darken to the summer’s west

midnight games in boy scout green.
low crawling at the edge of a black
and shapeless forest.
he charges with deadly intent to capture the flag.
proves he is the warrior of his troop.
the best the night has to offer/receive.

honor guard duty
holding flags upright
against cold/bitter november winds.
feeling pride that adults appreciate his serious face
his measured strides and salute.

recruiters polish his ego (like hollywood).
the chopper lands beside his school.
picked to carry his best friend on a combat litter
in make-believe horror
heroic dreams spin about him
(like dead/dried leaves)
caught up in the spinning, rotor blades.

telling unsure parents of his patriotic intent
he sees only the flag,
is captured by its uniform glory,
then walks into the snow of his brief life
until his tracks disappear in darkness.
____________________________

Quota

With a wall to wall chest of medals,
A handshake for the parent,
Free pens and caps all around,
Funding for college (obscures the truth)
At the corner’s of the Recruiter’s hard lips as
the SAW bucks and smokes in his hands
(he remembers it all)
the worried look on the mother’s face
she signs the parental release for her 17yr old
“Man, you are gonna look good in uniform
Playing football is gonna help you a lot!
You are honoring your mother today
Raise your right hand, state your name and”
You can’t hear IEDs screaming towards you.
Angry metal and flame floating out with
No escape/no Haji to fight as diesel blackened
Headaches spiderweb your thoughts like the
Bloodied windshield from the RPG
He pulls the limp, legless SGT from the fire
“You goin’ infantry?
Huge bonus if you re-enlist
Hell, I’ll swear you back in, myself.
No matter what, you will always be a soldier
You can always be proud of that”.
Then the woman and her starry-eyed son
Step out into the strip mall’s snowy parking lot.
He meant every word he said to the high school football star.
But couldn’t tell him (or anyone else) how
He fought to go back down range
Would go in place of any recruit he enlisted.
He needs to go back so he can (somehow...magically) stop
A convoy being hit and keep
His last recruit from slumping over the wheel and
Going away with the sun into endless night.
Glancing from his recruiting awards
To the piles of paperwork on his desk
He hesitates
Haunted from meeting
His quota.

_____________________________

The Uncertainty of the Moment

before death floated
in and out of him
his last images
were of biting flies
dancing in his fading breath.

the world raced forward without waiting
it was lonely to lie in sticky, red sand as
smoke, burning fuel and
distant shouts covered him
head to toe.

Fitner was blood and pieces of flesh the size of
marbles in corners impossible to reach.
the world went dark red with
flame as its horizon when the vehicle shattered
from remote detonation in a road
cleared 12 hours ago..

Fitner was so fuckin’ funny when he
imitated the platoon sergeant.
if it weren’t for Fitner
convoys would be hell on earth

he was so tired of this shit.
tired of mountains with
glowing rusty snow
painted by an ignorant sun.
he cleaned his weapon again.
thirty days and a wake-up
left of this godforsaken tour.

missions blurred his memory,
robbed him of what to feel.
his life was becoming vague and sleepless.
when his friends died or were evac’d
he was able to recall with nightmares what happened.
otherwise he counted the days.

he pulled himself into the transport parked on a boiling tarmac.
fantasies of valor and medals would not sustain him.
he no longer felt like a Hollywood hero
stumbling off the plane.
foreign smells and anger undid
his sense of purpose.
ground crews avoided eye contact.
the uncertainty of the moment surprised him.

wishing he had some hot
chick to kiss goodbye.
it would look so cool.
family hugs were embarrassing with
the unit so near
forming in rows like blunt grey-green teeth
on the basketball court.

like in the movies pop was proud, teary-eyed.
mom was silent and held on for dear life.
he just wanted to get going already
so he pushed her gently away.

it would be awesome.
he would do this for real.
he was so good at video games
knew just when to shoot.
usually got to the next level without
dying more than twice.

it couldn’t be that hard to do.

__________________________________


Let me know your thoughts.

b

A Happy Poem (at last... I know!)

I am answering a challenge poem from Laurie J., a high school friend of mine. She liked the poem I posted yesterday, but asked that the next poem be about puppydogs and rainbows. Well, Laurie...I hope this fits the bill. Let me know what you think.

Puppydogs and Rainbows

Rainbows don’t fetch balls or Frisbees
Don’t come when you call
They run from you
Then disappear into dark
Swollen angry clouds.
Rainbows aren’t loyal companions,
Just reminders that it is raining on your day.

Puppydogs aren’t prisms of hope.
They have wet fur smell when coming in from the rain
Tracking mud across the carpet
Chewing anything in reach
Not a pot of gold in sight.
Just poop that needs cleaning up.

Let us dismiss the need for both.
We are not children anymore.
The days of kites and wonder are gone.
(Oh, who am I trying to fool?)

When my dogs lick my chin
(as if nothing else could be as important)
Then no leprechaun’s loot can compare.
The colors of joy and play in their eyes
Flopping ears arcing and dancing
Sniffing every blade of grass
As we walk about after a spring shower
Defines the hope for our tomorrows.

And let me tell you of rainbows.
Showing us that all will be well.
Decorating the storms in our lives
So we won’t be so afraid
Of the thunder in our future.
They come when we don’t call them.
Leave when we can see the sun again.
That, my friends, is loyalty.

Puppydogs and rainbows save the child in us all.

_____________________________________

Take time to hug your pet and dream of rainbow gold.
Take care of each other.

orn b.

Military Poetry

Its been a long time since my last poem. Sorry about that. This weekend marks one year that this blog has been up. The poem below is in response to a challenge that Rick Weinard put to me. Although my last poem was to answer that challenge, Rick let me know that he was not satisfied, and so the challenge remained. Rick wanted me to write a poem depicting the shift from naivete of a new recruit to the understanding of a soldier in combat. Rick, I hope this suffices. Writing this poem was very different for me. I started with the end and ended with the beginning. Also, after I wrote the entire poem, I then addressed each stanza, reversing the order of each sentence (the last sentence went first, and the first sentence went last). I was actually amazed at how different the meaning was by doing so. If you have the time, try reading the poem from end to beginning.

The Uncertainty of the Moment

before death floated
in and out of him
his last images
were of biting flies
dancing in his fading breath.

the world raced forward without waiting
it was lonely to lie in sticky, red sand as
smoke, burning fuel and
distant shouts covered him
head to toe.

Fitner was blood and pieces of flesh the size of
marbles in corners impossible to reach.
the world went dark red with
flame as its horizon when the vehicle shattered
from remote detonation in a road
cleared 12 hours ago.

Fitner was so fuckin’ funny when he
imitated the platoon sergeant.
if it weren’t for Fitner
convoys would be hell on earth

he was so tired of this shit.
tired of mountains with
glowing rusty snow
painted by an ignorant sun.
he cleaned his weapon again.
thirty days and a wake-up
left of this godforsaken tour.

missions blurred his memory,
robbed him of what to feel.
his life was becoming vague and sleepless.
when his friends died or were evac’d
he was able to recall with nightmares what happened.
otherwise he counted the days.

he pulled himself into the transport parked on a boiling tarmac.
fantasies of valor and medals would not sustain him.
he no longer felt like a Hollywood hero
stumbling off the plane.
foreign smells and anger undid
his sense of purpose.
ground crews avoided eye contact.
the uncertainty of the moment surprised him.

wishing he had some hot
chick to kiss goodbye.
it would look so cool.
family hugs were embarrassing with
the unit so near
forming in rows like blunt grey-green teeth
on the basketball court.

like in the movies pop was proud, teary-eyed.
mom was silent and held on for dear life.
he just wanted to get going already
so he pushed her gently away.

it would be awesome.
he would do this for real.
he was so good at video games
knew just when to shoot.
usually got to the next level without
dying more than twice.

it couldn’t be that hard to do.

________________________________

Let me know what your thoughts are about this poem. Have a safe Memorial Day and please honor the fallen soldiers and their families who mourn and miss them. Til next time.

orn b

Well, its been a while since I last posted. Today's poem is a military theme. It is in answer to a challenge/suggestion for a poem by Rick W., my best friend. I have worked with soldiers who do recruiting duty and I am struck by how torn they are between doing the best job they can do and knowing what it is they are recruiting for. This poem seeks to understand this push pull situation. I respect recruiters for what they must do, often being pulled into recruiting duty when it is the last thing they want to do. Again, this poem does not describe any one recruiter nor is it intended to depict a verbatim experience, but is a synthesis of those I have encountered. By the way, SAW stands for Squad Automatic Weapon (it is a light machine gun).


Quota

With a wall to wall chest of medals,
A handshake for the parent,
Free pens and caps all around,
Funding for college (obscures the truth)
At the corner’s of the Recruiter’s hard lips as
the SAW bucks and smokes in his hands
(he remembers it all)
the worried look on the mother’s face
she signs the parental release for her 17yr old
“Man, you are gonna look good in uniform
Playing football is gonna help you a lot!
You are honoring your mother today
Raise your right hand, state your name and”
You can’t hear IEDs screaming towards you.
Angry metal and flame floating out with
No escape/no Haji to fight as diesel blackened
Headaches spiderweb your thoughts like the
Bloodied windshield from the RPG
He pulls the limp, legless SGT from the fire
“You goin’ infantry?
Huge bonus if you re-enlist
Hell, I’ll swear you back in, myself.
No matter what, you will always be a soldier
You can always be proud of that”.
Then the woman and her starry-eyed son
Step out into the strip mall’s snowy parking lot.
He meant every word he said to the high school football star.
But couldn’t tell him (or anyone else) how
He fought to go back down range
Would go in place of any recruit he enlisted.
He needs to go back so he can (somehow...magically) stop
A convoy being hit and keep
His last recruit from slumping over the wheel and
Going away with the sun into endless night.
Glancing from his recruiting awards
To the piles of paperwork on his desk
He hesitates,
Haunted from meeting
His quota.

_____________________________________

Let me know your thoughts. Take care.

b

Challenge Poem

Hello everyone!
Last poem of 2010. This is a challenge post response to my nephew. He wanted to see if I could do a poem about football. Well...here it is. I write about what I know. I was an offensive lineman in High School, and played two years of semi-pro football as an offensive lineman, and coached one year of semi-pro as the Offensive Line Coach. If you want the full effect of the poem, I highly encourage you to read it out loud with an old fashioned Blues beat in your head. It is more fun that way.

Talk to ya next year.

Lineman Blues

Just as I lean forward,
The fans scream from their pews.
The ref throws a flag at me,
I got those Lineman blues!

Refrain:
Lineman Blues...Oh...the Lineman Blues.
The Drive, it just keeps on foldin’.
‘Cause I can’t stop holdin’
On to dem ol’ Lineman Blues.

My body’s like iron.
Make a linebacker moan.
Just don’t throw a pass to me,
Because my hands are made of stone.

Refrain:
Lineman Blues...Oh...got the Lineman Blues.
The fans don’t really know me.
No autographs to slow me,
From dem ol’ Lineman Blues.

Can’t catch no endorsements,
Can’t seem to light a fuse.
Nobody wants to see a lineman
Wearing blue jeans or drinking booze.

Refrain:
Lineman Blues...Oh...the Lineman Blues.
If we win, they never name me,
Any sack, y’know they blame me,
With dem ol’ Lineman Blues.

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Have a great new year, and cheer
for a lineman once in a while!

b