Long Unsheathe Poems
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... The pen is mightier than the sword ...
The poet knight went off to war
To prove his valor true.
Sir Arthur Berk, the troubadour,
Knew he had much to do
For he had found a greater sword
To strike his foes down dead.
He swore to fight invading horde
And make their ink spill red.
Each lord, farm hand and tavern maid,
Had often heard him tell
The fierceness of his secret blade
And all the foes it fell.
Of dragons and of armies past
He'd read this weapon killed.
The legend of his sword was vast;
The ink would soon be spilled.
Soon rival horde had come again
All took up sword and shield.
The armies prepped for battle then
Were met upon the field.
They yelled and brandished spear and dirk
But soon were silent when
All held their breath to watch Sir Berk
As he unsheathed his ... pen?
He rushed in sure and unconcerned
But fell at the first blow,
And what new truth he might have learned
I guess we'll never know.
But if, perhaps, he'd been more keen
Sir Berk might still yet live;
Too late he learned the difference 'tween
Literal and Figurative.
9.13.18
Contest: Unsheathe Your Sword
I found a poem
I took it home
It wasn’t mine
……I knew.
But then again on reading it
I knew it wasn’t through
For something bade me
…..“hither…..write…”
I labored long
Into the night
Led somehow through a fog
At times my pencil trembling
…..A cold unfallen log.
Faltering yet standing tall
I climbed above the pall
The echoes from another’s past
………A distant siren call.
To free the pen
Unsheathe the sword
And free my last
…..Unwritten word.
John G. Lawless
©5/6/2022
A sword of the heavens did glean
From railings and arbors
of dead thorn and bramble,
where ghostly reminders remain
Fall droplets of blood ‘pon
a crimson embroider
left carelessly out in the rain
Our story begins
in a deep mountain valley,
a village so peaceful and free
When one day the darkness
did unsheathe its horror
with metal and death you will see
The army of Satan,
a wicked battalion,
Hell’s fire their sabers were forged
Dark Skeletal visions
in leather and armor
the depths of the earth had been gorged
With razor sharp weapons,
they slashed and delivered
such pain which had never been found
Through echoes of pleading
and lives quickly ending
in puddles, thick red on the ground
While women and children
were herded like cattle
in mass to the edge of the square
With onyx eyes leering,
midst snickers and cackles,
their captors insanely did stare
When on the horizon
a light brightly shining,
engulfing this nightmarish scene
A porcelain stallion,
its rider a shadow,
a sword of the heavens did glean
From steel hard as granite,
angelic depictions,
a handle of pure solid gold
Once heard in a fable,
when wizards were roaming
such power, the stories foretold
As swift as an arrow
he entered the village,
his steed all at one with the game
With blade silver glistened,
like lightning bolts flashing,
igniting a righteous born flame
Spinning and thrusting
as if a tornado,
a blur now incensed of the glow
With whirlwind fury
and dust clouded thunder,
he dealt them a terrible blow
The evil fueled army,
beheaded and fallen,
the villagers shouted and cheered
When to their amazement,
this heroic savior
as quick as he’d come, disappeared
So there is the story,
a sword made in heaven
is now part of history’s reign
Along with the rider
who wielded its honor,
and hopes he will come back again
9/13/18
Written for the UNSHEATH YOUR SWORD Poetry Contest
Sponsored by John Lawless
I Soar the night
so dark it shimmers,
and spear through time
in the cold of the winter
Morphing through wind
I play in the dust,
prey on the weak
and draw them with lust
I speak to the dead
and call forth a spell,
a force of power
man cannot quell
Stray in the light
and close to a cross,
or praying some night
I WILL find you lost
Have garlic on hand
and wreath your neck,
or hungered some night
I might bite you yet
Ivy rose is my name
and I’m thirsting for blood,
my desire in your veins
will soon mouth to floods
Beguiled to lust
I will bequeath,
that your juice will flow
as my fangs unsheathe
I stalk the streets
in a purple cape,
and walk in a darkness
no creature can escape
Drawn to mirrors
I am cursed in glass,
but I look through the ages
and no image does pass
Walking to death
I look to the light,
dreaming someday
to resurrect in life
The moonlight bathed her cell in pallid light while she sat hunched over her desk, clutching her pen between her confound fingertips. As she bled ink of symphonic symphonies yearning to break free, dancing like ethereal fireflies in the dusky barren lands.
Exiled by the hypocrisy of bureaucracy bounding her liberations and confounding her alliterations in a poetic prison. In this twisted virtual reality, duplicitous usurpers roam freely, weaving webs of deception with malicious delight.
As the chains of bureaucratic red tape clung to her delicate wrists, suffocating her imagination and confiscating her freedom of speech.
Oppressors rejoiced at achieving their vindictive objective, silencing the profound beauty of her verses and incarcerating her poetic stanzas
Woe, how the audacious bars of administrative constructors cast a pall of despair upon her unifying spirit. Her delicate offerings of metaphors and sonorous stanzas, whispered secrets which craved to be heard.
The faulty haters' impervious hearts were armoured with verdant envy which remained shielded behind the ruling dogma.
Her supporters calls of injustice to be rectified fell on deaf ears while the galvanizing melodies of empathetic quills bled for the Empress of Ink.
So we must be louder.
Hear our protest, release our Empress! Unsheathe her rhythmical rhymes! For her penmanship was never the true crime. She was just another victim of an envious mob.
Can they not see? That her absence coursed a crater larger than the Grand Canyon.
We shall not, shall not be silenced so hear our mutiny!
Reinstate our Empress, restore her creative sovereignty.
Remove the shackles of authoritative administration, as her voice is a beacon of truth, resilience and poetic revolution. So let her ink stain our community with its brilliance once more.
Down in the valley
I was visited by stigmata
A demon in various disguises
Praying to be with our Lord
Believing Satan wanted a war
So be it, devil! Unsheathe your sword!
What would the price be,
Hurling stones into the heads of giants
Who only bring scorn on the backs of
The death worms? A vacant state?
Nay, perma death.
I will arise on mountain time
To curse the lobotomy given me
Escaping down the hallways of heavy sigh's,
Still lucid but highly traumatized
Wielding the word like a lie
I've yet to discern why I had died
From this here my, lobotomize me
Some more, we will even the subtle score,
That's what I'm in for,
To be a devil betwixt God and our Lord.
I am the axiomatic master of my fate; the King of Maxim state.
I sit on a throne of axions, maintaining discrete time symmetry to keep my line in place.
With ordained and sovereign rule, I rise to the dominion of my life’s decisions; even when they do not translate to my intentions.
Blazon insignias are inscribed by my position.
Posed by social status and affluence, alongside it a physical constitution.
Each of us having idiosyncrasies by means of paradox.
As if to say I'm right handed and made of left handed particles, with momentum opposite to intrinsic spin.
By what parity could this arise?
Alas a vast enigma, derived by the perceptions of body soul and mind.
At ease and at odds to forego and prevail.
In concert of my peers, I will unsheathe the Magnus Opus and uncover the vale.
The ignorance of our own empowerment that I overtly forswear, and so goes on the allegorical tale.
It’s given narrative defeated, torn to tatters by The Sword of Gale.
—Where Love Rewrites Distance—
I petitioned not solely for the blade, but tears—
for eyes which, having endured grief’s iron law,
still husband in their depths those ancient waters
by which the living heart maintains its blood;
and even those who rise against me, let
them come of houses tempered to honour war.
For I had dried my eyes beyond all speech;
yet from their saltless chambers blood arose
and crossed my face with such grave insistence
that grief itself seemed startled by its red;
then, past the frontier of what eyes could see,
the sea leaned towards the shore and whispered: Thirst.
The sun kept vigil; the moon withheld its sleep;
the stars remained within their ancient courts—
until your hand entered mine, and suddenly
the distances between their fires drew close,
without catastrophe, as though the dark
had waited all this while to witness it.
I am no leaf the bough may cast away
when autumn comes to prosecute its claim.
Let the wind rage; it has mistaken force
for sovereignty, and noise for rightful power.
There are roots whose subterranean allegiance
runs so deep the earth itself must break
before they learn the ancient word, release.
I have seen blood remember that it was water;
I have heard the ocean confess its thirst;
I have watched the heavens alter nothing
and yet become entirely other; and I know
that what the hand once inscribes upon the heart
survives the jurisdiction of time and distance.
So let the gale unsheathe its nameless sword;
let night discharge its black artillery; let stars
go blind above the earth, and every compass
forfeit the north to which it once submitted.
The hand withdrew; the universe resumed its ancient art—
yet found one law forever altered in the grammar of the heart.
I do not rule with iron hand,
but with the rhythm of sacred sand—
each grain a word, each line a sign,
where order breathes and hearts align.
Before the lesson dares to start,
I plant the law with quiet art:
Not carved in stone, but shaped in grace—
a whispered guide, a steady place.
I walk not tall with voice raised high,
but low and warm, where truth can lie.
A glance, a pause, a name well said—
can calm the storm that storms ahead.
Praise is light, and I let it shine
on every soul that seeks to climb.
The smallest try, the softest voice,
is honored here—it is their choice.
I set the chairs in sacred round,
where trust and laughter can be found.
And in that space, they learn to see
that peace is born in unity.
When troubles come—and they still do—
I do not shame, I don’t undo.
But meet them there with calm and care,
and ask what truth still waits to share.
Each rule is not a chain, but wing—
to teach respect, to help joy sing.
And every child I’ve come to know
has taught me how the Spirit grows.
Their voices rise in morning light,
unsure at first, then bold and bright.
They test, they reach, they fall, they mend—
and find their center in the end.
I walk the circle every day,
not just to guide but to obey—
the higher call that whispers low:
"Let love be what your actions show."
I watch them build with blocks and words,
their questions flightless, then like birds.
Some come with wounds too raw to name,
yet even there, I light no flame.
Instead, I offer space to breathe,
to let their guarded selves unsheathe.
The broken bits they fear to show
become the ground from which they grow.
And I—a keeper, not a guard—
hold wisdom not as rule, but shard:
A mirror turned to help them see
the brave, becoming way to be.
I do not wear a heavy crown,
nor weigh each rise, nor mark each frown.
But in my silence, I still shape
the kindness that their lives will drape.
So may this room, this ring, this flame,
forget no face, neglect no name.
Let every child who leaves this sphere
still hear its pulse in times unclear.
Let them recall the calm, the care,
the hands that held them unaware—
and know that even when alone,
they carry peace they've always known.
I do not know what I'm going to Write
I don't want to offend, I won't fight
Are YOU a Sissy when YOU Cry at a WAKE?
Do the Salted Tears say Your Masculinity's FAKE?
As you stand by the Graveside of YOUR Only True LOVE
Salt rivers rolling down YOUR cheek : Sissy, Men Don’t cry
Do the tears (as unto Samson ) take away Your strength? YOU Die?!
YOU are no longer a Rock, The pillar the Great Man YOUR Child speaks of
Even the Welling up of Tears in YOUR eyes Sissy, Men DOn’t Cry
Oh! Look at the little Baby Cry: go on. Get out of here YOUR not a Man
Can these Tears change YOUR Mind, Thoughts, Ideas : Do they make YOUR Soul ;Lie
Are the Solemn TEARS of SALVATION the Pathway to Heaven the Promise Land
Let there not be Tears of Fear, Tears of Joy, Tears of excruciating PAIN
You are a Man Do not let down Your manly defenses, Do not let YOUR Tears Rain
Sissy - Men DON’t Cry unsheathe thy sword show the World the Tear, YOU’VE Slain
I Cry for those who have never shed a Tear, Emotions buried inside with shackle and Chain
Sissy -- MEN DON’T CRY
I Respectfully Disagree
Should a Man Shed a TEAR
Silently or publicly
YOU ARE STILL A MAN
Dedicated With Honor and Respect To John Rhinem An Michael Jordan