To the Victor go the Spoils

“This is a duel to the death! The only rule is that there can be no interference from the crowd!” The orator shouted. “This is your last chance to bow out. If you accept fate, draw your weapon and…”

Preston could barely hear the words after that point. His opponent drew his sword, and the crowd around them burst out into thunderous approval. His hand tightened on the hilt of his own sword. This was it. If he drew it now, there would be no turning back.

Almost on its own accord, as if it knew that he was contemplating submission, his hand pulled his sword from its sheath, and leveled it towards his opponent. The crowd went wild. There would be death.

He didn’t hate his opponent. He didn’t even know the guy. He merely got the luck of the draw in the duel rotation to be put against each other. He looked as fierce as one could imagine. He was big and hulking, and well fed.  He was obviously a veteran of the duels, as his sword was steady with no trace of a tremor, and he had cast his shield off to the ground beside him.

Preston’s own shield was a lot heavier than he imagined, but he held onto it for dear life. A lot rode on this duel. He stood still, waiting for his opponent to make the first move. He tried ignoring the pounding in his chest, the roar of his blood in his ears, mixed with the noise of the crowd.  The tremor in his sword betrayed him, and his opponent smiled. He’d obviously seen similar tell-tale signs, and like a cat moving in on its prey, he moved in for the kill.

The first sword strike might as well have killed him. He flew backwards, and landed roughly on the dirt. He felt as if his entire left arm had been cleaved from his torso. Everything that didn’t hurt was tingly and numb, but a quick look down, showed everything intact. His shield was dented in, and his forearm was held in place by the dent and the handle.  He tried to shake it off, but it held tight. His opponent merely stood there, several paces away, a smirk on his face. He was waiting for Preston to stand up. He was going to toy with Preston before he killed him.

Shakily, Preston used his shield to prop himself up on one knee, and then stood. The crowd cheered again. The show continued.

Not waiting on the guy to end him, Preston charged, sword overhead, shield in front of his chest. The man laughed, and with a superfluous twirl, stepped out of Preston’s line of attack, and merely brought his foot out to trip him.

Preston fell. The pain in his shield arm exploded. He had never known a pain quite like this. It had to have broken, but he couldn’t get it free form the shield to see. He swung the shield up, to prop himself on it, screaming through his pain, he tried to stand again.

Just as he gained his footing, his feet were kicked out again. He landed on his shield again, and realized in horror that it was the only thing he was holding. His sword lay several feet away from him, and his opponent had just put himself in his way.

“Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill!” The crowd cheered.

His opponent, now standing over him, stretched his arms out in triumph as Preston knelt in front of him. This had probably played out for him multiple times, and he was obviously relishing the moment. With one burst of energy, fueled by desperate rage at his impending death, Preston swung his shield.

Screaming through the pain, he brought its corner up into the groin of this surprised opponent with enough force that the man dropped his own sword in pain. The crowd fell silent as the man fell sideways, screaming as he clutched his groin.  Preston did not waste his time trying to grab the man’s sword. He climbed onto him and brought the edge of his shield down on the man’s throat. Again and again, ignoring the blood as is sprayed onto him.

The screaming man was silent.

The crowd was silent.

Only for a moment. It roared back to life with surprised enthusiasm. The orator ran out to Preston and helped him to his feet.

“The champion is deposed!” The orator shouted above the noise. “Behold our new winner!”

The man led Preston away from the dead champion who now had several men over him pulling at his belongings.

Preston was led to a room with a table, guarded by several men where he would be able to accept his prize for winning the fight. As a man helped pry the dented shield off of his arm, the distributor looked at him with some surprise, but began gathering his items.

“Here you are,” the distributor said. “This is ten pounds of meat, ten pounds of vegetables, and five rolls of toilet paper.”

“Thank you,” Preston mumbled, as he felt his now free left arm.

“What were you before, Gladiator?” the distributor asked, curious.

“Office clerk,” Preston mumbled again as he moved the bags of food and toilet paper into his cart.

The guard who had taken his pistol when he walked into the building returned it to him, along with the sword and shield of his dead opponent.

“These were his, and they are yours if you want them. Spoils of war,” the man said with a smirk. “Besides, you will need them when you come back for more provisions, right?”

He had no desire to return, but with a family to feed, he didn’t know how the next few weeks would go hunting wise. He had been told many duelers return again and again until they are killed by someone else. Just as his opponent had done.  Preston gave a halfhearted nod, and took them from the man. He still had an immense amount of pain in his arm, but he could move it, and he could at least push his cart.

He left the building, pushing the cart with his prize. He was wondering how he would explain the risk he had just undertaken to his wife when he heard the cheer of the crowd as a new duel began.

Right-Wing Laureate

I’ll never be chosen as Laureate

Or handpicked by my own generation,

To be a name the world should not forget,

Or voice of my home state, or nation.

Even though I pen what is real, and true,

They belittle me to the last letter

Because they cannot stand my point of view,

And I know things won't be getting better.

It is the Poet’s burden, I confess

To write knowing you’ll be called a failure.

But those who pluck Right Wing verse from their chest

Don’t get called “Poet”: they get called “Monster”..

I write what I know, and try to reveal

Our own point of view to give it some light,

But the snob elite don’t care how we feel

For the Right is wrong and the Left is right

But I write on, so my children can see

That I cannot be laughed into silence, 

Nor is there a chance that I'll ever be

Made to apologize, or do penance. 

So, read all my work, and say what you will!

Say it is soulless, and without merit!

Inform all your sheep that I have no skill!

Say what you will, I will grin and bear it…

I’ll be voice to the traditional ways,

And shall humbly serve as their outlet,

And in the end, when I run out of days,

I will remain my Family’s Poet.

Corporal Long

A lot has been on my mind of late,
Concerning Life, Choices, and of Fate,
Paths not taken, Regret’s crushing weight.

And though I’ve tried to just let it go,
each day offers a bit more ammo,
allowing tormenting thoughts to grow.

Like these things do, it came to a head,
one night I found no comfort in bed,
With a bottle of whiskey, I fled

Into the night, not sure of my way,
Knowing only that I could not stay
and listen to what my doubts would say,

As I stumbled out into the night,
Staggering beyond the City’s light,
I found myself awash in moonlight.

Comforted by the moon’s silver glow,
I stumbled along, steady and slow,
my whiskey continuing to flow.

I found myself in a field of stone.
Newer ones polished until they shone,
Older ones abandoned, on their own…

I paused at a slightly tilted one,
Weeds all around, almost overrun.
Corporal Long, Died in World War One.

A mere boy, nineteen, still in his youth.
I sat on his grave, drunk and uncouth,
Slurring my words, asking for a truth.

Then I poured him a shot of my drink,
gave my bottle to his stone to clink,
then sat back against his stone to think.

Then I saw the most curious sight,
a sober man would have taken flight!
before me rose a small ball of light!

Before I could shout out in surprise,
at the scene playing before my eyes,
the small orb halted its rapid rise.

Quick as a flash, it took a new form:
A Boy stood there in Dress Uniform,
I then shivered though the night was warm.

He looked at me with curious eyes,
and then to the bottle at my side,
He motioned to pour: I poured it dry.

He gave me a smile, his face aglow,
“Fine libation, you chose to bestow!
Now, sir, what is it you wish to know?”

“What is it like, sir, to know glory?”
His face turning sad, he sat before me,
and almost whispered out his story.

“Born and raised in our dear Hoosier State,
Too young for the war, I had to wait,
my thirst for glory would not abate.

Many a night I would lay and dream,
Of guns, and swords, bayonets agleam,
of medals, honor, and high esteem!

I turned of age, and rushed to enlist,
saluted my Pa, gave Ma a kiss,
then deployed overseas to assist.”

He looked at the stone behind my back,
words nearly faded, stone chipped and cracked,
above a faded engraved lilac.

“I died over there, you may have guessed.
Took a Kraut Bullet right to the chest.
It broke Ma’s heart to lay me to rest.

There is no glory in what I sought,
I was handed a gun and I fought.
And why I joined? It was all for naught.

Sure they will speak highly of your name,
and for a spell will hold you in fame,
give you medals, but it aint the same.

Soon enough, their memories will fade,
of who you are, and the price you paid,
what you fought for…and where you are laid.

Soon enough they will always forget,
no human eye will ever stay wet,
for souls caught in the War Reaper’s net.”

He turned to me, and shook he shook his head.
“I dreamt of glory, and now I’m dead,
My dreams died with me, and share this bed.”

“But you served and died a hero’s death!
You gave it all, even your last breath!
You loved your nation more than yourself!”

With that, he gave a sigh and he stood.
“Now you listen, and you listen good:
If I could change what happened, I would!

“I should have worked hard till I could buy
that little piece of farmland nearby
and made me a life before I died.

Maybe found myself a loving wife,
raise us some children, no less than five,
and see what they accomplish with life.

There is no glory among the dead,
their only reward is the grave bed.
Just ignore what is otherwise said.

For everything that you do in war,
has all been done countless times before,
and when you’re gone, will be done some more.

My advice is simple, my good man,
Stay a civilian, long as you can,
Embrace the fullness of your life span!

Fight, should the necessity arise,
but don’t throw away your precious life
chasing war’s glory, and other lies.

As I watched him, his glow grew dimmer,
returned to an orb and its shimmer,
Till he disappeared altogether.    

Just briefly, I continue to lay
Still stunned, and now sober as day
before I stood and went on my way.

As I walked home, I felt calm inside,
the conflicting feelings swept aside,
New focus from an unlikely guide.

Now, weekly, it is my solemn deed
To pour him a shot, and pull up weeds
Honoring the aid shown in my need.

~x~

An Obvious Observation

Even now I can not help but to think:

Perhaps what we know is not the truth.

Some, like roaches, to dark corners shrink

To avoid being revealed by what proof,

Evidence, or facts, that may be displayed

In the attempt to show the world the light,

News can't be trusted: we're all being played,

Distracted from what is right in our sight!

Insidious elite peddle their lies,

Demanding we believe all that they say,

Now, however, we have opened our eyes

Their filith clear to us, and on full display.

Knights of a new order assembling

Incensed at the sheer boldness of it all

Leaving the lower elite trembling

Low hanging fruit will be the first to fall.

How could we have allowed this to occur?

In this day and age? In this time and place?

Muse on those questions, but act on the cure:

Shamelessly Crusade against this disgrace,

Endeavoring to purge the parasites

Lest we be consumed by their appetites!

For our Future, our Children, and what's right!

She

She watches the swarm of men moving through her city.
What’s left of her city…
The once happy homes have become tombs,
holding broken remains, and broken dreams.
Names scribbled on what’s left of a wall the only reminder of lives now gone,
and with the arrival of these men, even that will become lost.
Family, friends, neighbors live on only in her memory,

She slings her pack off her back, and braces herself…
like others from her scattered unit in the city are doing.
Deep breath in…
                           … deep breath out…
 …She squeezes the trigger.

She falls to cover as a hail of bullets answer her own.
Their volley interrupted by her compatriots down the road….
New target, the enemy distracted…
Looking…
                  …Breathing…
 …firing.

There is a familiar rumble in the earth…
She heard this before…Men run from cover to get out of its way.
It rounds the corner, and bears down upon her.
She grabs her pack…
                                   …runs three steps…
 ... takes no more.

Her post explodes into a cloud of fire and debris,
bringing an end to what remained of the building,
and the memory of so many.

Her unit scrambles to stop the tank,
to push back the men,
but in the end, are forced to fall back.
She will be mourned…
                                        …She will be remembered
until the last in her unit falls.

Rise

Can any of us today dare to dream
About living our lives with true passion?
Embodying true greatness, like those past,
Searching within ourselves to find that spark
And pursue our passions with greatest zeal
Regardless of what may stand in our way?
Will we cross our Rubicons, or stand down,
And let opportunity slip away?
Spiting the Senate, or letting them rule?
Ask yourself this question with honesty:
How could you ever truly be happy
Enduring the yoke you could have cast off?
Right now, as you read this, I hope you choose:
Overthrow the Senate of doubt...and rise!

A Memory

It’s the little things I don’t expect,
like the smell of a Dutchman Cigar
that can take me back decades ago
to the river bank beneath the stars.

Your favorite spot you called ‘the Rock’,
where a boulder sat proud and alone,
which we kids would try to climb and sit
 like little fisher kings on our throne.

Mom sat on her blanket and watched us
till the blue-sky gave way to the night
and you lit the kerosene lantern
to keep away our childhood fright.

Relaxed, you’d sit in your fishing chair,
rod and reel in in your self-made holder,
talking to mom while watching us climb
and push each other off the boulder.

Sometimes, when your cigar was half done
You’d give us kids that sideways smirk
and give it a toss, then have a laugh
as you watched us dive into the dirt.

The first time, mom roared, but now resigned
She’d shake her head watching us search
and let the finder take a few puffs,
or finish it off, what could it hurt?

Sometimes we’d fish in almost silence,
told that we would scare the fish away.
But now that I am older, I know,
you just needed some quiet that day.

We’d clear away trash, or gather wood,
to roast some hotdogs, and make some smores,
Then listen as Hank Williams Junior
sing us to sleep on that river shore.

I will never smell a Cigar’s smoke
or hear a Hank Williams Junior’s tune
without thinking back, happy, yet sad
to all of my memories of you.