A Lovely Dream

I wrote this poem for my beloved wife, while apart from her in Afghanistan.

I lay in slumber and I dream of a woman far away,
Who waits in silence tenderly for that fateful day.
I long to hold her hand and smell her fragrant hair,
But alas she walks on by me and all I dare to do is stare.
Before she gets away from my subconscious thoughts,
I call out to her and say that I sure have missed her lots.
She turns to me and grins with a happy dimpled smile,
I sure am glad to see you too, for it has been awhile.
We hug and kiss and cry as one,
For seven months apart is neither bearable nor fun.
I suddenly awake from many startling booms,
And realize that I am all alone as this sad reality looms.
Alas my love, my dreams aren’t real, and all I can do is pray,
That someday soon we shall touch again, on a November day.
So in your dreams, I wish of you to think of me as well,
That in our future the things you dream will be more than just a spell.
My love for you is ever ardent and so ever pure,
So please my darling dearest be, my wholesome healthy cure.
Heal me from my ailments of anger, war, and stress.
My dearest lady all I need is your loving caress.
Think of me often and hope for me more,
For you my love, are all I adore.
A lovely dream is all we have now,
We soon shall unite for this I vow.

In Memoriam

The following poem is attributed to the Men of Able Company 1-506th who have paid the ultimate sacrifice from WWII all the way through Vietnam until today in Chamkani, Afghanistan.

I stand here alone with not but a thought,
As I desperately try to never get shot.
I imagine a future so far away,
In a dream that is far from grief and dismay.
In this dirty little town I watch the time go by,
High in the mountains where brave men die.
A rocket’s blast I hope not to hear,
For it has already hurt those I hold dear.
Requiescat in pace, O brothers of mine,
We mourn your loss, but know all is fine.
You watch over us from up above,
And guard our backs with endless love.
Only warriors understand what defines true loss,
For an unexpected death is the worst kind of cross.
We go forth this day with a firm resolution,
To remember you with honor in our proud institution.
Lost but never forgotten we say all the time,
For all men lost in their prime, is a terrible crime.
Be at peace, while we fight the enemy more,
A battle is lost but we will win the war.
God Bless you my brothers and without a doubt,
We soon shall meet and join with a shout.
A battlecry that echoes in one harmonious tone,
Currahee…….Stands Alone!

A Forgotten Belief

In times that are rooted in great desolation,
A soldier stands to defend a nation.

We fight for freedom and security,
In a land that is fraught with great impurity.

A country that survived a civil war,
Also lived to fight several more.

We sing of freedom, justice, and love,
But in this decrepit reality we have none of the above.

The code of morals, of ethics, our creed,
Has been watered down out of malice and greed.

Just like the senators of ancient Rome,
Ours too should rebel in our sad little home.

The ideas our forefathers started in this place,
Have weathered away like Mount Rushmore’s stony face.

With a fake smile and change for the worse,
They have slowly dried up this country’s purse.

And all we can do is hope and pray,
That some brave man will save the day.

A Soldier’s Dream.

A soldier in another place,
With a look of sadness on his face.
He learns to walk in other lands,
And shoot the gun that is in his hands.

He leads a life of solitude and mistrust,
Because of a far away land dry as dust.
He has seen things that others have not,
He has been to war he has earned his shot.

A shot at freedom away from it all,
Not down the street or up the hall.
But far away in the mountains of peace,
He finds some time to settle his lease.

A contract of duty and hope and pride,
Has elapsed over the years like a cold hard tide.
The waves of the years will pound away,
And wear down the soldier who will not sway.

He will always stand tall and loud and glad,
For he has been made great, he is ironclad.
A hero to many, a man just to some,
Always beating that stone cold drum.

In the future still shrouded in mystery,
He looks back at that sad real history.
He looks in disbelief at the memories he held,
Of the lives that were lost, and the tears that swelled.

He hopes to become dear Jesus what you desire,
As he slowly climbs higher and higher.
Up into the wild blue yonder,
He looks and prays and slowly ponders.

And until dear Lord at Heaven’s gate,
A prayerful thought in a melodious state.
A powerful gate gleaming in the sun,
A gateway to hope when war is done.

Afghanistan in Perspective

The town of Yahya Khel forever will resemble Hell.

In a country that is so out of date
the only message they preach is hate.

When the devil speaks in hushed tones,
Among the people there are silent moans.

They moan because they are not free,
Although they forever yearn to be.

These disciplined fighters who teach this hate,
Consider themselves the bringers of fate.

This fate they bring is death to us all,
That do not heed their holy call.

Their skills are honed by years of war,
Which is something I have never seen before.

They patiently wait for us to make
that ever so deadly first mistake.

These mistakes are costly to each side,
And is something I can not abide.

Death is a thing we all must see,
But not this far from the land of the free.

We ask each other when will they fail,
But alas, they will never to no avail.

They will never leave this land I fear,
Because it is a cause that they hold dear.


The town of Yahya Khel forever will resemble Hell.

On Guard

So the guard positions that we have at our small base are not as rough as the ones that I describe in this poem but you get the idea:

The soldier lays in the prone during
the dark early hours of
the morning, watching his
post with mental awareness.
He trains his trusty weapon
at the dark shadows
that are near his
well dug position.
He knows that at any moment
the enemy can attack and
it is his job to stay guard
while his buddy at his side
sleeps in peaceful slumber.
Under the cold starry Afghan night
the soldier guards his section
of the patrol base.
As he watches he thinks and ponders
of what his family and friends are
doing while he is at war.
While the soldier shivers in his hole
clutching his weapon, his friends
back home are laying in their warm
beds clutching their pillows.
The soldiers pillow is the side of the
foxhole that he props his helmet
against. He pulls his blanket up
as far as he can over his armored body.
The patrol base is up and moving before
light. The soldiers silently put
their gear away in their bags
without the help of light so as not
alert possible enemy.
Blessed be the Lord God in Heaven who is all knowing, all loving, and all merciful. Amen.