For those who've seen,
or worse yet shaken,
Deaths' hand leaves, but little trace.
Unharmed they seem,
don't be mistaken,
Death scars all, who've seen his face.
They fail to sleep,
from nightmares waken,
Death holds strong, in his embrace.
At night they'll weep,
all peace forsaken.
Death befouls, who've met his gaze.

I opened the door this afternoon,
stepped onto the porch.
Greeted by a bleak and cold wind,
I lit a cigarette.
There I stood looking up at a dead sky,
shades of grey that smother the sun.
Thoughts growing dark,
in kind.
Out of this void there rose,
a melody.
Simple.
Tranquil.
"God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman"
Played as though it was just for me.
And as the church bells rang on their somber tune
I thought,
"Perhaps, it's not all so bad."

If you took a razor and with it tore this carpet up.
I'm certain you'd be sure to find a brief but well-worn rut.
For now it's rather shallow, a furrow most discreet.
Time flows only forward though, as do my weary feet.
The days slip through my fingers, like so many grains of sand.
The hourglass is broken, life just wasn't what I planned.
I waste my nights just pacing, my steps fall heavy on the floor.
This rut will be the solemn tale, of the weight my shoulders bore.

My words won't seem to flow of late,
a couple lines then rhymes deflate.
Too soon they stumble, thoughts abate.
From mouth does tumble basest prate.
Maybe whiskey, swallowed straight,
or potent herb, consumed in weight
will end this twisted, tragic state
of yearning pen, without will to sate.

A Snow in Summer.
                                
                                               Like snow that follows Spring,
                                               When flowers start to rise,
                                               It’s wrong for certain things to be,
                                               Like when a child dies.

                                               A Moon that shines on sunlit days,
                                               a cold and damning light,
                                               as wrong as youth that fades and leaves,
                                               forever from our sight.
            
                                               A warming wind in wintertime,
                                               while in a swirling storm,
                                               is not to be the way of things                               
                                               nor death in youthful form.
                                                           ­ 
                                                One left to mourn a missing friend,
                                                one left of what was three,
                                                Again it’s like a summer’s snow.
                                                It’s not supposed to be.
                                                                ­                        JC 2004

Even when I was young,
I knew things,
perceived things you didn't think I could.
I knew it was time to stop talking,
when that distant look suddenly crept into your eyes.
I knew it meant you weren't really there anymore,
you'd traveled back in time.
I learned quickly,
there are some things you don't ask a man.
Ever.
As I've grown I've learned more,
still probably without your knowing.
I know when you attempt sleep,
memories you've learned to shroud from light of day,
spring forth and reign terror on your dreams.
A grotesque cinematic beyond my imagining,
yet all too real.
I know why you struggle with people,
and with crowds.
I know to you,
anyone and anything could be an enemy, a hazard.
I know to this day you see blood on your hands.
I wish you knew your sons do not.
I know when you look in the mirror you see a monster.
A younger you, with hollow eyes
and as you once so eloquently said,
"A smile that speaks, of death delivered"
I wish you knew,
to your sons you stand a warrior.
Tried but unbroken.
I know you didn't want to go.
I know a part of you died there.
I can hardly fathom,
how deep it cut to return home labeled a murderer, and worse.
So much guilt already on your shoulders.
But I know you've never gotten over it.
I just wish there was a way to tell you,
it is not your fault.
You did the best you could,
you did what you had to do.
Maybe someday you'll understand,
You are not what happened there.
Maybe someday I'll find a way to tell you,
The war is over, dad. Come Home.

I've wandered quite a while now, and I think it's time to sit.
I'm beaten, bruised and battered; reaching the end of my wit.
Start sifting through statistics there must be something I missed.
Or maybe I'm just chasing wraiths, that never did exist.
I no longer see the sunshine, ever shrouded in this mist
the forest plays a game with me, "Can we make him lose his grip?"
It's bad enough these ******* maps resemble twisted acid trips,
But I think my compass finally broke, the needle spins and spins.
The path is hardly visible, with incessant turns and twists.
Every time I think It's straightened, it invariably splits.
I'll slowly saunter onward I've too much pride to quit.
I may be lost forever, but that's just how life is.