Warrior Poet

Our lives are just wind and rapid water
but our legacy is undying.
Even as flesh becomes flower fodder
And our last kin finish crying,

The deeds of our life, the way we fought,
are an aperture on the film of time.
The light shines nay from glory sought,
but service to all mundane and sublime.

A Warrior is a shield against the cold gray
night, the sword for a helpless child.
When horizon shows no dragons to slay,
may the Warrior be not beguiled;

For the gaolers are coming to cage the free
and the Warriors wield the people’s key.


Written 01/21/2012
Special thanks to my friend and brother Bode Miller for being a sage.

Over leather boiled and mail oiled,
Rooted I stand with sword gleaming.
Eyes squinted, tuned for battle,
Scanning, searching for demons teaming.

As I wait at ready my arms grow heavy,
The foes revealed are not but shadows,
And damsels ephemeral, undeserving.
The ponderance of my armor grows.

The romance of conquests fairly won,
Not met with heralds but jesters’ japes,
The rose I sought in flowering youth,
Illusory as a woodblock’s ‘scapes.

So do I dare put down my sword,
And hang my shield on brothel wall?
Or stay Spartan until forgotten horn
sounds the penultimate warrior’s call?

Written Dec 14, 2011

Cursed be the early birds
That chirp before the morn,
Mocking as I sleepless lay
With bedsheets all a-worn.

Mercy! O’ elusive temptress,
Pour yourself into my eyes.
Let me smell your raven tresses,
Plunge my brow in poppied thighs.

Caress me in your midnight robe,
Whisper dreams into my ear,
Hit heavy lids with ochre strobe,
And bid the dawn herself appear.

Written Circa 2004

O’ demons of fire, minions of fright,
Do your worst as I sleep this night.

Shake my bed, unloose my sheets,
Compel my heart to thundering beats.
Make the sweat on my forehead bead,
My knuckles clench and pillow knead.

Cradle me in your terrible grasp
Of dreaded midnight phantasie.

For the moment I wake your power fades,
Your darkness lifting with open shades.

But when I dream of my Chloe dear,
My waking bears me no relief.
Her kiss lingers on my lips for days,
And trembling cold in ghastly fear,
Her laughter echoes in my ear.

O’ demons of fire! O’ Minions of fright!
I pray for your worst as I sleep this night!

Written Circa 2004

This is a poem from what I call the Chloe series… The most torturous period of my romantic life that poetically resulted in something of an homage to the great Latin poet Catullus and his painful and passionate love affair with one he named Lesbia.

I wish you were my equal.
I wish you were my better.

I wish you had incredible strength
so I could forge my body to unbending steel,
and meet you on an ancient battlefield,
So our lady would never know danger.

I wish you had great courage,
So I could test the limits of my soul,
And face the terrifying unknown,
So our lady would never know fear.

I wish you had a dazzling wit,
So I could fill my mind with poetry,
Trifles, and delightful pedantry,
To keep our lady eternally charmed.

I wish you had wealth and riches,
So I could tirelessly conquer
The world of stocks and suits,
Until our lady could live in splendor.

I wish you knew of compassion,
So I could lay bare my heart,
And give my every breath,
So our lady could feel true love.

But of these things you know nothing.
Your world is cruelty, antagonism, violence.
Your soul is poisoned and empty.
But yet she clings to your hollow shell.
Unable to relinquish. The abuse, the pain–
Your words that sting her ear,
Your hands that welt her face,
Your cum that mars her skin.
Each one a violation.
Each one a Rape.

How do I defeat you? On what grounds can we fight?
You are my truest enemy, and yet you are nothing.
Not a man. Not a warrior. Not a poet.
Just a piece of shit with a heartbeat.

written circa 2006

I wish you were a great man.
Broad shouldered. Quick witted.
Smooth like James Bond,
Cool like James Dean.

I wish. But you are not.
And nor will you ever be.
You will always remain the appallingly average,
Reflection of mediocrity that you are today.

But if ever anyone accuses me of wishing you harm
They could not be farther from the truth.
Because I know you suffer.
Every night as she lies in your bed, cradled in your arms
Staring open eyed into the night, you know.
You know you don’t deserve her.
And one day she will leave your bed and never return,
And this shining moment of unjust glory will burn
In the back of your eyelids like a branding iron.

The scratch of every nail on your back,
Will be a scar upon your heart.
Her smell upon your clothes
Will haunt you like a vengeful ghost–
No sir, I do not wish you harm. I wish you luck.

As for me, I was born with hands that could hold this fire.

written circa 2002

Tis fatal in love                           to try too hard

With  gifts  and  praise         one’s  love  bombard

Leave flowers, chocolates       and heartfelt card

To those alone whose heart       you’ve scarred

For once discovered the path        is barred

Your appeal now forever marred

For others the steak

For you the

Lard

Written Spring 2003

We seek God in rows of laquered pews,
And worship Him on Sunday.
We bind our children’s feet in shoes
And tell them just wait, “someday
Your kids too will wear tight shoes,
When they go to church on Sunday.
So for now obey, OBEY!
And some day you can go to heaven,
Where you won’t have to wear tight shoes,
And can run and play for seven.”

But what if God doesn’t care for pews,
And thinks Monday’s good as Sunday?
What if God doesn’t like tight shoes,
And really hopes that one day…

We cast our eyes above our shoes
And look up while we are walking?
Gaze into His cloud swept skies,
And hush our ceaseless talking?

Give a moment to sit and ponder
The miracles of life;
Let the mind and spirit wander
Beyond our daily strife?

Would we all then realize
That He can just as soon be sought,
In fields filled with Dandelion,
As the walls of any holy Zion?
That all the battles ever fought,
Over the name of God you choose,
Is as silly as telling children
To tie up tight their little shoes,
Or they won’t go to heaven?

For some a church is the only way,
No matter what you say.

But for me I’ll take the Earth
To be the church He made,
And I’ll try to worship not just Sunday
But each and every day.
For wiggling my toes into warm wet sand,
Is a whole lot better than under a pew.

–WP (written spring of 2004)