It stays in my view,
so long after
almost a comedy
at this point
but darker
the laughs,
forced
through clenched teeth.
Sightless,
staring at the sky
the dreams ended
of faith
of love
of family
and friends
1 small projectile
aimed true,
tearing out
lungs
and air
and blood,
by me.
I lose no sleep
not now
not then
not ever.
I exulted
at the time
joyful in his miss
and my success
and my life
and my future.
Looking back,
my regrets lie only in
the wasted time and effort
the lack of positive use
of my gift
and my life
for all of these years.
Of that, yes,
I'll apologise.
Not for my aim
or his miss
or his blood
on my hands.
you'd have to be there
to understand
the joy
and the rush
and the addiction
to cheating
death itself.
Again
I offer no apologies
nor regrets
at a soul
added to the chain.

I walked a trail
through darkened woods,
climbing ever higher.
I met a man on a bend,
eating his own feet.
I asked in horror,
"Why, my Brother, why!?"
He replied through bloodied lips,
"I'm tired of the trails I leave behind."
I wept,
but plodded on,
leaving him to his fate
and memories
and slowly ran from mine.

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

On quiet nights the children come,
                                          From distant places in my past,
                                          And quietly their footsteps fall
                                          They’ve run so far and fast.

                                          I hear them as they play and laugh
                                          And peer around the trees,
                                          I turn to see them, but they’re gone,
                                          a soft and gentle breeze.                                    
      
                                          Do they run among the clouds,
                                          or here on dampened ground?
                                          I cannot tell, I cannot see,
                                          They’re nowhere to be found.

                                           I worry that they may be cold,            
                                           Does someone tuck them in?
                                           Soft blankets do they cover with,
                                           to fend off cool night winds?

                                           For now I listen in the dark,
                                           And revel in their play.
                                           And wonder where they’re going to,
                                           When night turns into day.

                                           So now I wait ‘til daylight ends,
                                           The sun to set, the moon to rise,
                                           And hope the children never see,
                                           the tears well in my eyes.

                                           Nights are when they get to play
                                           To be what they should be.
                                           To run, to dance, to jump and sing
                                           all this because of me.

                                          Some day I hope to hold their hands,
                                          and walk with them awhile.
                                          And not just hear them as they play,
                                          but watch and see them smile.

                                          And then I’ll kneel before them both,
                                          And look them in the eye,
                                          And ask them if they can forgive,
                                          it was me that made them die.

There is a Storm coming,
dark and violent
filled with death,
destruction,
pain
and tears.
There is a Storm coming,
fueled by heat,
anger,
pain
and fear.
There is a Storm coming
it has a face,
evil,
cold,
and frightening.
There is a Storm coming,
a deadly reckoning,
silent,
steady,
and  relentless.
There is a Storm coming,
an unyielding rampage,
savage,
ferocious,
and vengeful.
There is a Storm coming,
a howling wind,
crushing,
tearing,
and unrestrained.
A Storm is coming,
a giant wave,
rising,
falling
and murderous.
I AM the Storm,
I am here
burning,
drowning,
and retribution.

I recall the ways,
and whys of yesterdays.
The steps I took,
to here and now,
as clear as a sunlit day.
The gray in my hair,
and the lines of laughter
by my eyes,
all signs of where I've been,
how far I've come.
Whether fair days,
or rain,
nights warmed by the moon,
or cooled by the winds,
they all led to here, to now,
to who I am,
and I am
where I've been.
Soldiering,
a Father to a son,
lover and friend,
all parts of a life,
a life that's passing.
All stones in a path laid
to where I am right now.
Regrets and wishes,
things done right or wrong,
all parts of the man
and parts of a life
pieces of time,
of minutes to hours,
and hours to days,
and all coming to years,
years going by,
and years long ago.
It's late afternoon,
this day,
and the Sun is passing by.
I'll wait for the setting
it'll surely do,
smiling at the memories,
of the life I just passed through,
missing the pieces left behind,
but glad for the chance to do it.
I'll leave my mark,
on a stone in the shade of a tree,
for those who care to remember,
that once this life was me.