jcastellenas-Coyote

Poetry, story and music.

war

  • Killing on the road.

    Killer on the road (Blessed is the man who can learn peace and justice without shedding blood) A Poem by Coyote Poetry (What good and bad we do in a life. The scars will always stay with us.) Killer on the road. A Iraqi man sipped  his coffee andhe watched the military trucks drive by.… Read more

  • The easy days and the good days.

    The easy days and the good days. On a cold day in the grasp of the Bosnian Winter. I wrote her name in the snow.Jennifer, Jennifer, my Jennifer. I love you. I left Ann Arbor Michigan searching for new places and reasons to be alive. I learn standing in the mist of war. Love is… Read more

  • Knuckles red, knuckles bleeding.

    Knuckle red, knuckles bleeding. His knuckles red, his knuckles bleeding. My father fought and fought, wars that could not be won. He told me in his drunkenness state. What have I done? He told me. Son. I killed and I killed. I melted down three machine guns barrels. I saw body on body of the… Read more

  • I drink the whiskey, I write and I remember.

    I drink the whiskey, I write and I remember. I chased her, she chased me. We didn’t know we were just babies reaching for a miracle. I drink the whiskey now; I write the midnight poetry. And I remember everything. It is 2am in Michigan. I sit alone, I drink alone and I write alone.… Read more

  • The drinking song.

    The drinking song. Once I met Bukowski in California and he told me. Never truth a man, who never drinks.  I learn with old age. He was right. Drunk men or women will tell you the truth. Even if you don’t want to know. Now old age had stolen my energy and I keep doing… Read more

  • Missing pieces. Part two.

    Missing pieces.     Part two. The Korean war was a short and bloody war. My father did two tours in Korea. He only spoke of war when drunk late at night. The rum opened door to memories and friends faces left in the Korean dirt. I would sit at a distance. He would have conversation with… Read more

  • Missing pieces. Part one.

     Missing pieces. Part one. On paper with black ink and thoughts. I try to replay the days of drunken bliss and delight. Today like a worn-out cushion. I wait for no-one. When age was my wealth. I wouldn’t ransom for soul for a few dollars and safety in old age. Today I’m barren in hope… Read more

  • Shadows.

    Shadows My sister told me. You have changed. You saw too much shit and your mind and eyes are cold. I told her. War isn’t personal.You do what you are told. Try to forget and move on  I kissed her forehead.I told her. War was easy.This world falling apart around me andI don’t know what to do.?That the crazy… Read more

  • Mercy.

    Mercy. Young black man. 22-year-old.He sat alone and ate alone in the mess hall for many days. I watched him and wondered why? I knew great pain and understood his face and eyes. I started to sit with him.He said nothing for many meals.Other Soldiers said he was crazy. One morning at breakfast.He looks at… Read more

  • Knuckles red, knuckles bleeding.

    Knuckle red, knuckles bleeding… His knuckles red, his knuckles bleeding. My father fought and fought, wars that could not be won. He told me in his drunkenness state. What have I done? He told me. Son. I killed and I killed. I melted down three machine guns barrels. I saw body on body of the… Read more