Category Archives: Poetry

Got your war on?

Get ‘Yer gun boys

The Votin’s Done

Get Yer guns and let’s be done

Let’s do them dirty

Like they done us down

Let’s get them now

And show them how

We ain’t gonna stop

’til you’re in the ground

On that day we we will dance

Dance and how

On your grave

On your grave

While you rot below


Fuck you, you commie bastards

The only good Commie is a dead Commie

Disclaimer ; No Commies were harmed in the making of this poem…… Unfortunately

Checkered flag

He thought he won the race
Until they moved the finish line
To a cold November Day
With a small crowd gathering
Crunching winter gravel under their feet
Whispering hushed pain to one another
On the cold and frosted green

Ehrmehgerdicron! A poem:

When will it end?
Plague blown on panic wind
To fall on man and dirt the same
Dust and droplet in fogging haze
To end perhaps
Perhaps in shame
As fools fly to evade
Ever comes the big charade
The show, the tent
The acts unfold
Bought and paid
With tickets sold
By men of means
To foster all their evil deeds

Liberty falling

We bleed liberty

Her lifesblood

Spattered and pooled below

Grasping reason reaches

In vain

To understand

The meaning of the pain

With weakened limb

And fading brain

Quickly darkening sight

Closes in


She succumbs

Without a sound

And fades away

Death of the hero

He lay beneath the cold

Dark roots reaching down

As dead as the day he died

He lay beneath the cold

His dreams untold

In the light and warm sunshine

As dead above as down below

He lay beneath the cold

He couldn’t tell with lips of stone

His dreams unknown

A hero gone in hate

Alone in the cold down below

His heart now as still

As his hope

War comes

Thwarted ocean now behind her

Salted wind and low voiced murmur

Creaking beam and riven plank

Breaking waves in dark of night

Under load and straining rope

Slowly slips into the harbor

Stealth and darkness help to hide her

While anchor drops and warriors ready

‘Til deafening roar on ‘Morrow dawn

Bring death and war to our shores

No one here is set save you

Save yourself or perish surely

Now is the time to put fear aside

……. And fight

Shit on a shingle

It was a brief respite

The warm comfort of home

Steaming into the cold night

It was Shared ’round low fires

That reflected off the rolled wire

Glinting like stars in the darkness

Amid the raucous din of the mess tent

The clank of tin cups and mess pans

Replaced that of rolling treads

The rumbling death

That hunted down the small groups of men

Praying under the Aspen

Laughter, that medicine so rare

Played like wind through the camp

And peace for a moment was here

The food, always to be remembered

Was the only reminder

That they were still men

For a night

If only for a night

They could sleep

But tomorrow

It was back to the fight

Dedicated to my Father Lee Roy Jarrett, 359th Co. engineers U.S. Army, 1941-1946

Cuban missile crisis

When the pale blue sky

That blankets the gulf

Turns rippling red

In orange hue

And thunder rumbles

Without abate

To the shelter!

To the shelter!

Before it’s too late!

Steel doors and canned goods

All below ground

Tuck and cover and pray

You don’t hear the sound

Is the world that insane?

How far have they Gone?

Say another prayer

And hope you see dawn

Dead to you

My lungs breathe cold earth
I am Still
Beneath the roots and moist soil
I am dead
for now
At least
To you
Buried by your words
And cold hate
I am chilled
Under the weight of the clay
White and unmoving
And to you
That way I will stay

Banana republic

To the streets

In mob and crowd

To the streets

In angry throng

Let chants and pounding din

Lead the crowds

To pull them down

Tyrants and thieves

Those that lead us

Steal elections then deceive us

Fires lit in the people

In the streets

Let them see us

Let them hear us

Let them fear us



To the streets


Soon the country will cry as I do
And their tears will fall like rain
But they won’t dance in dry dust
To feed the thirsty green
They will fall on bloodied streets
And on freshly filled in graves
Rivulets to rivers
Growing in the rage
‘Til torrents flood and bridges fall
And all is washed away

Pack the court

Rack the slide

And drop the round

Here it comes

It’s going down

Voting day

Every way

From the rooftops

And In the streets

Pack the courts

Then run like rats

Pack the courts

No going back

“Let me be clear”

He declared

“Nothing is off the table

For next year”

You have said it

You have said it

*Fuck you Chuck Schumer

May you swing for your treachery

The dead don’t hear you

The dead don’t hear you

While they lay in the grave

Their parts done

‘Til the end of days

Sometimes you call

And sometimes you cry

But the dead don’t hear you

No matter how hard you try

They’re dead and gone

So let them go

Cold and and bone

In the dark down below



I have become the hard earth

Uncaring of toil

Clay without thought

Cold and unforgiving

To drown the roots

Clog the shovel

Dry and become stone

To hammer and chisel

Earth, Earth

I have become



And now it’s here

In rippling current

Spread in waves and moving torrent

Soft wind spreading

Slowly moving







Of disaster

Breeding swollen fruits of death

By the bushel

By the basket







Writer’s Block, Flow, and Some Views on ‘the Muse ...

I have since been accused
Of stealing words from my muse
Thoughts and strains
Not my own
Rhythm and rhyme
Verse and poem
Stolen from the purse of a muse?
I am speechless

Crazy man Jack

Bark at the moon and bite at the sky
Moon and fire lighting your eyes
Wild at heart
Wild in body
Clothed in smoke
On the fourth of July
Concussions booming
Powder burning
Sparks flying
A dogs hearts yearning
Chasing rockets, dragons and Lions
Brown muscled beast
Born to baying
Work ‘Til dawn
Then lay down yawning
And dream the dream
Of the hunting dog tired

In Flanders Fields

By John McCrea

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Child of a lesser God

He was betrayed
In the end
By the Gods of his youth
His prophecy
By the only deities he knew
The infant’s almighty
The Gods of small children
Hanging like
The mobile of life
Over them
It is all they born to
Bruised fists floated
Like angry storm clouds
Over Seas of battered emotions
Sweet red lips
Buttered with coated lies
And Whispered
Into the wind
And in the end
He was left all alone
And on his own cross
Was forsaken
By his God

Warm bread

Oh, bread of mine
So enticing
Warm yeast rising
Brown crust darkening
Tender white
And steaming hot
From the oven
Comes my desire
Waves of heat
Barely seen
Yet Still waving
Pouring off of
Fresh cut slices
There you sit
My soft warm pleasure
Hot and waiting for my butter