Born with hair of a lighter brown,
A gentle soul in his quiet town,
He walked alone where visions spoke,
Through heavy air and battle smoke.
No crown of gold or feathered crest,
No tales of war upon his chest,
Just one lone feather was in his hair,
And lightning painted bright and bare.
Not born to rule with a chief's command,
He won the hearts of his own homeland,
From Rosebud's heat to Bighorn’s sound,
He guarded all he walked around.
He shared his meat, he fed the poor,
And kept the winter from the door,
A shelter for the weak and small,
He gave his heart to save them all.
When worn by hunger, cold, and tear,
He brought his people home from fear,
Yet freedom could not be contained—
A soldier's blade, a sudden stain.
He fell not broken by the foe,
With quiet courage, letting go,
A wild, free spirit, brave and deep,
Who gave his people space to sleep.
Now laid to rest where whispers keep,
In secret ground he takes his sleep,
Near Porcupine Butte's lonely height,
Hidden safely within the prairie night.
Winning strength needs only modest display
Our triumph drawn from hunger within us
Rival forces bear relentless foray
Battle needs bold face of festered brilliance
With dogged raw tooth fight, brandish valour
Weapons are extensions of fortitude
Victors despite opponents' callibre
Our status of formidable renewed
Serving King, to idea of self - strangers
Fortess protection our blood's excitement
Unrelented vengeance takes couragous
Formation untouched behind our pikemen
Bravely defend her status, safe harbour
Cease attack when field strewn with cadavers
6th September 2020
Warrior Sonnet
Sponsor : John Lawless
Five Thousand Men! Blood flowing in the creek,
The deadly sweep and ‘whisst!’ of footman’s pike,
The cavalry broke through where lines were weak!
The smell of grass and loam, a caltrop’s* spike
That pushed right through my boot, and left me lame…
I’m on my own, now, I cannot keep up!
I’ve not a shilling for the boys to claim,
Should I on Heav’n’s bright porch today end up!
There, buy an ale, for friends, who’ll stop, and smile,
For all my friends are dead! (And, soon, I’ll be!)
Next rush of Horse, I’ll fight atop a stile** –
My count of Roundheads*** will be forty-three!
OH, GOD!!! The bowmen now have found their mark!
It’s thus! That all good men go down to dark…
* caltrop – a four-pointed spike of iron, laid before battles, to lame horses and men
** stile – an arrangement of steps that allows people, but not animals, to climb over a fence
*** Roundheads - a nickname for the Parliamentarian Rebels
On caparisoned, filleted camels do they
Over the great, soft, tawny sands
Ride;
Unfurled flags and tribal standards flown amidst them,
In the very midst of them-
Of they, who astride great tan camels,
Seem rather scandent and saltant.
These are the irregular, well-armed cavalry of the
"Men In Ambush," for such is the literal translation of their
Nation's cognomen;
And on the sands of the undulant, granular, eminent
Near-Judean wilderness do they ride.
Photographing these from atop the vespertine-hued
Summit of a delivery truck from the nearby
Eminent, circumvallatory, hilly
And fortressed city;
From the very roof of an antiquated bread truck
(Though 'twas then very new by the standards of those bygone days)
Whose radiator is soon to vaporously explode
Amid the oppressive, anhydrous desert heat,
Photographs an American, hatted in the whitest
Of Panama hats, who is a correspondent reporting of wars.
The Arab cavalry ride for locales
Damascene, in order to pursue one's kingly wish
To renew the gardens Cordovan and long-vanished.
(?) Emily Dickinson-
I know the cavalry of woe
Nations do not see.
None observe dying eyes,
No regards with love.
We trust in the angels
With feet and uniforms of snow.
Kill! Kill the enemy with no mercy and commence!
Charge! Charge with your heart immense.
Arise! Arise Men of the Commonwealth!
We will approach with great stealth
Let the fiery heat of the sun burn
in your hearts that strongly yearn
as you level your rifles
Be enchanted with the pride that stifles
your hesitance. Be fearless, like the lion
who knows only to kill to feed on.
When you hear the trumpet call remember
to shoot their horses
and to shoot their heads.
You'll see when we've won
When the supply column is over run
If they break formation,
Then they are done.
I ached. Was sore all over my body, my arms, my legs, my core.
My insides, my outsides, my get up and go had got up and gone to a war.
I didn’t know why my strength decided to leave. Leaving me all spent and beat.
Once I could run, laugh, dance all night long but now I just tasted defeat.
Then I questioned the food in my diet; the meat and veg, the grain, dairy, and pieces of fruit.
I drank plenty of water. Drank it each day. And I still felt exhausted, alone, destitute.
So I tried to think clearly. Think of simple solutions, to get me out of that mess.
But my mind, it was cloudy, I couldn’t think straight, my head, it was in so much distress.
Conquered I lay down and wondered about other tired folk, the drained folk all down, out and blue.
That’s when I remembered, their doctor fixed them, giving each of them a shot for the flu.
My arms, my legs, my body, my core were all in a war, a war so miserable, dreadful and tragic.
But the doctor gave me antibodies, a microscopic cavalry. They saved the day by doing their magic.
6th april
In battle dress, a king
Galloping on snow-white steed
Sword drawn and pointing ahead
Crown of iron and gold upon his head
Of a sudden he stops
From shining saddle he drops
Something caught his attention
Saintly praise from those commissioned
For a herd he calls
“Join me,” beckoning to all
Mounting up, resumes the charge
We follow him, near and far
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