A Samurai




I stood there, muscles strained and tense
as cold rain ran down my sword like silk
and sent shivers through my spine -
but I steadied my self and watched
as one warrior went forth
hand at his side

grasping the hilt of a blade
his eyes glistening

a calm and quiet intensity.


With dark clouds turning over
and the scent of rain,
came a deep and distant thunder rumbling -
the air was thick and heavy

as our warrior stood his ground

midfield between two armies.


He stood there, resolute
showing naught but pressing confidence,

the kind that one only ever earns in war.

We watched the lines for some challenger -
perhaps they too had their own hero
to face ours in true warrior’s fashion.


And from the battle lines came forth a single man
some warrior monk, with sword and spear,
and cloaked in white religious robes -
wearing plain unpainted wooden armor.
And while I could not see his face,
I knew at once, this man was an honorable foe.


The silence was overwhelming,
as we watched for an eternity

waiting for the moment when two would meet in battle,
to negotiate this matter of honour.


With frightful cry, both warriors charged and met
and sword flashed like lightning

against thrusting spear
and in just one moment’s loss
both warriors paused -
as one fell to the ground
speaking out his words of honour
but wishing he had only...
held on to life...
just a little...



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Can a poet live here
Can an artist be found
Where not even a latte
Can be bought in this town

Of course no one suffers
In the chapel on the hill
Its as quaint as the postcard
With the old worn red mill

But there is desperation
crying out from the trees
The pain is quite real
In the hungry child's pleas

If I give it a voice
Set to meter and rhyme
What will you call it
Will you give it due time

I'm doubtful your cred
even comes from the street
But rather it comes
From the club where you meet

So pardon me please
Great guardian of art
But I still have a mind
And a voice for my heart

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