I am having a poem published soon.

I wrote a poem a few weeks ago on a whim and sent it to a professor of English friend of mine, Matt Turner. Matt send the poem to a cohort of his, Michelle Brown who wants to publish it. It is a little collegiate pulication - but I am proud of it nontheless.

I will post it here first - and know that I am likely to change it a little before it get's published.

The Stumps

Farmers had felled trees many years ago
and drug them with chains to where
we spent tense hours and easy nights
in the summer. Raising our time
when we should have checked.
They cut tops and trunks
and found no use for the rest.
No one but us.
The sun descended through the smattered leaves
where we would stay without will of motion
until drunk on Vietnam,
we would force ourselves to our feet,
attempting to fill our shoes.
Another would raise his makeshift rifle
at where I stalked. Not finding a clearing,
(you miss so often despite your aim)
would attempt to settle down.
Later to muster his Diomedes,
destined, it seemed, Achillies.
I knelt to collect my blood from my feet
and could not help but smell,
even through the plastic of my mask,
where the condensation dripped
off the ace of spades I had painted there
the dry sandy loam fell that from the roots
of the behemoth that gave me cover.
I wanted to walk point - warn my comrades of danger.
Tell them “Stick together”.
Allow my actions to speak for themselves.
My off hand felt the warm cool dirt,
it smelled just like it does right before the rain.

Jason