Humanity's Light

Civilized man, in a chaotic world,

filled with savages and the darkest night,

Carry high our civilization’s torch,

to enlighten lands, or if need be scorch

the land to rid it of the savage blight,

doing so proudly, our heads high, and flag unfurled.

We have built for ourselves most hallowed halls

to pay homage to our fathers long passed

to whom we owe the greatest of all debts

for they fought the good fight, and did not let

themselves fall to disarray; they held fast,

Never ceasing to answer our destiny’s calls.

We build hospitals to aid all our ill

and we’ve made great strides to stamp out disease.

We’ve built the finest centers of learning

to safeguard the sacred flame that’s burning

within our youth, who shall seek what they please

endeavoring to carry our light further still.

We’ve conquered the fiercest of our Earth’s seas;

The skies no longer forbidden domain;

We’ve reached out to caress the very stars

laying claim to that once proud moon as ours,

No limit exists to our right to reign

those who challenge our right shall be brought to their knees.

There is no sympathy for savages,

Those rejecting civilization’s light

Those whose seemingly only goal in life

Is to cause others undue pain and strife,

Those who denigrate all within their sight,

Who never create…who only steal and ravage.

It is the duty of civilized men

to safeguard Humanity’s destiny

and in so doing, honoring the name

of those before who worked hard for the same…

Those civilized men, proud as they were free

immortal in fulfillment of our Destiny.

Fortuna

Did your mind turn to her in that hour?
When you saw the walls begin to give way,
under the relentless firepower,
did you offer a prayer to her that day?
Fortuna, fair Goddess of your city,
Cast aside and ignored so long ago…
Did you hope, perhaps, to gain her pity,
and now, in your need, her blessings bestow?
With a flourish of that fair divine hand,
her light could through the dark clouds of war
and strike the enemy swarming your land
sweep them away, and divine peace restore!
Or did you call Mighty Jupiter’s name,
to beg he save his people one more time?
Or did you cling the new faith in vain,
and become the very last of your line?
A prayer, an utterance, or a word
breathed to Fortuna to invoke her aid
and the Gods, with great zeal, would have returned,
forgiving the people for having strayed…

If only, Emperor, you gave it thought,
and with repenting supplications sought
aid for your people from the Gods of old,
How differently this story would be told:
As the walls tumbled, you cast off your crown,
tore off your garments, threw them to the ground,
and with one last defiant battle cry,
you rushed with your men,  to fight and to die.
No shrine or marker to denote your grave
in the renamed city you tried to save.
Now we must mark this day every year
with sorrowful thoughts, and eyes filled with tears
If only you had breathed her name at all,
The last of Rome would not have had to fall.    

Pandemic Panic

Has the whole world gone entirely mad,

or have I just not noticed it before?

I know with this virus, things will be bad,

but why are people beginning to hoard,

not leaving things for those who are in need?

Consumed by panic, or pushed on by greed..

You do not need that much toilet paper!

You do not need that much sanitizer!

For years, people made fun of the preppers,

but now realize they were the wiser.

They say that ‘He who laughs last, laughs the best”

Well, guess who’s laughing above all the rest? 

If we do things right, and we keep our heads,

we can weather the coming storm’s effects.

Make sure our elderly and youth are fed,

and not lose ourselves hoarding mere objects

greed and selfishness must lose their place

if we are to move forward as a Race.

 Let it not be said We fell apart here,

clutching our purse strings out of financial fear

while abandoning those that we hold dear

to a dark future bleak, hopeless, and drear.

When we can still stand and do what needs done

for it is certain our fight can be won!

Lock Down

He has shut down our state!

In violation of our Constitution,

without proper debate,

and without the people’s representation!

Let all Hoosiers remember

what he has done on this day,

and come election in November,

we shall send him off on his way

out of the Governor’s chair

and to the unemployment line

or where ever, we don’t care

as long as he’s gone, we’re fine!

Every leader who applauds his deed

we shall give you the same token

for following tyranny’s lead,

and parroting what he has spoken.

The people will speak soon enough

and when it is all said and done

you will find our anger is not a bluff

when we oust you all…Every. Last. One.

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~