Father never cries
Father never cries (Written in November 1990) My father never cries, my father rarely smiled, my father eyes turned darker, because of life burden. His body and heart gave-up in the battle of… Continue reading
Tag Archive: Father
Do the fallen remember?…
Do the fallen remember? I remember my father, held on to the rum and he held on to the memories of the Korean war blood. I would stay-up with him and I… Continue reading
My father’s song
My father’s song (My father passed Jack Isaacs on 29 January. Was 93 years old and he was tough as nails.) Greatest man I ever known. He told me often. “Life… Continue reading
We are born to live
We are born to die and we are born to live Dear father drank his one pint of rum with some coke nightly and he sat alone with his thoughts. I learn… Continue reading
July fourth poetry. Nonfiction, Shadows of war
Shadows of war A Story by Coyote Poetry War can catch even the cold in heart. Shadows I was a Soldier for almost 15 years. I volunteered for every… Continue reading
“The walls and the damn mirrors
The walls and the damn mirrors A Poem by Coyote Poetry Can’t hide what we became when we see our reflection in the mirrors The walls and the damn mirrors My… Continue reading
A witness to life
A witness to life A Poem by Coyote Poetry Just words A witness to life I left the Army in 2000. I wanted to see my kids grow-up. Good friends didn’t. Old… Continue reading
One more day.
One more day. A Poem by Coyote Poetry Wars need to end. No-one win in war. Twenty one gun saluteLoyalty Duty Respect Selfless service Honor Integrity Personal courage (Soldier creed) Standing tall and… Continue reading
Memorial day poetry–Father’s eyes and anger and World War one poetry
Sins of our father’s. A Poem by Coyote Poetry We can learn kindness from living and seeing hate and violence. Father’s eyes and anger Is my Father’s eyes and anger. Are they mine… Continue reading
Another poem for Memorial day. “Killed and killed”
Killed and killed A Poem by Coyote Poetry A true and sad story of the permanent wounds of war. Killed and killed On Friday night my father drank his rum. He would come… Continue reading