How did it feel when your innocence dried up and blew away on the desert wind?
When you woke from unknowing, blissful sleep
to blistering heat,
acrid smoke and shattering cries?
I bet you wished you could go back to sleep--
the sleep you fell into from a lullaby of lies.
Righteous rhetoric repeated
over and over, soothing rhythms
as you were rocked by a firm hand.
In Iraq, when you took your command
you were unprepared, your men untrained.
Can you bear to think it was in vain?
Mission unclear, you had no guide, no plan.
Now your anger boils when you see the pain
of your brothers, broken in pieces, abandoned, ignored.
And when you tell your tale, your audience is bored.
They don’t, won’t, or can’t understand
the helpless fear, frustration, confusion,
the shots you ordered, the blood trail in the sand.
No more can you believe; you’ve been cheated, betrayed
by those you trusted, followed; those who said
We know what’s best, our decisions are made.
Now you cannot go back to your childish trust.
First steps taken in a foreign land, now a man,
you face the dawn, because you must.

A woman is like a candle,
full of warmth, and bright.
When the world is at its darkest,
a good one can be your light.
She'll bring such heat and beauty,
to see you through the night.
Though storms leave you in darkness,
with her there, you feel alright.

A woman is like a candle, true.
a necessity to have around-
but if denied the proper attention
she could burn your house to the ground.

A sunny day lifts hearts from grief and gloom;
I like the rays of warmth and skies of blue.
But in our words of praise, let’s leave some room
for light cast by the sky of grayish hue.
The even light suffuses everything--
no glare to blind us and no shadows cast.
The clarity that cloudy skies can bring
illuminates a future landscape vast.
A chillier breeze refreshes our attention,
and neutral gray reveals the depth and lines.
The way is clear and acts have more intention;
perception heightened, visible are signs.
Sunny days, for picnics and for beaches--
I’ll take the grey for what the soft light teaches.

It hung on a hook on my closet door.
Soft plaid flannel,
blues and grays,
softer with each wash.
At workday's end  
I took off my daily armor
and slipped my arms into sleeves
that hung inches past my hands.
I fastened buttons over bare *******
and tied the hem around my hips.
I held it to my face, breathed
and thought I could smell your scent,
lingering after dozens of washings--
the musk of masculinity--
an essence of strong sinews,
curly chest hairs
and work-worn hands.
I wore the shirt to bed  
and drifted into sleep,
knowing I was not alone.
The memory of you clung to me--
the softness of unspoken intimacies,
the warmth of domestic familiarity.
In slumber, forgetting

(another re-post from Poetfreak)

Poet, weave your words
into a tapestry of desire.
Cross the warp of loneliness
against the weft of tenderness.
Fashion fabric of sweet caress
to keep us warm, awhile.

Poet, spin your wheel;
press the verbs and nouns
into a *** for our hopes and fears,
to catch the water of our tears,
to hold the memories of the years.
Fire a vessel of your renown.

Poet, strike the iron
into a blade so sharp and true.
Forge a sentence with raging heat,
measure a meter with rhythmic beat,
take words from the dictionary, or the street--
let the smoke of pretense go up the flue!

"My Muse"

Lovely is my muse;
my senses he delights.
Flirty is my muse;
my passion he ignites.
He's the inspiration
for my odes and for my rhymes,
my sonnets and ballads,
even limericks, at times.
Sometimes my muse is lonely
and he fills my heart with pity.
He teases and eludes me;
I must chase him through the city.
At times he disappoints me--
I turn heartbreak into verses.
Heartbreak turns to anger;
I revile my muse with curses.
Someday I’ll tell my muse
of all the poems he’s inspired,
and when inspiration fails me,
my muse, well, he’ll be fired!