Warrior Poems - Poems about Warrior

Scott walks alone in crowded light,? A mask of joy, a heart in night. ?No job to ground, no path in view, ?Just dreams once bright, now lost in blue. He lifts the broken, stays their hand,? When shadows grip and fears expand.? He holds their tears, speaks calm and kind, ?Though storms rage fierce inside his mind. A friend on call, a...

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She saw him standing at the waters edge crashing waves on splintered ledge they were are sharp as a razor knife they were as echoes , of a shattered life but she saw him walking back to rest towards the purple dew caress so she told of new days , where revealed and she gave him armor, and his shield she saw...

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Inspired by... Warrior Nun - Ava is resurrected. Being alive is a gift. Being able to move is a gift. "Psalm 46:5 reads, "God is in the midst of her; she shall not be moved: God shall help her, and that right early." In essence, this verse speaks to the unwavering presence and support of...

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I am not my father's princess Nor my mother's lookalike I am but a warrior, born to fight In this world where every action counts The dark misty place, a child of light A lot to laugh for, a lot to cry for But all i need is the love for forever and more A star so bright Its inner strength full...

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Through all of his failings and all of his faults His memory redemptive his conscience set free Through all of the battles and all of the scars His soul still a virgin his heart — is pristine (Dreamsleep: July, 2025) ...

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Four and a half years ago we lost a fine poet, a knightly gentleman, and a friend to many of us. I'm reposting my tribute to him today. Warrior is an adjective used for a hero or a knight I knew one, briefly, whose wings have taken flight Not just a fine poet was John,...

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I converse with my demons. The monologues are endless, Dark confessions on scraps of macabre memories. My mouth stays shut after uttering blasphemies, I terrorize my ghosts with the darkness of my fantasies. I stumbled before the gates of hell, It's too late — I'll end up in Lucifer's furnaces. The journey will be chaotic until the final breath, No consolation, only incurable...

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Fifty years burned into the marrow of my bones, A life stitched together with fire and fate. Mi Vida Loca, a symphony of scars and rebellion, I have walked through storms that swallowed souls, Witnessed horrors I wouldn't wish upon my worst enemy, Yet here I stand, whole—unbroken, unbeaten, ...

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EIGHT BEAUTIFUL LINES Filled with peachy pleasure in parsley pastures I eye eagle elegantly elevate in elongated flight warriors wonder wisely about rising Sun whispering wondrous worldly wishes across abiding angelic appled air spun elves and fairies pirouette in royal ribbons blue with mystics maypoling as kittens mew a mistletoe mist of fat figs feasting true...

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"Faith and Fireworks: Cinco’s Call to Remember" (A Linking Pin Sonnet in Spence Format – Celebratory & Historical) Remember the cry, the cause, the stand, Stand for the faith that defended the land. Land once trembling rose firm and proud, Proud were the voices chanting aloud. Aloud rang truth through valley and hill, Hill of defiance, God’s sovereign will. Will of the people,...

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Spinning a Warrior`s Soul ...

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A warrior mentality so to speak – donning our armor of daily fashion; tinted shades closing off soul-windows, concealing from prying eyes of inquisitive nakedness – we clothe fearing being disrobed truth, such privates far deeper than skin Gucci, and likes, the first line of Metropolitan Defense…. ...

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I’ll stumble. I’ll fall. Again. And again. But hear me loud— I rise. Not with ease… but with fire in my eyes. I’ve tasted the dust… Felt the cracks in my soul. But breaking? No. That’s not my role. Let the night try to blind me. Let the shadows pretend they own the road. But I — I am the lamp that burns bold… even when the wind screams no. As long as...

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Some things you survive without sound. No spotlight, no audience, only the quiet echo of your own breath as you carry yourself through another night. The world does not always notice that kind of strength, yet it is the most sacred kind. Survival, on its own, is a quiet kind of miracle. To still be...

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Was it a clash, a scrimmage or an attack? The warrior was speechless; his name was Max Did they carry armor? Did they throw you down? Did it happen in the woods or in London town? Were they wearing colors? Did they have banners too? Were they booted up or did they wear a tennis shoe? Did they wear crowns or...

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