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Brushstrokes -- poetry for real men!
By: Jim 'Old Guy' Hume Date: 2005-12-05 BrushStrokes -- a collection of poems for real men! Poetry is not for sissies. Fighting generals have read and found inspiration in poetry. Real men read poetry! Combatsim regulars can take pride in the knowledge that many of the poems in my book were first presented on this forum. Your input has informed and guided my writing efforts. Now I want to return the favor. For a small price, you can own a softcover collection of the poems we shared. Here are a few fragments, a taste to jar your memory: Under a Blood Red Sun I smell morning mist and saddle leather. Spurs ring, iron-shod hooves thump the frozen ground. It is battle-morning on the slopes of Wonder, beyond the edge of Strange, under a blood-red sun. Tap o' the Drum All stand fast at the tap o' the drum, I march to the halter and hangman. Nine years a soldier, stripes torn away. I bayoneted the Captain! The Door Gunner He walks the path along the Wall, stepping back once more, treads again the landing skid, and chopper cabin floor, smells jet fuel and engine oil -- scents buried deep in his brain -- stinking paddies and diesel smoke, gun metal steaming in rain. Out of the past, the squeal of track, thud-thud of cannonade, and over all -- sight, sound and smell -- thump of rotor blades. The Bombardier's Song No one saw him come out of the night, fifty mission cap crushed on his head, brown leather jacket wasted and thin, like the man inside the seams. He played the old upright, halting at first, out of tune -- as he said -- the piano, the night and the man. The bombardier played and we sang Danny Boy and a dozen more sad drinking songs. Imaginary Man Wrought in my image, he wanders life, ethereal, inscribed 'Occupant' on secret lists of enemies, unknown to any, a phantom on the wrong side of one-way glass. Dragon Home I have laughed at raw red suns, ridden whirlwinds far aloft an' roaring free above the land, burned black clouds to filmy rags! Now I ride on creaking wings in pallid light of Arctic dawn. Soaring o'er restless ice, I flee into the myths of man. "Brushstrokes" is 119 pages filled with black hatred, red revenge, empires lost and gained, impossible android passion, wooden horses athirst for blood, and mislaid souls. Not only will these poems inspire you and satisfy that certain, never mentioned, craving for verses dripping gore, they'll also come in handy the next time someone scolds you for 'wasting' so much time online. Imagine your satisfaction that day, as you brandish your personal copy of "Brushstrokes", smile gently at your accuser and say, "Oh, yeah? Well, I was part of the process that brought forth this volume of uplifting poetry! Talk about your spiritual insights and philosophic commentary -- this has it in spades! Show me anything like that from YOUR hobby!" Just imagine. Click here to order "Brushstrokes" by JR 'Old Guy' Hume Go Forth! Plagued by flies, we disembark on a land of salt and mud, Rotted bodies helter-skelter, forty days gone. What shall we eat? How shall we live? Noah shrugs. "Eat thy shipmates and multiply." |