Answering the Call

Brush the moss off your shoulders,
Take flight, old nomad,
Though your feet have taken root.

They call to you,
And you must go.
They call you
Out of retirement from the road.
They need your help,
And you cannot refuse.
They call to you,
And you will go.

Hesitation, Self-doubt,
Its been so long, a lifetime ago.

Take up your staff,
Dust off your shoes.
They believe in you,
Even if you don’t.
They need a hero,
To lead them from the darkness,
To navigate he wilderness,
To lead them home.
Take to the road
As if you never left it.

They call to you,
And you must answer.



Petitions (a Collaborative Poem)

I’m a little behind in reblogging this, but a few weeks ago I was honored to be included in a group of poets that produced this wonderful collaborative poem. A big thank you to all who were involved, I feel lucky to have been included amongst such talented writers.

I am so pleased to present this work of art and I am lucky to have been a part of this collaborative effort. To be in the presence of such wonderful poets is a true honor. I encourage you to follow the links attached to their names and visit their own pages. Wonderful wonders […]

via Petitions (A Collaborative Piece)… — My Sword and Shield….

Shitholes and Assholes

Shitholes, assholes,
Misinformation, and lies.
Fascism, racism,
This is how democracy dies.

Demagogues, lapdogs,
Spineless senators falling in line.
Patriotism, nationalism,
White sheets at the scene of the crime.

Patriarchs, oligarchs,
Power, and greed,
Drawing strength from the blood
Of the poor on which they feed.

Imperialism, colonialism,
Conquest, and gain.
Materialism, Consumerism,
Neither will salve the existential pain.

Monarchy, anarchy,
Where does authority lie?
Dictators, traitors,
Watch democracy die.


Butterflies and Hummingbirds

Random thoughts flutter
In and out
Like butterflies in summer time,
Or hyperactive hummingbirds
With no sense of direction.

Facts and quotes,
Ideas and innovations,
Sand sliding through
Aching stiff
Sun-dried fingers.


Six Against an Army

Six swords held aloft ,
Blades of obsidian, ivory
Gold and granite,
With two of sharpened steel.
Forged by men, elves, and demons.
Wielded by heroes, every one.
Pledged to fight the oncoming
Hordes of chaos.
Weapons of last resort,
Hidden away until this dire day.
Fighting not for gain nor glory,
But for freedom,
Which no same man surrenders,
but with his very life.


The Cold

Thick clouds and fog,
The color of sun bleached prison walls,
stretch from street to sky,
An unbroken blanket blockading
Sun, Moon, and stars,
Flashes of electric light
Randomly illuminating darkness and dusk.

Cold bites flesh
Like a swarm of ravenous
Blood starved mosquitoes in summertime.
Ice encrusted trees sparkle diamond skins,
Under twilight skies at noon
Frigid frozen bones wonder
If summer warm will ever come again.


Screaming at the Night

Standing on the river bank,
Clothed in the night,
Screaming into the darkness
At no one,
At everyone,
At the Universe herself.
Three stand as one,
Bounded by blood, faith, and love:

You can’t break us,
We will not give in;
We will not give up!
We will fight,
We will survive,
We will flourish,
Warmed by the new day Sun!

The darkness answers with fading echoes.


Looking for Truth

You can look in your books,
Old and new,
Of beginnings and births,
Journeys and exiles,
Looking for truth
In a burning bush,
Or hanging on a Roman tree.

Search the history of time
For big bangs and clouds of gas,
Using probability and fuzzy logic,
Rationality and intellect,
Dialectic and dialogue,
Searching for truth outside the cave
In the depth of a black hole;
In the cry of a baby universe.

You can look inside,
Examine the depths of your soul,
For compassion and humility,
Poetry and purpose,
Knowing the only thing
You can truly know,
Controlling the only thing
You can truly control,
Be present
In the only moment you have,
Looking for truth
Under an Indian fig tree,
With an Athenian gadfly;
Between the pages of an emperor’s journal.

You can look outside,
At starving children on the streets,
At parents slaving to survive,
Living in quiet desperation
At the pleasure of the oligarchs
In the castle on the hill,
500 yards from urine stained crack houses,
6 miles from Robert E. Lee’s hoouse
And the tomb of the Unknown Soldier.
Looking for truth
In the eyes of a stranger
Or the hand of a friend.



The Wick’d Day of Destiny

Do you recall that wick’d day of destiny
At Camlann when Arthur fell
Near the corpse of murderous Mordred,
Nephew, some say the rightful heir
By the reckoning of the old ways,
Through his mothers blood,
As still practiced by our Pictish cousins to the north,
His noble blood still staining Caliburn’s blade?

The great king outlasting his sister’s son
By mere hours.
Enough to ensure his enchanted elvish blade
Was returned from whence it came,
Flung into calm waters,
Or—perhapse–taken over water
To that other worldly island
where it was forged by fay hands.

The king is dead,
The kingdom lost, fractured beyond repair.
Though the crown passes to another
None could now hold back the tide
That Vortigern let loose:
The barbarian men
Pushing us west and north,
And naming the land for themselves.

Yet hope still persists
In the tales we tell,
That the king merely sleeps,
Recovering from deadly wounds,
Nursed by fay magics.
To return one day,
Grasp his mighty sword,
And set us free.


Lost and Forgotten


Half written poems and unfinished thoughts
Scribbled in notebooks and scraps of paper,
Lost and forgotten in the chaos of my mind.

Fragments of stories
Of elves, heroes, and kings,
Timelines and lists,
Outlines and ideas,
Unfinished, unseen,
Vaguely remembered feelings
From fading dreams,
Evaporating in the morning light.