war paint and ash

There are the hardest lesson learn,
when fire and clock save face,
in sadness tears may burn,
when with the pyre and cruel time race,

soot becomes our paint of war,
our faces stoic and stern,
when in that season of hell we tour,
for a few more minutes yearn,

we go where others don't,
an we have to stay appearing strong,
but sometimes the fascade wont,
hide the tears of a lost song.

so in the quiestest rage,
the anger we must contain,
when paper embers of temder age.
of a song cut short a refrain

war paint and ash

There are the hardest lesson learn,
when fire and clock save face,
in sadness tears may burn,
when with the pyre and cruel time race,

soot becomes our paint of war,
our faces stoic and stern,
when in that season of hell we tour,
for a few more minutes yearn,

we go where others don't,
an we have to stay appearing strong,
but sometimes the fascade wont,
hide the tears of a lost song.

so in the quiestest rage,
the anger we must contain,
when paper embers of temder age.
of a song cut short a refrain

a skald in winter

A SKALD IN WINTER

There is a weaving. The patterns translated from the sinawali madness.
I was asked by a buddy of mine who after years of training got into a fight and hurt the opponent badly. He wrote me terrified and I started writing back. He asked my how do I reconcile what I can do with my hands with the realities of the world. How do I deal with the sad culture of text before talk? How do I deal with the catastrophic inequities of power? There have been too many times in my life when it would have been so much easier to confront condescension with barbarism. When the person behind the desk desperately needed their blood spilled as a life lesson. There are too many who never had to shed blood to survive or even eat. There are too many that didn’t risk their health for a paycheck. Normally I live go to “the Flow” and use it to live formless in the moment. I try to be like water, sometimes I am rain to stream, stream to river, river to ocean, ocean to vapor, vapor to rain. I use improvised poetry and weaving patterns of steel. The snow has caught my attention now. I am frozen. I am a creature out of time. The words are exo-skeletal they hold me together with pins and screws scars and stories. The water is converted to steam that pushes what’s left of my body in iron armor. My mind goes back to when I was a brutalized shy kid, then to my cold and cruel guro, then to my past careers. There are only fighter’s allowed here.
The point is always at the opponent’s eyes. I had to ask him. Who are you fighting, the weapon or the person behind it? And aren’t you also behind the weapon. These enemies, they are fiercer than any monster, blacker than any troll, they are subtle and deceitful the one’s that steal your soul. We are and fight the Dreaming shadow in skin. SO with blackest ink I pour out the remnants my soul on to paper, cold and clean like a field in snow. You are also the one behind the pen. There are too many dragon’s to slay without you doing war with yourself. In the end we are all memory. Just be sure you have a good tale to tell, and be on the right side of the blade when Morrigan comes.
We are the shears of the Fates.

Ballad of the Sky Knight

When those diamond stars fall
And sounds of intimate thunder
Entranced the spirit recall
The power glory and wonder

In the sepulcher flesh entomb,
Blood and bone of little worth,
This shell tis the spirit womb,
And weaves it for rebirth.

Be it memory ghost or wraith,
A chilling touch define,
Love and war are acts of faith,
When earthen powers devine.

A scholar in book scribe,
The soldier to his task,
The poet to his glass imbibe,
The terrible wisdom of the flask,

Heat and pressure forge the stone,
Conflict of clouds a bolt form,
In the fray you aren’t alone,
When daring to love the storm

I don the armor

I don the armor,
The scars scribe a tome
Placing it with honor,
The blade finds it home

Shifting chains of steel,
This battered coat of mail,
Links to fortune’s wheel,
What this instrument avail.

And to my ancient marrow,
And hairs of bleeding gray,
Two steps from the barrow,
This bastard of the fray,

The tome is of the music,
The song runs forward and back,
In times both joyful and tragic,
When heart’s own shadow attack.

The song still ear caress,
And tis love’s battle cry,
And in these cloaks address,
The bardic trysting tie,

For the armor is of honor,
And the scars are of fate,
The blade its own charmer,
Defies despite the weight

There I sip from the chalice,
And face the night a knight.
To old hands so callous,
Coveting this fight.

If you look to others for fulfillment, you will never truly be fulfilled. If your happiness depends on money, you will never be happy with yourself. Be content with what you have; rejoice in the way things are. When you realize there is nothing lacking, the whole world belongs to you. -Lao Tzu

She has eyes of twilight

and silver laughter

a blessing to sight

that smile I'm after



a warrior poet's duty,

in his own swashbuckling style,

he writes a poem for this beauty

in hopes to make her smile



so to you, I know it's raining

and we look to graying skies,

my goal is in the obtaining

of being lost in twilight eyes

combat and love

They say that love is combat
Barbs flying by the score
Hopes and expectation say that
This is the purest war.

The parties tell their story
Each from lack of information
And soon the fight is gory
Through lack of communication

“Tell me what you want”, you ask
But “you should already know” replied,
The espionage hides a mask
Of the problem you have spied

It is in the strike dodge and thrust,
And the often well timed parry,
One can mistake love for lust,
And to that illusion marry.

Of all the fights I have lived,
Under bloody moon and sun,
Unchecked words go un-forgived,
With intimacy as the weapon,

Conscience weighted in bloody red,
And the pain will not surcease,
When all is said, Ishtar bled
My love is still my peace