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Wallaces Warrior

Early mornings crisp cool sun illuminates the enemies Armour
His stallions breaths jars the air with snorts of deep anticipation
Thoughts race between victory, defeat, life and finality of death
Survive,
Thrive
The moment is nigh
Heart beat strong
Mind race fast
Remember everything
Forget nothing
Flags pushed by a forceful wind whip his nerves of excitement

Silence

The warrior scream
The surge is as waves eroding the shore of bounteous green
Thunderous thighs pound beneath quivering forelocks
Cool air exhaled rushes past and is left
Past tense
Breath

Eyes to the left
Raging eyes pierce from pale blue paint as scarlet screams
The thunder rolls, swords glisten as enticing Sirens
Contact, a force filled clash of wills and minds plus strength
Clashing swords, ideas beliefs blood plus guts and gore
Dust is kicked and raises past falling victims
Thuds as spuds in sacks
(Land)
Is what it all is for
Face down awkward or upon the broken backs

No time to realise that one who falls is he
Who thought and fought with all his will for all his life
And now just leave him be...

poem by Karen Sinclair
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Charro

(words & music by strange - davis)
With eyes that hide the man within
You see behind the eyes of, other men
Youve lived and died and come to life again
And now you stand alone at the crossroads of your mind
Youve left your yesterdays behind..
But which road leads you to tomorrow?
Charro...
Youve turned your back on yesterday
Betrayed a man who swore hed make you pay
For when you left you took his pride away
You know hell never let you break away so easily
Youll have to fight, before youre free
But how much more time can you borrow?
Charro...
Now in a single moment your past grows dim
One thought goes racing across your mind
You ride to meet the woman you stole from him
Oh no!...charro dont go!...
Charro dont go!!...
Theres something hanging, in the wind
Your past is catching up and closing in
Youve been halfway to hell and back again
And now you laugh in the devils face
With your last breath...
Youll run a race with life and death...
But will you live to see tomorrow?
Charro...

song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Goodbye Again

I'm on the outside, looking in
What do I see?
So much of this left to begin
Where would I be?
I'm on the outside, looking in
Cover me through this night
Guess I don't know what's, left to say
But hear me out
All of the dreams of, yesterday
Keep breaking me down
What's on the outside, can you say
Or am I getting carried away
It's in your mind
It's in your eyes
So it's goodbye again
It's way past time
For one last try
So it's goodbye again
Goodbye... again
I'm getting on, what's the use
You know how I get
I can't decide which is the truth
At least not yet
I got the feeling, it's you
What can be said, alone in this room
No...
It's in your mind
It's in your eyes
So it's goodbye again
It's way past time
For one last try
Who wants you now?
Maybe somebody else
I'll wait around
Maybe you'll forget you were ever here
Maybe forget you were ever, never here
I'm on the outside, looking down
What do I see?
So much of this cold, in the ground
Where would i be?
On the outside, looking down
Cover me before you go
It's in your mind
It's in your eyes
So it's goodbye again
It's way past time
For one last try
So it's goodbye again
Your falling out,
I'm falling in
So it's goodbye again
It's way past time
For one last try
So it's goodbye... again
So it's goodbye again

song performed by by Vertical Horizon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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What If

Such a tiny word, that word if, helps to ignore the present gift,
God’s gift to us of life today, when we put the past in the way,
Today’s a gift to all of us, from the Author of life Christ Jesus,
Yesterday’s past is already gone, and He’d like us to carry on.

What if, only moves us to cast, present thoughts into the past,
Tainting concerns now at hand, with those we can’t understand,
It may even cause us to resent, past issues, in view of present,
What God wants left behind, to give us present peace of mind.

We cannot physically, go back, to alter what we presently lack,
For with the past said and done, we have a present race to run.
Old issues we should not spurn, using all them instead to learn,
As we go forward in this life, following the lead of Jesus Christ.

Allow His Spirit only to retrace, those past issues by His Grace,
As Christ helps you not to repeat, what was in your past defeat.
Christ, has a plan for all of us, and in Him we must simply trust,
And God’s plan for you and me, is not more defeat, but victory.

Believers, God will not forsake, regardless of any past mistake,
God wants us to move ahead, not be filled with regret or dread,
As God takes us by the hand, past issues we can’t understand,
Avoiding that small word if, to focus on Christ our greatest gift.

poem by Bob Gotti
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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My Land

A NEW land, like a stainless flower set
In the green foliage of the waving sea;
Or like a maiden whose fair heart is free,
Whose honest eyes with no sad tears are wet,
Whose bosom has no passion to forget,
But thrills and lifts exuberant, as she
Voices some sudden-flooding melody!
A land of strength, life, vigour, youth—and yet
An old land, grey as I, her child, am grey;
Filled with the whispers of old thoughts that stir
And wake, like shadows of the past that play
Deep in the beauty of a child's grave eyes,
And show beneath life's gladness glancing there
The pathos of a hundred histories.

poem by Arthur Henry Adams
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The Jump

He is standing at the open door of the aircraft
and see his life flashing past,
while strong winds are pulling
on his face and jacket
and the light keeps on flashing green
and somebody taps him on the shoulder.

It’s like a explorer
walking into an new world,
with the earth rushing past beneath him
and he is almost above the horizon.

It’s as if for moments
he is hanging and feeling insignificant
and he is thought struck
while he falls at terminal velocity,

the wind is whistling in his ears
and it is then that he locks his thoughts,
knowing that man is but paltry
and seconds drags on like hours

before he pulls the string,
the parachute rushes open,
breaking his fall with force
and he is gliding like an eagle

while he’s riding the wind,
getting breathtaking views
of the scenery
that stretches out far below him,
drawing a picture
up to the horizon.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Sestina: Altaforte

Loquitur: En Bertrans de Born.
Dante Alighieri put this man in hell for that he was a
stirrer-up of strife.
Eccovi!
Judge ye!
Have I dug him up again?
The scene in at his castle, Altaforte. "Papiols" is his jongleur.
"The Leopard," the device of Richard (Cúur de Lion).

Damn it all! all this our South stinks peace.
You whoreson dog, Papiols, come! Let's to music!
I have no life save when the swords clash.
But ah! when I see the standards gold, vair, purple, opposing
And the broad fields beneath them turn crimson,
Then howl I my heart nigh mad with rejoicing.

In hot summer have I great rejoicing
When the tempests kill the earth's foul peace,
And the lightnings from black heav'n flash crimson,
And the fierce thunders roar me their music
And the winds shriek through the clouds mad, opposing,
And through all the riven skies God's swords clash.

III

Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!
And the shrill neighs of destriers in battle rejoicing,
Spiked breast to spiked breast opposing!
Better one hour's stour than a year's peace
With fat boards, bawds, wine and frail music!
Bah! there's no wine like the blood's crimson!

And I love to see the sun rise blood-crimson.
And I watch his spears through the dark clash
And it fills all my heart with rejoicing
And pries wide my mouth with fast music
When I see him so scorn and defy peace,
His lone might 'gainst all darkness opposing.

The man who fears war and squats opposing
My words for stour, hath no blood of crimson
But is fit only to rot in womanish peace
Far from where worth's won and the swords clash
For the death of such sluts I go rejoicing;
Yea, I fill all the air with my music.

Papiols, Papiols, to the music!
There's no sound like to swords swords opposing,
No cry like the battle's rejoicing
When our elbows and swords drip the crimson
And our charges 'gainst "The Leopard's" rush clash.
May God damn for ever all who cry "Peace!"

VII

And let the music of the swords make them crimson!
Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!
Hell blot black for always the thought "Peace!"

poem by Ezra Pound
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Through Falling, Falling Snow

As from my frozen window pane
I looked upon that winter's day,
The snow was drifting deep and crisp
And skies were darkest grey,
I did not wish to leave the warmth
Of home but knew I had to go,
And walk towards those factory gates
Through falling, falling snow.

I headed down those empty streets
Within the early morning light,
So hard each step I had to take
Through all life's bitter spite,
I longed to be back home again
As freezing winds did cruelly blow,
But headed to those factory gates
Through falling, falling snow.

I wondered where it all went wrong
Those thoughts remained within my mind,
As I did languish in the drifts
My eyes were almost blind,
I could not see the way before
And yet the way I seemed to know,
That led unto those factory gates
Through falling, falling snow.

And so towards that bleak estate
Past houses that I knew so well,
I thought that I would rather starve
Than face that day of hell,
I fought against my apathy
But soon my tears began to flow,
As then I saw those factory gates
Through falling, falling snow.

poem by Andrew Blakemore
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The Glories of our Blood and State

The glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings.
Sceptre and crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield,
They tame but one another still.
Early or late,
They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow,
Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
Upon death's purple altar now,
See where the victor-victim bleeds.
Your heads must come
To the cold tomb;
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet and blossom in their dust.

poem by James Shirley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Death the Leveller

The glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against Fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings:
Sceptre and Crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crookèd scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill:
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still:
Early or late
They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow,
Then boast no more your mighty deeds!
Upon Death's purple altar now
See where the victor-victim bleeds.
Your heads must come
To the cold tomb:
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet and blossom in their dust.

poem by James Shirley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Our last Swim (R.I.P. Anne Mary Simon)

Our last Swim
By Renee’
For my beloved Anne Mary Simon

An Image of you in a cloud rolls by
The sky opens up, somewhere in my mind
A vision of you in a pale blue dress
Tears falling down, you took my breath
Memories of you...