We Shall Fight

When endings have begun
and the tides of battle run
when darkness swallows sun,
we shall fight, we shall fight!

When light-bearers raging yell
echoes from the depths of Hell,
midst the shadows, dark and fell,
we shall fight, we shall fight!

When the silent voices cry
that they do not wish to die
as the victims of a lie
we shall fight, we shall fight!

And when serpents of the pen
spew their venom from their den,
Shall we be craven then?
We shall fight, we shall fight!

When cities truth upturn
and the bloom of life they spurn,
and with dreadful madness burn,
we shall fight, we shall fight!

Though day should fall to night,
and we dwell in failing light,
for love and truth and right,
we shall fight!

How Did it Come to This?

Oh sisters, dearest sisters,

why sell yourselves like this?
Why give yourselves to lusts of man,
reject the wonder of God's plan,
his designs for your great bliss?

Oh tell me, tell me, how did it come to this?

My beautiful ones, my sisters,
how can you be so blind?
In your dress men see not the core,
see but the body, nothing more
as they rape with eyes and mind.

My heart is breaking, dearest sisters! How did it come to this?

Do you not know my sisters,
that you were made for so much more?
Men see you now as game pursued,
notches on the post and playthings used,
treat you not like royal princess, but a whore.

I weep for you, my sisters! How did it come to this?

I wish for you my sisters,
that you might open yourselves to love.
Challenge men to treat you as they ought,
as souls that should be protected, honored, not objects bought.
Show them what your person is truly of!

I see you sisters and wonder, how did it come to this?

And I ask unto you, my brothers,
whence came this fateful day?
That we now listen to worldly lies,
that cloaked beneath fair-seeming guise
bid us sell our strength away.

Such lies, such lies, my brothers! How did it come to this?

How did it come, my brothers,
that our selfish lusts we seek?
Pursue women, power, wealth at length,
in which the world tells us lies our strength,
but in truth surely makes us weak.

What fools we are, my brothers! How did it come to this?

What sin and folly, brothers,
that our strength we now misuse!
Strength that should be used to love, protect,
now at cost of our sisters runs unchecked,
as with eyes and hearts we abuse.

Alas, my warrior brothers! How did it come to this?

Where lies our strength my brothers,
our call in times of strife?
Not to use but to love and shield,
before dark temptation never yield,
though it cost our very life.

How far we fall, my brothers! How did it come to this?

Tell me world, oh tell me!
Do you think our life is this?
To grab what we can for ourselves,
as we live inside our little Hells,
can't you see what is amiss?

This is not the truth, my brethren! How did it come to this?

Oh people, if these selfish truths are real,
tis a sad and shrunken Earth.
Till we turn back to love and sacrifice,
from lives of selfish thoughts and mortal vice,
our world is fatally cursed.

We were made for more, oh people! How did it come to this?

Hands

In hands lie powers great and true,
to help or hurt, to make things new.
In hands the power to give or take,
to love, to harm, create or break.
Spread wealth to others, gather to you.

It was hands that rained the blows,
on pure man's back and tore his clothes.
Hands on the end of arms spread wide,
when on a cross in love he died.
With open hands his love he showed.

And when he rose again on high,
returning homeward to the sky,
a mission he gave to be his hands,
to heal and serve in all the lands.
His powers in our own hands lie.

To our human hands power he gives
for good or evil, while we live.
Within each man does dwell the choice,
on how his hands will speak their voice,
using them to condemn or to forgive.

Hands we can open in embrace,
hands wipe the tears from saddened face.
Hands given to another in act of love,
that takes the form of purest dove,
and shows to us his special grace.

Tis hands that raise the gifts on high,
where blood and body hidden lie.
Hands are laid upon the head,
recall the spirit from the dead,
and bring new life like morning sky.

Yet our hands can bring also pain,
power to destroy the crop and scatter grain.
With hands we can be agents of hate,
destroying good others create.
Hand are given to the evil and insane.

Decide then how your hands will be used,
for at life's end we do not draw, but only win or lose.
Victory's determined in part by hands.
Were they used to love or meet selfish demands?
Your hands will tell your life's story, so choose.

Common

at a time I was particularly fed up with idiocy and academia, which can often be one and the same.

Give me those who live and bleed and die.
Give me the man who weary in body seeks to live the good life.
Give me the woman full of hurt who still loves.
Those who wander on the streets and scratch out a living,
who harbor in their hearts hope for their children,
keeping nothing for themselves.

They have truly loved, truly felt, truly wept, truly lived.
They live unfettered by theories and academic babble,
spewed forth by apes who masquerade as men,
who proclaim man as high and excellent,
and in the next breath reduce him to an animal.

How much I would rather be ruled by those who see life clearly:
poor in learning,
but rich in life and common sense.

The Dome and Spire

inspired by the view of DC from my office building and my thoughts on politics in general.

On wings of dawn the sun does rise, a golden spire,
and gleaming rays alight on dome and spire
that stand amidst the sound of cry and moan,
of those wandering the kingdom, lost alone.
The gluttonous for power and snake tongued liars,
sit their in vice and power on their thrones.

Forgotten now their noble call, the call to serve.
From new and deadly tasks they will not swerve.
Those who once they served now denied both life and breath,
They trample the oppressed to dust and death,
those whose backs with heavy loads do curve.

Bickering these power hungry jackals sit in golden halls
devouring defenseless lives with hungry maws.
Then turning round with serpent hearts and eyes,
feed the people's fears with evil lies.
As they cackling gather power neath their paws.

Where now are servants true, to do what must be done?
Who'll save their people dying like sinking sun.
Truly unless they come with speed and haste,
on deadly paths our kingdom has been placed,
to a place of hell and misery, never undone.

Silent Shades

inspired by many a silent, otherworldly trip on the Metro

I saw a man
-at least, I think he was a man.
I thought my hand would pass through him like mist,
so unreal he seemed
as he hurried by me.

A woman too I saw
-at least, I think. I can't be sure.
With eyes unseeing she sat upon her seat.
An ethereal being
who shared the air with me.

Dozens, hundreds more I saw
-or did I? I truly think I did.
Compressed together in coffin cold, not speaking.
With inward looking eyes,
withdrawn into themselves.

The shades stood silent
-or were they real? I couldn't tell.
If real, then surely they would speak in love.
But they didn't.
Their companions they ignored.

The people stood aloof
-people? Perhaps, but if so, then only part.
Though close, so distant, contained within themselves.
Such tiny worlds,
a sight that breaks the heart.

The Concrete Man

a poem inspired by a man I see sitting outside the metro every morning.

A man sits
on cold concrete.
His face is weary, weather-worn,
his jacket frayed and stained and torn,
but who cares?

The man blends
with stony ground.
They can't perceive who hurry past,
with lives of speed, hurried and fast.
So who sees?

The people rush
in hurried haste.
They pass the rock with mournful eyes
and journey on as passer-bys,
but who speaks?

And death descends
on this silent street.
Death in their silence, gives no word,
to neighbor's cry for love, unheard.
So who loves?

The King sits
within the man.
And as the sprinters rush and frown and fret,
it is their King that they neglect.
The King who loves.