The Warrior Poet

Posted on in Inspiration, Self Awareness with 4 Comments
Photo by rhanelt

Photo by rhanelt

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about the warrior poet, and what it means to be a warrior poet.  I wrote a poem a while back that I believe speaks to this calling.  It’s about being a spiritual warrior and the sometimes lonely path it leads you down.

 

THE WARRIOR POET

Gazing unto the great expanse,
unsure and vexed at heart.
Stepping forward knowing not,
uncertainty all around.
Voices, voices everywhere voices;
pulling, gnawing, lies, deceit.
Crooked and crippled men abound.
Their unfettered actions cry out loud,
no shame, no shame, no shame.

And the Warrior Poet stands alone;
one hand to heaven, and one to earth.
A single tear upon his cheek;
his life with the seasons
ebb and flow, ebb and flow, ebb and flow.
And the Warrior Poet
he stands alone, stands alone, stands alone.

The fruit is sweet if you come this way,
why fight me son of man.
Fragrant pleasures soft embrace.
Oh let life be life and question not,
the temptress vain and sultry sound.
Upon her breast she gathers round.
The fool who fears not God or man.
The fool who’s mind and spirit vain;
does eat destruction in the end, in the end, in the end.

And the Warrior Poet stands alone;
one hand to heaven, and one to earth.
A single tear upon his cheek;
his life with the seasons
ebb and flow, ebb and flow, ebb and flow.
And the Warrior Poet
he stands alone, stands alone, stands alone.

And the man of God found his way,
a fork to left or right.
Simplicity, please come my way,
or ego folly the prideful brutes.
But the man of God moved straight ahead,
through thorn and thistle, bush and brier.
He chose the unworn path, so hard,
bloodied flesh, beat and bruised.
There is, he thought, an easier way;
broad and wide and tranquil filled.
The way to death, way to death, way to death.

And the Warrior Poet stands alone;
one hand to heaven, and one to earth.
A single tear upon his cheek;
his life with the seasons
ebb and flow, ebb and flow, ebb and flow.
And the Warrior Poet
he stands alone, stands alone, stands alone.

And dreams at sleep of different days,
Oh days of great and chivalrous men.
Shields mighty with scabbard swords,
they staved the evil by night that came.
And chaste their hearts with all their might,
lest fear or folly choke their life.
And death of more than life should come,
their oath they swore by blood of death.
Uphold the truth the virtuous men, virtuous men, virtuous men.

And the Warrior Poet stands alone;
one hand to heaven, and one to earth.
A single tear upon his cheek;
his life with the seasons
ebb and flow, ebb and flow, ebb and flow.
And the Warrior Poet
he stands alone, stands alone, stands alone.

The book he holds most tender near,
embraced like love’s most tender dear.
It’s words are strength like tempered steal,
it’s warmth a glowing ember deep.
Verbum of Deus you strengthen him,
for weak without, and dust his end.
Dark now light and light now dark.
Right now wrong and wrong now right.
So he draw’s his scabbard sword to pierce,
the heart of blasphemy shame amidst.
The deadly mongrels that prey by night, prey by night, prey by night.

And the Warrior Poet stands alone;
one hand to heaven, and one to earth.
A single tear upon his cheek;
his life with the seasons
ebb and flow, ebb and flow, ebb and flow.
And the Warrior Poet
he stands alone, stands alone, stands alone.

Deep within the dessert barren,
the man of God does suffer thirst.
And another fork lies before him,
temptation, lies, death and jeers;
or weak and faithless haunted fears.
But the man of God moves straight ahead,
though parched and dry as dessert sand.
He thirsts and cries with anguished heart,
but wavers not the standard carried.
The ancient ways must be preserved;
if not he, than who will carry, who will carry, who will carry?

And the Warrior Poet stands alone;
one hand to heaven, and one to earth.
A single tear upon his cheek;
his life with the seasons
ebb and flow, ebb and flow, ebb and flow.
And the Warrior Poet
he stands alone, stands alone, stands alone.

Scarred and tattered, bruised throughout,
with years gone by and wisdom grown.
He stood before a precipice deep,
with many tears upon his cheek.
Could this be it, was it but folly,
to bear this standard and fight the foe?
All these years I’ve stood alone,
while wayward men lost the meaning.
And I, upon their lips a fool,
must I bear this all alone?
My sons and brothers will you not follow me, follow me, follow me?

And the Warrior Poet stands alone;
one hand to heaven, and one to earth.
A single tear upon his cheek;
his life with the seasons
ebb and flow, ebb and flow, ebb and flow.
And the Warrior Poet
he stands alone, stands alone, stands alone.

Thunderous stillness filled the land,
a small still voice spoke to the man.
When weak and weary and at death’s door,
I bore your spirit and carried your load.
And preserved have I, many a man,
with scabbard swords and standards held.
Men of muse and strength of might,
men I’ve chosen of the light.
All sworn to follow where you have been,
resisting life of ease and sin.
A brotherhood of mighty men,
Warrior Poets all of them, all of them, all of them.

And the Warrior Poet stands alone;
one hand to heaven, and one to earth.
A tear of joy upon his cheek.
His life with the seasons
ebb and flow, ebb and flow, ebb and flow.
And the Warrior Poet is
no longer alone, no longer alone, no longer alone.

 

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