Warrior Poetry

Okay, now for something absolutely, totally, completely freaking altogether different, old girl.


As you may or may not have guessed, I like to play with words.  I like laying them down and making them flow off the page like cool water whispering down a mountain creek.  I like to twist them around, rearranged them in ways that startle the reader.  I like verbal portraits.  Words painting pictures in the mind--creating vivid images that are crystal clear to the beholder.

And.  I like to inspire.  A bit egotistical of me to admit; I know.  But I firmly believe words can inspire.  Can change lives.  Can fire the imagination.  Can open up vistas never before glimpsed--or at least, rarely glimpsed--by the majority of people.  Make people feel deep, raw emotion.


Okay, this is a long preamble to today's offering.  But needed.


I write something  Warrior Poetry.   Not quite poetry--not quite narrative fiction.  An odd squishing together of both.  Think of Homer's Illiad.  A narrative poem telling an action-packed recounting of Greeks and their gods against the Trojans and their gods in a war that lasted for years.  I'm trying to mimic that style. 


So, with little else to say, I offer this piece to you for your consideration.  Hope you like it.


Champion Reluctant



Old wounds ache; muscles hard from years


of dangerous toil.


Temples gray yet bright the dark eyes


still


of warrior’s youth.






Come he has, this man of granite, to bathe


in paradise green. With


Palm trees whispering in evening’s alluring


chants—of aromas


mysterious


building dreams of bounteous panoramas.






Lounge he lay in pools of waters cool


As children many laugh and play in gardens


plenty.










Shed he did, bronze grieves from old shins scarred


Set to one side he wished shield ancient so badly marred.










Of blood crimson spilled, of bronze trumpets blare, of the martial


tread of men marching to battle


No longer he wished to dwell.


No, Pilgrim; time has come


for warrior old to set aside his youth


and discard deadly skills honed from


countless duels—to dream


No more of pennants snapping rudely in morning dews.


Of arrogant kings of old and their bloody fools.






No longer wished he to grip the hammered blade darkened and honed;


Blade so sharp, its thirst grimly unquenchable;


forever eager to sever flesh and bone.


Gently he sat bronze helm with red horse hair plume


On table near to remind him many of encounters dear with his old friend


All mortals so chillingly fear.










Age, warrior: age is the enemy unrelenting,


a thief sneaking who saps the strength so fleeting.










Memories horrible; of screams in the night of the dying,


Of fires raging, famished and thirsty for destruction sure.


Of men coated in crimson sheen, severed heads hell high in triumph pure.


Aye, Pilgrim


Age and memories--foes no warrior mortal equal to the task


to defeat in their lives limited.






The time comes for shield and blade to be discarded: the


helm gleaming and horse haired plume waving


in morning's bright light


To be set aside and allowed for dust to gather.


Youth, in his rude and arrogant grandeur, has fled the warrior's heart


leaving behind


Only the scarred, harden eyes of experience terrible:


The heart of an old warrior too bitter


to feel the gentle touch of a passionate soul.










Yet the Mistress Cruel named Destiny


Will relent not.


She calls her siren's song to ancient warrior bold,


Forces upon the Dreamer of Chaos battles bloody to be told.


In the quiet of the pool's soothing waters come the screams


of the frail.


Comes the pleas for succor from those who wish to rein upon


the heads of the weak and innocent


horrible Death and pain unwarranted.






Rise he does this ancient dealer of death;


Rise from the waters cool like the God of War he had been for years untold.


Dons he does his bronze grieves. Over his head he


lowers battered bronze helm with its rudely brilliant red


horse hair plume.


With hands still strong and willing he grips round bronze shield


and reaches for the dark and grim blade, his terrible friend,


who knows no limits to its terrible fury.






Go, warrior: fight your battles terrible.


Go, knowing that someone must stand; someone must


push back the terrors that fills the hearts


of the many.


A battle continuous


A battle that must be fought


Yet knowing that no one will be victorious.


Go, warrior: and may the gods smile upon your fearless spirit for eternity.