Best Skirmishes Poems

I sit and wait. I was here yesterday. 
Sitting. Waiting. 
Dead air. Bereft of sound

Suddenly, faculty for perceiving sound 
is returned, and loud blown is the Gjallar
horn as Heimdallr guides my pen and 
all in Valhalla shall sing once more

Technically  flawless, an opportunity ...

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Words as offensive weapons
dwell on ugliness of bad-humored life.

Words as effective tools
dwell on beauty and truth
of good-humored health,
empowerment,
love.

Yet, swords become plowshares.
Plowshares are repurposed as unwieldy swords.
Regenerative intent becomes degenerative chaos.
Degenerative discontent becomes regenerate
tipping points
within silent complexity.

Can words become weapons
for active peace?
And still tools
quietly feeling unresolved...

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