I looked on as an elderly man was painting an old farm house in oils, surrounded by trees dressed in their autumn finery. The house was shown as an aged and faded white surrounded by a low picket fence that had fallen into disrepair and long since been forgotten. The old dilapidated barn in the distance was expressed in varying shades of grey and peeling red paint. I was enraptured by the image I was seeing unfold before my eyes. It appeared to be such a simple piece, but it grew in complexity the longer I viewed it. Its underlying tones were of sadness and loneliness, time, and things forgotten. I balked at that, finding my initial assessment woefully inaccurate, this was not a lonely place, a forgotten place; this was a place that had seen life and heard stories! I knew the man had not yet finished with his painting and would not be so for some time. He was quite meticulous, as if he was paining the memories of his life. Every stroke of the brush had its designated place, its own meaning, and the way his hands grabbed absently at the different brushes seemed as if they had been pre-selected before he ever began. As his story was being narrated in layers of paint and hue, I found myself thinking about what life might have been like in that place he was creating. Who might have lived there? The colors in the painting boasted an autumn season, and though they were warm to the eye the season would have been cold, the growing…slow. No, it wouldn’t have been planting season, it seemed more likely that it would have been hunting season. I imagined game animals in the surrounding hills and a man in a flannel jacket walking silently through those amber colored woods, with rifle in hand and beagles in tow. The frost of his breath echoing the smoke that whispered from the chimney of the house. It would have been warm inside, and maybe children played by the hearth in the day’s early hours before they went reluctantly about their chores under the watchful gaze of a firm, yet loving mother. My thoughts darted to and fro about this painting in the most ridiculous of fashions, seeing people I would never meet, living events that never happened. But I was held to it long enough to allow my imagination to escape, and for a while, frolic freely with the idea of something beautifully simple.  I left the elderly man to his work as I carried on about my day, thinking to myself all the while that if a picture is worth a thousand words, a painting is an unread novel.

I found myself siting in the sand, my back against a Hesco bastion, writing on an old familiar note pad. I imagined myself at home, sitting against the old oak tree that grew in the back yard, grass tickling my bare feet in the humid summer breeze. The old cheap pencil I was using had bite marks on it and the eraser was long gone but it wrote just fine and made a scratching sound against the grain of the paper that I found soothing as I filled the page. It was my escape after all…writing. It took me away from the day to day stress of southern Afghanistan. I thought about that as I wrote…how people needed a way to escape. I’ll admit to thinking about all kinds of things, that’s just what writing does for me. It makes me think. It makes me want to tell stories of love, pain, sorrow and joy. It makes me want to abuse my notepad with doodles and tear stains long after I forgot what I was doing in the first place, which wasn’t the point anyway. It wasn’t important “what” I was writing. It was important “that” I was writing, because the joy is in the doing.

I wanted to write you a love poem Honey
I wanted to tell you in so many beautiful ways just how important you were to me

But you know…

The more I thought about it
The more my words escaped me

There were just so many things I wanted to say

I worried that if I made it too complex it wouldn’t sound like me at all
I became afraid that you wouldn’t understand what I was trying to say to you

So I typed…

Deleted…

Typed…

Then paced back and forth thinking of what to say
Because who knows me better than you do?

I must confess that I came up with less than I had planned on
So let me just say it plain

I love you like a cat loves a laser pointer!

I stared out over the field of wild grass as it lay before me
Untamed and swaying in the breeze.

I thought about each individual blade slicing the air
Each flower upon its stem
Defiant
Bending…but never breaking

And in that time, seated upon my grassy knoll, I understood
These were my thoughts of you
As numerous and defiant as the grass of the field

As untamed

Running together in a blur and standing in the fore front of my conscious endeavors
Washing over me in a breeze

Bending me… but leaving me unbroken.

They say that the eyes are the windows to the soul, that’s what they say any way.

Thinking back to my days as a child, I remember my grandmother’s house and the times I spent there with my brother. I remember so many things about those days. My grandmother had lost her husband before I was born, and had replaced him with a bottle of bourbon. The bottle was in every memory I had of that place, like a picture on the wall or a specific piece of furniture and she was always cooking something or canning something for people who never visited.  Her life seemed so sad at times, but what stood out were her eyes. To me they always seemed like looking through the broken windows of an old ramshackle home and watching children laugh and play on the ***** living room floor.

They say that they eyes are the windows to the soul, that’s what they say any way.

Some days I think back to that Sunday in Mississippi, the old farm house with the rusted tin roof. I was sitting on one of the rocking chairs on the front porch, just waiting for the rain to come in. The sky had turned grey as the cool wind picked up and you could smell the moisture in the air mixing with the smell of cut grass from earlier. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, just breathing it all in. The ice cubes clinking around in my glass of sweet tea as I Idly swirled it around, day dreaming more than anything else. I slumped down in the chair and kicked my feet up on the railing as the rain started coming down, slow at first, like the slow hand of a teasing lover. The droplets that were hitting the tin roof echoed across my skin as I felt my stress start melting away. Meanwhile, off in the distance, I heard the faint roll of thunder adding its sounds to my little symphony as the rain started coming down faster. There was even the occasional sound of pick-up truck tires driving down the wet road. And me? Well, I didn’t accomplish much that day. I just sat there, eyes closed, letting the rain wash me away to wherever it was going.

Instructions for Life-Lesson 1

How to be Awesome daily.

Step 1: Wake up each morning and say “I’m Awesome!”
Step 2: Go to closest mirror and visually confirm Awesomeness. (It’s there-trust me)
Step 3: Continue on with the rest of your day…being totally Awesome!

If followed regularly, these simple steps can change the one thing that differentiates the Awesome from the Non-Awesome, and that is belief in self.

Now get out there and have an Awesome day!

When I was a boy, about ten years old
I wanted to be a Ninja
A killer, stone cold

So I would go to my room
To practice my secret moves
Against imaginary opponents
Who were sure to lose

I would even dress all in black
For the really epic fights
Then throw my plastic Ninja stars
And quickly turn off the lights

I was a master of stealth
Ready to take on the world
Using my Ninja weapons
To save pretty girls

With wooden sword in hand
And steely guts…

I had to come back to reality
Because mom brought home doughnuts!

I sometimes play video games and I sometimes do yard work. I cook on occasion and on occasion it’s not bad. I get up, get showered, get dressed, and go to work. I spend time with my kid, my wife, and my friends in no particular order. I wash the cars on the weekend and cut the grass. I pay my bills on time and feed the cat if her bowl is empty. I have a fairly suburban life more or less. So what’s so special about me?

Everything!

I have become the ocean of bad ideas and halfhearted attempts that laps at your shores and beckons for you to come and get your feet wet, wading in the tides. Won’t you come in for a swim? My sharks don’t bite much, unless they’re angry and the jellyfish aren’t poisonous until they find you naked and exposed. My surging waves surround the tiny island of your reason and become all that you see because I’m all you’re looking for at this moment...you’ve blinded yourself to better opportunities…I am the truth you won’t face or find out about until later. You know what I’m talking about lady. I’m the tattooed “Bad Boy” sitting across from you, the one who excites you. The one you can’t take your eyes away from long enough to see the “Good Guy” sitting in the corner.

You don’t have to be subtle, your intentions are clear, there’s no need to smile in front of me. Just take your place at my back, my dear, where you can twist the knives more efficiently.

I only wanted you to sing to me in the voice of your sweetest destruction, burning my cities to the ground that we may waltz across the ashes of places we’ve never been.

I wanted to sip from your words like a poisonous wine, poured into my mouth from your gilded chalice’s venomous kiss.

For you have become the rose whose thorns rend my palms and the crimson that seeps forth is the seed from which we have cultivated the cruel garden of our pure intentions.

Be wary of the serpents that tarry hence, for the wounds they inflict are grievous.

Meanwhile, I, enshrouded in my self-inflicted intoxication have seen you hide your eyes among the stars of the night sky.

Veiled by the outstretched wings of passerine birds whose songs do bear witness to the echo of our temperate patience.

Was it a dream?

In truth, did you flee from this brittle stage of glass, where our actors spoke the lines in time to our subtle rebellions?

Nay, it must not be so, for you were always there.

As close to the light of day as the night sky, the lovers that never touched, yet you were always there.

He sat there, head bowed, back bent and silent. His tail still and tucked away, unmoving, to show he wasn’t violent. I called him toward the kennel door, to sniff at the back of my hand, and then rubbed his scruffy head as a bond was formed between a dog and a man. He was *****, he was frightened, and I was sure he was covered with fleas, but his big brown eyes with unshed tears were crying in a silent “please.” As I rubbed his ears he wagged his tail, unnoticeable at first, but hope began to grow in him like the nagging of a quiet thirst. I had papers to sign before we left behind those walls of brick and plaster, but I understood I didn’t choose; it was the dog that chose his master. That day I saved a dog from death, he became my friend for many years, all for a little food, some bones, and some loving rubs behind the ears.

Hello friends
Hello neighbors!

I’m here to tell you about an amazing new product
That comes in a variety of flavors.
For a limited time only, it’s totally free!
So if you want to try some I’ll wave all your fees.

It works for your kids
It works on your spouse
If used correctly
It might even clean your house!

Your troubles are over
Your marriage restored
It’s true my friends!
But you can’t find it in stores.

It improves bad grades
And cleans out gutters
It makes you stronger
And makes you stand out to others!

You’ll be smarter and faster
If you just give it a try
It’s true indeed my friends
Now let me tell you why

This fool proof phenomenon
That’s sweeping the nation
Is made of two parts hard work
And two parts determination!

Impossible things seem to us like unreachable dreams, as we look upon them with shining eyes but never try. Then comes along a courageous one, to do the deed that cannot be done, and say to us without regret, it’s only impossible because you haven’t done it yet.

You can always tell which kids come from military families.

It just so happens that I have a hammer and a bag of nails, a couple pieces of wood, and some canvas for making sails. So I might as well get started, after all I have much to do. Though building a ship is the easy part, what’s hard is the open blue.

I watched the crows scatter as the clouds rolled in by scores and composition, a roiling storm that rained in notes through the f-holes of my violin soul. Their wings had been torn in the shape of your music and their cries gave rise to your sinister metronome. Relentless were the pace of the tick and the tock, the lightning and the shock, and the crashing of thunder that shook the foundations of your empty concert halls. Their barren walls bled solitude in silence and yet your composer held firm to his composure, slicing venomously at the air with sword in hand. Coat tails whipping in the gales and still the music played. Diving on a broken wing through the dividing currents of your lyrics, the crows gave chase…and still the music played...

The old man climbs slowly out of his bed upon the horizon and filters in through the gaps of the blinds in the kitchen window. He comes to greet me each morning to the smell of brewing coffee and burning toast. He never says much, never asks for much, and yet he says everything I need to hear at that moment. He watches me as I stir in my milk and sugar, smear on a little butter, and take a bite of breaking day…

Good morning my old friend…sure is good to see you again.

I caught myself thinking today about life and the way we live it. The different exit signs we place here and there for our safety as we navigate our existence. We place them on relationships, jobs, and hard times. They make us feel better somehow. Having an exit strategy or a way out, not feeling trapped all the time. If you were to pay attention you would see them too, maybe in your own life, or the lives of others. They are everywhere. Yet, they are only immediately visible to the person who put them there. To everyone else, they are naught but a hind sight. I have lived long enough to place my own, and sadly see those placed by others. What I didn’t see, was the distance of someone as they were moving away. What I failed to see in time was that they were heading towards an exit sign.

There is an animal that you love of course, you know her as the pink unicorn dolphin horse. You’ve never really seen her but you know she must me real, because of the way she makes you smile, and the way she makes you feel. There’s no fake thing I know of that has the power to do that yet, so just keep drawing her the way you want, with your little crayon set. Then put her in the kitchen so she’ll never be alone, on the front door of our fridge, which has become her permanent home. I’m always pleased to see the little drawings that you made, I show them to my friends when they come over to watch the game. They will always be here waiting as the years shall come to pass, because you’ll soon go off to school, then college, I guess kids grow up too fast. One day you’ll have your own house and a family of your own, so I wrote this down so you wouldn’t forget, I guess I had to make it known. I’ll always be your Daddy, my door will always be open of course, so you can come home anytime and see your pink unicorn dolphin horse.

I wield this pen like an extension of my arm
The scalpel I use to carve your memory from my past
Erasing our history with the deft strokes
Of crossed T’s and dotted I’s
That makes you fade from my literature

But the bad taste of blood still lingers on my lips
From the cuts of every sharp word we spoke
Regurgitated like spears
Hurled at each other’s hearts
Leaving our throats raw and silent in their passing

While you stabbed me with a daggered glare
From glacial orbs that watched
As I swallowed my own sword
By dipping the quill in the ink well
And setting fire to your enemy encampments

When we two enemies had burned to the ground
The smoke and ash that remained
Was blown away like the sands of time
Until nothing remained but the scalpel
Gripped firmly in the bones of the hand

I was feeling a little lost so I started looking for myself, I checked under all the couch cushions and behind the books high on the shelf. I even checked the laundry and behind the draperies, but I came up empty handed, it seemed it wasn’t meant to be.

I couldn’t be found anywhere, at least anywhere that I could see, but I knew that I would soon find out, I had too eventually. When my persistence paid off, then just maybe, if I kept looking there I would surely be, I had to be around somewhere, but for the life of me, I just couldn’t remember what I had really done with me.

I retraced all my steps so I could try to see, if I could find a clue or catch a glimpse of me. At least a little something, so I could have some peace of mind, but I didn’t give up looking, because I knew that in my mind, I had to pop up somewhere, I would, it was just a matter of time.

I knew it was important too, the me that I had lost, I knew that it was something that to me was beyond cost. So I scoured the whole house, from top to bottom, looking for what was mine, and wouldn’t you know it…of all the places…I was right here the whole time.

Around my yard there is a fence, where all the pretty birds have come, and since, it has become my favorite view. So if I may, I’ll share it with you. Upon this fence the blue jays play, when the sun is shining or the skies turn grey, and the nightingale sings by the light of the moon, the passerine bird that flies away too soon. The cardinals however, bright red and gay, like the well-lit places where the sun shares its rays, and I put out some feeders because my friends are big eaters, but I work all day to keep the squirrels at bay. Sometimes however, I let them have a bite or two, they’re giddy and playful and they need food too. But after a while I have to tell them to shoo, because these thieves have the greed to steal up all of my seeds. If they succeed there won’t be food for the finch, when he comes to light upon my fence and he’ll chirp and chirp for a little while but he won’t stay there if I have nothing to share. The humming birds zip by with lightning speed, and the best part about them is they don’t eat seeds, so I set out a little nectar, made of sugar and water, something the other birds won’t really bother. Then I sit and watch them from my chair in the shade, and try not to move because they’re easily afraid, but every day they still come to my yard, so I’ll share it with you when your life seems too hard. It might not seem like much, I have to say, but this little bit of joy can go a long long way.

Adam was still a small boy when he awoke suddenly to a faint but unfamiliar sound, feeling a little shaken from another night of bad dreams. He had been having the dreams for months now and he was becoming more and more accustomed to them with each passing night. He no longer woke up screaming or crying and the fear had now become merely an uneasy feeling for him. They were something his father, too absorbed in his studies, had simply passed off as nightmares. But the visions were constant and they were always the same, always.
        The visions were of a strange world engulfed in war on a massive scale, skies ablaze with fire, smoke and choking clouds of ash. It was a raging conflict fought for reasons he did not understand, between people whose faces he could not see through the bright light that seemed to emanate from their skin. Their dark metallic armor was gilded in places with unrecognizable markings. Some sort of writing that glowed brightly in the light as if it were red hot and glistened in a deep wet crimson in the shadows leaving it looking like rivulets of blood. Their gauntleted hands were slender and graceful looking, but held terrifying weapons like none he had ever seen. They were vicious in design and locked in a fatal dance of brutality between wielder and defender. The wickedly curved blades and spiked mauls rising and falling in a horrific and destructive rhythm of clashing steel against steel followed by the almost musical battle cries and screams.  
        It all should have been too much for a small boy of his age but he saw these things so clearly, as if he some how belonged to this place and to these people. They were so terrible, they were merciless in their savagery, but they were so incredibly beautiful.

        Adam rubbed the drowsiness from his eyes and sat up in his bed, peering about through the darkness of the room. The waning moon shining through the tree limbs outside his window created an uninviting landscape of twisted black illusions and pale light. It was an effect that gave his scattered toys an eerie and surreal appearance in the pre-dawn hours. The soft glow of lamp light shining from the gap under his door was comforting though. It meant that his father was probably in the study again working late, something that wasn’t at all unusual. Maybe that’s where the noises had come from, the ones that had awakened him from his dream before it could finish. Before those gauntleted hands were reaching for him, pulling at him again.
        Adam wanted to be where that light was coming from, to be where his father was. He wanted to hear his father’s gruff voice say that it was only a bad dream and everything would be ok before being sent back to bed again. If he was lucky, he might even get some milk and cookies out of the deal, which was all the motivation he needed. He hopped out of bed and slowly opened his door so the old hinges wouldn’t betray him and started walking silently down the long hall towards his father’s study, still dragging his chocolate colored teddy bear behind him. His small bare feet padded swiftly across the hardwood floors toward the lighted door way, turning the corner to find that his world had been changed forever.

I found myself looking in the mirror again,
I wanted so much to admire who I saw there
So I started looking for reasons to

I knew I had to be honest with him
He was looking right at me after all
So I had to be fair in my comparisons
Of good and bad things that made up my life

I counted them off, the good and the bad
I have to admit I wasn’t pleased with the results
I guess it could have been worse though

I made the resolution then
To do more good things in my life
Change, after all
Doesn’t have to be a slow, painful process
All it takes is the initial decision
And a little courage…
A thing not easy to come by

But possible

I promised to come back to that mirror
After some time
And check with that guy again
Hoping my results would be a little bit better
When I checked within myself
And looked at who I had become

And I kept finding myself thinking
Have you looked in the mirror lately?
I mean really looked?  
Did you admire who you saw there?
Because it’s never too late
To change…

Incoming rockets
Falling
Down
            Down
                        Down
To the US Army Barracks
Where they
Pound
            Pound
                        Pound
And the people scared and screaming
From the
Sound
            Sound
                        Sound
Of the
BOOM!
                 BOOM!
                                  BOOM!
Are running
Round
            Round
                        Round
Some people started yelling
HIT THE
GOUND!
                    GROUND!
                                          GROUND!
But for some it was too late
They looked like
Cheap
            Ground
                          Round
We answered in like kind
And bombed the
Town
            Town
                       Town
Until the smoke had cleared
And bodies could be
Found
            Found
                        Found
When the fight was over
They gave the
All
            Clear
                         Sound
So we all went back to bed
So we could
Lay
         Back
                   Down

Three little words that mean so much...*"Let's Order Pizza"

I ain’t no super hero and I got no special skills, I’m just a man trying to make it in this world. I don’t have all the answers, don’t even know all the questions yet. God knows I ain’t perfect neither, I’ve made my share of mistakes over the years. But I don’t back down if I ain’t wrong and I try my best cause it’s all I got, so baby, my best has to be good enough cause it don’t get no better than that.

I wanted to write a poem about the joys simple things. But I’ve lost the meaning of them since I’ve been away it seems. For many years I’ve served duty tours, it’s just the life that I have lived. So I write poems of war and of warriors and death; sometimes it’s all I have left to give.

I picked my brain for images of candlelight picnics on sandy beaches, but I opened the basket looking for ammo to load in my weapon breaches. Oiling my guns may not be romantic, or when I lace my boots up tight, but you can bet your **** it comes in handy when you’re caught in a fire fight.

I tried concentrating as hard as I could, trying to envision more peaceful things. Instead I was reminded of Black Hawks with M240-Bravos in weapon slings. It seems I can’t be normal or think like a normal human being, I’ve been battle hardened inside my soul and this is part of what it brings.

PTSD is what they call it, they say I need some aid, but it just feels like second nature, pulling the pins and throwing grenades.  I’ll go home one day and I’ll look the same because my wife can’t see my scars, I’ve hid them all inside myself and that’s what makes this hard.

They tell me I’ve been lucky, I didn’t get a single injury. But the damage was done inside of me and that’s what they don’t see. So I’ll go home a “lucky one” and act like I am fine, and live my days pretending, while keeping this war trapped in my mind.

It was in the earlier part of November, 2005 when I was called to the garrison HQ to receive an emergency Red Cross message informing me that my grandfather had passed away. I was in my third year of service as a direct contractor to the Army and my duty station was in Iraq. More specifically, I was at Tallil AFB near the city of An Nasiriyah. I was granted an emergency leave so that I could go back to the US to be with my family so I stowed my gear, packed my duffel and made the long trip home. This was the first time I would make this trip, but I’m getting ahead of myself so let me back up a bit. You see, my grandfather had served in the Second World War, actually both of them had. They were brothers. PFC Eddie Kassab, the one I’m speaking about here, had survived WWII through some pretty tough odds, including being on the third wave of the Normandy invasion at D-Day where thousands had died during the beach head assault. His brother, SFC Joseph Kassab, who married my grandmother, was killed in that war, He was a bombardier and his plane was shot down during the Guadalcanal campaign. It wasn’t until 27 years later that the wreckage of the aircraft and remains were found and recovered. When Joseph died leaving behind his young wife and new born son, Eddie began looking after her, sending home money for her and the boy, my father. They wrote back and forth to eachother after the dissappearance of Joseph and when he returned to the US after the war they courted and were eventually married. Joseph was laid to rest with the rest of his flight crew in Arlington with full military honors. Eddie, who died much later in life, was also afforded a military service there. That was my first time being in Arlington National Cemetery, a place reserved for men and women who had served their country in a military capacity. It is difficult to describe just how immense and powerful that place is, the impact you have on your life just from standing on those grounds is indescribable. If I had to try I would say it’s a mixed feeling of Honor, pride, sorrow, and a profound sense of loneliness. There are row upon row of white marble markers spanning miles of emerald green grass and broad shade trees. The markers themselves are simple, nothing fancy, but the respect they command is beyond contestation. There are also wall vaults for those who were cremated, one of these would become Eddie’s final resting place. The US Army's honor guard performed his service, while a trumpeter played “Taps” and his flag was folded and presented on behalf of a grateful nation to my father who Eddie raised as his own son. In the distance a 21 gun salute was given by seven riflemen firing three shots each. It would be the only time in my life that I saw my father cry. We took the time after Eddie’s service to walk to Joseph’s grave marker as well, passing thousands of other markers and I found myself wondering how many of these people were forgotten by the years. How many of them left behind young children. Were they killed in combat? How many of them were laid to rest with a grave full of unfulfilled dreams? The sacrifices they made weighed heavily upon me. It was a feeling I would carry with me long after I had left that place.
Years had passed and I found myself still working in Iraq for the US Army, I was stationed at Camp Taji this time, on the edge of Sadr City, a real dust bowl. I was in my eighth year of service when I was again called to Garrison HQ, another emergency Red Cross message had come through informing me that my Father had passed away. It was December 29th 2010. For hours afterward it felt as if I had been punched in the gut. I called my Mom as soon as I could to make sure she was ok and to see if there was anything she needed before making arrangements for yet another emergency leave. I again stowed my gear, packed my duffel and headed out. Now, it’s only fair to give you an idea of whom I’m talking about here, my Father, Jan, had been a Navy man and had been stationed on submarines as well as destroyer class ships during the Vietnam War. He signed up for service when he was just 18 years old and when he left the Navy he went directly into the Maitland Fire Department in central Florida and stayed there for many years. Eventually he expanded his training becoming the 80th paramedic in the state as well as a certified rescue diver and instructor. More importantly, he was a great father who raised two boys as a father should and later in life, he was a pretty good drinking buddy. His teachings and advice have helped me through some of the toughest times in my life. It was because of his prior military service that he was also awarded full military honors at Arlington National Cemetery. There was a waiting list of about 8 weeks at the time because of the high volume of casualties from the wars in the Middle East so it wasn’t until February of 2011 that he was finally laid to rest. This time it was the US Navy’s honor guard who performed his service. I remember it well; they stood in their dress whites throughout the ceremony in the biting cold as the wind whipped by mercilessly.  The honor and discipline in these men was no less than awe inspiring and through my sadness I couldn’t help but feel an amazing sense of pride for who my father was during his life. We all stood as a trumpeter again played “Taps” to the folding of my Father’s flag which was presented to my Mom on behalf of a grateful nation after a 21 gun salute was ordered in the distance. My Father’s remains were also placed in a wall vault that became his final resting place; his marker being only about 20 feet from Eddie’s marker in the adjacent wall and even though it was freezing that day, we took a little extra time to visit Eddie and Joseph again. Walking the grounds of that place again awakened all the feelings I had felt the first time, probably even more so. Again, I have to tell you that words couldn’t accurately describe how that place makes you feel. The grass had turned brown by now but was still immaculately manicured, and the precision placement of the grave markers was flawless. There were thousands of names that dated all the way back to the American Civil War. I went also with my brother to pay my respects at the tomb of the Unknown Soldier. It was an impressive mausoleum that is guarded twenty four hours a day by the US Army’s horror guard.  After it was all said and done and we had left Arlington and met as a family, my Mom, my Brother and his family, myself and my family and some close friends to remember him for a while over some food and drinks, and though nobody seemed to really have any appetite we still stayed there for hours. That was the first time in eight years that I had seen my Brother and would be the last time I saw him alive, but that part comes later. Eventually we said our goodbyes and went our separate ways, each having a very long way to travel back home and I had to get ready to go back to Iraq, heavy hearted or not.
I had only been back in theater (that means deployment) for a few months when I was reassigned to Al Asad AB as my permanent duty station. It was a place in the middle of nowhere and was originally a Marine base but transferred to Army and Air Force some time in 2010. I had made some good friends there, settled in and finally started coming back to myself when I received a message from my brother’s wife asking me to call her, said it was important. Thinking back on it now, I remember feeling a little angry that she wouldn’t tell me on email. Internet I had in my room, but a phone…well I’m no general and I had already settled in for the night. It was about 21:30 hrs. (9:30 p.m.) on a night in late July so I got dressed and made the quarter mile walk to my office where I could use the phone, cursing under my breath the whole time. It took me about 20 minutes just to find my phone card in my cluttered desk drawer, but when  I finally did amongst more unsavory mutterings I made the call. She answered quickly enough but her voice sounded strained so I calmed down and asked her what was going on, I figured something wasn’t right so she didn’t need me jumping her case on top of it. It was then that she told me my Brother’s body had been found in his home in Whiteville NC. He had been having a hard time with depression since our Father passed as well as marital problems and he had made the decision to take his own life at the age of 36 leaving behind his Wife, Stepson and Daughter who was only 5 at the time. I was blindsided to say the least, no one saw this coming, and he left no real reason as to why so there still is no closure, no understanding. I was angry… no, I was furious! But I’m getting ahead of myself again. She had called me not only to inform me of what had happened, but also to ask if I had Mom’s phone number because she didn’t have it and didn’t know how to get in touch with her to tell her. I told her not to worry about it and that I’d take that on my shoulders and get back to her. It had only been five months since we laid our Father to rest and to say I dreaded making that phone call was a ridiculous understatement. It was easily one of the toughest things I ever had to do, but it had to be done all the same so I dug Mom’s number out of my wallet…and stared at it…I don’t know how long but it felt like a long time. What else could I do? What could I say? It’s not like I had an instruction booklet for delivering bad news and this was as bad as it gets. After a few deep breaths I dialed her number and decided to take the direct approach. She answered the phone and we exchanged hellos, and I asked her what she was doing. She was out shopping with Robbie at the Tractor Supply Co. He was a longtime family friend and all around good guy. I told her that I had some pretty bad news and asked if she could find a place to sit down there, but she told me it was ok to just tell her what happened so I did exactly that. I gave her all the information I had at the time, I didn’t know how to sugar coat it so I didn’t. She took it pretty well up front, not breaking down until later that evening. My Brother, SPC Troy Kassab, had enlisted in the US Army with our Father’s permission when he was only 17 years old. He was a combat medic assigned to Ft. Carson in Colorado before transferring to the 82nd Airborne Division in Ft Brag NC. He deployed to Cuba among other deployments overseas before being attached to a Ranger Unit as their medic and doing other deployments that he never would talk about much. After the army he lived in NC where he worked in restaurants while attending school on the G.I bill and volunteering on the Hickory Rescue Squad as an EMT. He eventually completed school in Winston Salem NC where he got his PA degree in general practice. Troy was a self-educated, brilliant man who wasn’t perfect but who is? He saved lives in the Army, and then continued to do so in the civilian world until his death in July of 2011. He was a husband and a father, a brother and a friend. He was important to us. It was because of his past in the Army that he also was awarded full military honors at Arlington National Cemetery. This time the wait was much longer and his funeral wasn’t held until November 15th of 2011. I remember that day and the days leading up to it like it was yesterday. I had ended my deployment in Iraq on November 3rd, making it back to the US on November 6th. From the time of his death I had stayed in contact with Mom and his wife Andi to make sure they were ok and help in any way I could with the affairs and expenses. When I finally did get home I pulled my truck out of storage had it inspected, fueled and ready to go. It was unfortunate, but my wife was in college and had work at the time so she couldn’t come with us so my daughter and I made the long trip from Houston TX to Hickory NC to see Troy’s wife and kids. While I was there I also picked up a close family friend of ours who needed a ride and made the long drive to Arlington VA...again. The US Army’s honor guard met us there to perform his service and again the attention to detail, the respect given to the deceased, and the discipline shown was flawless. There were more friends this time than family in attendance but I was there with Mom, Robbie, my daughter, and some very close family friends, some going all the way back to our childhood. The ceremony was the same, every time the same. I remember thinking I hated the way “Taps” sounded as they folded the flag and I was angry and hurt when I stepped forward to claim my Brother’s remains and walk them to the wall vault that would become his final resting place. I have to say though, that through my grief and anger, I was a little bit pleased to see that he was placed so close to my Father and Grandfather. I left a pair of my own dog tags in his vault, it made me feel better that he wouldn’t be alone in there. I guess it doesn’t make a lot of sense now but at the time it did.  I stood over his marker and said a silent prayer before heading out to see Dad, Eddie and Joe’s markers and pay some respects. The grass was that brilliant emerald green again, and the sense that I stood in a place of honor reserved for our nations fallen still struck me through the heart.  After that we just kind of faded away from that place making our way home. Troy’s wife Andi had decided not to come, she was angry, she felt betrayed and abandoned, so on my way home I stopped back in Hickory NC, dropped off Michelle and made the drive to Andi’s house to present her with Troy’s flag as it had been presented to me. I remember hoping that her decision wouldn’t leave her with later regrets, but it was too late to change it now. The drive home was a long one, one that rekindled so many unanswered questions. Three generations of my family laid to rest leaving me as the only surviving male member of my family; something that still weighs upon my heart today.
But this is their story, and though it seems a sad one, that is not its intent. This story was written so that you the reader could understand that there is a place where over a hundred thousand Josephs and Eddies, and Jans and Troys are resting.  Each one of those stone crosses and stars have a face, a name, a history, and they made a sacrifice for you and for me. They were people who gave up their futures so that we could have one. They were people who had dreams, families, and who put all of that aside for what they believed in. They weren’t perfect people, but they deserve to be remembered. If you do nothing else after reading this, at least take the time to think about the freedoms that you have, freedoms that have cost us so much…

I’ve never been one for the tough guy phase but I consider myself manly in many ways. I may not be a genius but I’m sure not dumb and I’ve worked all my life so I’m certainly no ***. I’ve had a few fights and I’ve made a few friends, then gone off to war and come home again. I go to the gym and I’m a pretty strong guy but none of that matters and I’ll tell you why. You can be a tough guy, become strong and join the army. But when your little girl asks, you’ll still read her bed time stories about Barbie.

I saw it there in the dusty corner of the thrift store, forgotten for so long. Seeing it there was a lot like looking at my own life in a way. It was a little bit older for a guitar and it was worn from years of use; the strings were also a little rusty and probably out of tune, but it was beautiful that way. It struck me as such a lonely sight; to see something that used to be so joyful, now dressed in its fine film of dust particles and abandonment. I could only imagine the stories it had to tell; stories that were locked away behind that wood grain. If you’ve ever looked at the face of an old man you didn’t know, you would understand what I mean. The old yellowed price tag tied to one of the tuning keys said five dollars and I had about that much so I pulled up a tattered old ottoman, picked up the guitar, blew off some of the dust and took a seat.  I tuned it up real quick and let my fingers pluck at the strings a little before playing a few songs. We were two old men reliving our past that way for a time. I knew then that I had already made my decision, digging in my pocket as I headed towards the counter, five bucks it said, small price to pay for being remembered.

If I could reach out and touch you from a million miles away, I would caress your cheek and you would know how much I miss you. But since I can’t do such an impossible thing, I’ll have to pick up the phone and give you a ring and my touch will be transferred instead to my voice, the words “I love you” will be my caress of choice.

I turned on the T.V. to watch the report on the weather, it made me think about myself, my life and my future. It made me ask if I should live in fear of things that haven’t come to pass. Or should I live my life for the moment, try to enjoy it with a laugh? You see, it’s impossible not to think about what may happen to us tomorrow, there may be a storm, or a flood, maybe even a death or some other sorrow. Maybe you’ll be lucky and it won’t be all that bad. You could find love, marry a wife, have kids and become a dad.  It’s all speculation of course, just like the man reporting the weather. We don’t know what will happen later, all we can do is try to live better. The future isn't set so no one knows what it will bring. I guess you could say life's cloudy…with a chance of anything.

I beheld terrible sights of horrifying things; with frightened eyes I saw the dragonflies, soaring on their brittle, burning wings. They came from the darker places of the rivers of screaming faces that branched out into mazes, of smaller ****** streams. The banks of the streams still smelled and steamed and were lined with the cast off crowns of kings, their fallen skulls among these golden things and still there were other, more sinister beings, beings that froze me cold and made me shake as they appeared to me in the shape of snakes, with teeth like sharpened iron stakes, that seemed to drip and gnash and gleam. Oh how they moved so menacing, slithering through their venomous oily sheen, with knife like tongues that cut so clean, all images of things that cannot be unseen. They were weaving about, in and out, and between, surging wildly, like an ocean of green, and no matter where I would stand, I was just a mortal man, in a place where safety was an intangible thing. I was losing my mind, about to scream, these detestable sights that were so vivid and keen, my sanity was frayed, bursting at the seams, but then I opened my eyes and awoke from my dream.

I am the tiger that hides from himself, eating my stripes to become something else, in a jungle of my own design, where I’m trapped in the thorn vines of enemy time. Yet I, in time may change my views, staying the same by trying to become something new. Like Icarus with wings of wax, until my self-destructive choices made me fall too fast; into a past that seems filled with sorrows. Another crash landing, where I find myself in tomorrow. “Tomorrow” a word that seems deceptive at best. For tomorrow is only a past that I have not lived yet, but the memories will be there, still be piled on the shelves, just another day of wishing I was somebody else.

I want to go faster
Faster!
Shifting gears!

Rev the motor
Pop the clutch
And spin the rear!

Faster
Faster
Faster!
From this burning city

Choking on the smog
Of doubt
And self-pity

Faster
Faster
Faster!
Till I get away

Chasing the sun rise
To break a new day

And maybe I can make it
I can get away
If I can just go faster
Faster
Break the chains!

Faster
Faster
Faster!
Every thing’s a blur

But the memories
They haunt me
As I start to swerve

I was almost there
I could’ve made it
Going so fast!

Faster
Faster
Faster!
No more looking’ back!

And just as I was almost free
Escaping my past
I realized that
I had to stop for ******* gas.

I wear this camouflage so that I can blend in. Khakis, and a sweater, and some loafers and then…I dissolve into this city, into its dreary streets. An unnoticeable part of this life set on repeat. I don’t want to be noticed, I don’t want to matter. I just want to blend in to these lonely sleep patterns, and this rhythm of a city that has no reason. Time after time and season after season, but I was there, carefully camouflaged to match the despair, seen in the eyes of everyone else. Everyone whose life was left perched on a shelf to collect more dust. Though, it would seem that they call it dreams. I call it what it seems, life put on hold for a city so bold that everyone wants a chance to hold that candle flame.  Shaped like a dream of music, or of fame that falls lame as their hands become cracked and bleeding from washing so many dishes while their wishes become fleeting. Then reality sets in, and another one falls to join the rest of us denizens. Welcome new guy, I have a surprise, here are your khakis, sweater, loafers and plastic smile. Don’t you worry, you’ll get used to them after a while. In a lifeless city with a lifeless heartbeat, you’ll learn to blend in to this day to day defeat. It hits everyone after all, and there’s really no way to dodge. So now that you know, don’t forget to wear your camouflage.

Sometimes I feel that my life has been lived in stages. Each moment is as separate as dead birds kept in rusty cages. Scattered at the bottom where they fell to remain wasted and it’s all been written down to create a book, with blank pages. I have never seen behind your masks and may never see your true faces, but I know who you all are, you’re the same person from different places. We all want to believe we’re different, but regardless of our gender or our races, we have all endured the same; the strife, the struggle and the rages. Add the love and laughter and the scars collected over ages and still all that we’ll have left from this life is a book filled with empty pages.

The apple rots on the tree over time
It’s smooth bright skin becoming paper thin
Paper thin and grey effected by age
Effected by the flesh that was once firm
But has now decayed
Until it falls to the ground
Never to move again in the gentle breeze

Boogey Man

When I was a young boy, I had a fright
That Monsters would come out at night
And that they’d eat me, I was sure!
But my parents helped me to endure

They showed me while the lights were on
That the Monsters were all gone
In fact they had never really been
So off to bed I should go again

But sleep did not come easily
And I would lay awake nightly
Wide eyed, hiding under the covers
Until exhaustion won eventually

In the morning I would awake to find
That it had all been in my mind
And that there was nothing to really fear
So I grew up believing it clear

Then I went to school one day
And bought all the lies the teachers gave
In fact the older I got in life
The less I saw with my own eyes

I got a job that would make me a man
Where I ended up deployed to foreign lands
And in the wars of Iraq and Afghanistan
I saw the terrible nature of man against man

Those visions hit me across the face like a smack
In fact I’d say they brought me back
All the way to the days of my youth
Where suddenly I realized the truth

That Monsters are very real you see
They walk and talk
Just like you and me.

I stumbled upon a wishing well while walking through the woods. It told me it’s fair warning and I nodded that I understood. It told me I could have three wishes but careful I must be, for what I really ask for must be something that I need. It told me I could ask for things I want for myself or others. It said I could be rich and famous, or give the best to my sons or daughters. To that I said “hey take it easy, I just want a drink of water.” I didn’t come here seeking things, so you really shouldn’t bother.  I’ve made my life with my two hands and it isn’t much but it’s mine. I have a small house and happy family and they are doing just fine. See some people have the lives they want and don’t need anything else, so give me some water as a good well should but keep your wishes to yourself.

She couldn’t take the pain so she popped another pill, the small relief compounded thus to override her will. And as he walked away she cried and popped another pill, she felt so alone again that she popped another pill. She sat in that lonely room for days, and on the window sill, was another whole **** bottle so she popped another pill. Her friends began to worry so and asked if she was ill, she lied and said “of course not” then she popped another pill. Her days were made of chewing them then swallowing and still, it wasn’t enough to ease the pain so she popped another pill. I should have taken action but instead I just stood still, so as her life began to fade I popped another pill. After time she passed away and was buried on the hill, still dressed in black I cried for days and popped another pill. I never took the chance to tell her how I really feel, but now she’s gone and I’m alone just popping god ****** pills.

I saw a raven on the radar tower
Looking out over fields of desolation
Cawing out his commands
To passing foot soldiers
As they talked, unaware
He was so proud and imposing
Yet ominous
Gleaming in the sun
Like a General in black
Surveying the war efforts
Of his own encampment.

I can’t write with crippled hands
But I have to express this prose
These thoughts have to get out somehow
So I’m typing with my nose

Laugh if you will, or if you must
At my determination and steely guts
But either way I’m out of my rut
As these words flow out in rows

And maybe you’ll like what I have to say
So sit back and enjoy the show
Because even if I can’t write with crippled hands
I can still type with my nose!

I took the words you threw at me
Stuffed them in a bag made of leather
Shook them up
Then spilled them across the page like bones

I studied them in random order
In hopes that I could read my future there
Chanting nonsense
Like an old time painted shaman

The more I looked the more I began to see
That they were after all just words
Hurled against me like weapons
From your archery mouth

So I let them drip from me
Like rain water
Crashing to the lonely street below
Where I walked away from them.

My mind is dangerous I tell you!
Vast and deep…
Like a mud puddle
After a summer rain
Full of tadpoles
And dreams…
Be careful how you enter here
Lest you suffer the consequences
Of wet feet
And muddy shoes.

I'm an average Joe living in an average home. I have a common personality that’s not commonly known. I’ve never done anything special in life, in fact, I’ve sometimes felt like zero. But when you became my sword, and my shield, and my armor…then I became your hero.

Sing to me a story of a thousand hungry knives, and a thousand innocent backs, and a thousand angry lies. Then sing me the destruction of a thousand mangy lives, the broken hearts that bled for nothing through a thousand crying eyes.  The river of tears created was a thousand miles wide, and you could swim to your death in your vainest efforts never reaching the other side. There is no escape from what these knives do, no place to run and hide. So sing to the music you must face, or you will die without your pride. Because when the knives are ravenous they’ll have their taste, but it won't be from the front or the side.