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Helmet on, weapon in hand, one boot in front of the other-
as the brave and the bold marches towards the sound of thunder.
The Soldier, the warrior, the brother from another mother-
walking with his second family, as the world itself falls asunder.
As with most things in life, the Soldier and his brother’s never see it coming-
the explosion, the storm of armageddon, nor hear the sound of the drumming.
Reality disappears from view, the world suddenly becomes a blur-
the marching stops dead, because the hand of fate has taken over.
Ligthning has been unleashed, the depths of hell jet forth from the Earth-
the world has become shattered, the cost of war counts how much it is worth.
The man is now a Soldier, the Soldier is now the weapon,
the Soldier is now the full-realisation of his training and of his intuition.
The dust around him is choking, the smell of death is in the air,
and to the world that the Soldier now finds himself in the middle of nothing can compare.
The Soldier looks upon the entire universe, as it now appears to him;
but he has no time to look around and fully take in
the horror, the loss, his brother’s strewn in every direction-
nor is there a moment for him to stand still in reflection.
The Soldier takes in a breath, and then runs for cover,
through a storm being unleashed by the disciples of the Grim Reaper-
all the while with a purpose to survive and live to avenge the fallen,
and relay to his brother’s family the importance of their son.
After finding cover, the Soldier looks towards the machine of hate-
the allies of the architects of destruction, who could never truly relate
the true meaning of life, and the importance of the living;
the reason we need differences, but also the importance of forgiving.
To the Soldier his purpose is clear, to his weapon he now looks-
everything he anticipated about this moment, and everything he read in his books,
now comes into play and takes him through the motions
of ending another human being’s life, and the rush of hightened emotions.
The Soldier dies over and over with every bullet that he fires from his rifle,
and with every extinguished life the trigger becomes harder and harder to pull;
but the Soldier and his brother’s continue to fight with all that they are,
and over time the most recent wound of war ceases to bleed and turns into a scar.
After the hell of battle that he went though, after the pain of death over and over again-
the Soldier walks through the remains of carnage of the red shirt’s of the metal rain,
and as he looks upon the faces of his family, his brother’s, the reason for his being,
the Soldier knows that he will never get over the cost of life that he is now seeing-
but the Soldier knows that he can, and must, live with the actions of himself and others-
however the Soldier will never forget, nor disgrace, the memory and the face of his brothers.
A letter from the past, a once forgotten memory-
a reverie of a newly-revealed stitch in time of your life’s tapestry;
a flood of old feelings, thoughts, hopes, and fears;
a remembrance of sights, sounds, love’s, losses, and tears-
like a time machine of the mind, a bridge over a vast ocean,
when reality seems to stand still while the world is still in motion.
There is nothing like a song to release you from the present,
to recapture your heart and to make you feel resplendent,
to relive the first time you heard that special voice,
to revisit the exhilaration of your heart beating in rejoice,
to reincarnate the rush of energy that only comes at our birth-
when we retire from being weightless to walk the corners of the Earth.
A daydream of a particular person, the musing of a thought-provoking melody,
the feeling of letting go of the world and being set free,
is a gift that we alone are blessed to experience, immerse ourselves, and dive into;
a reality, like that of Alice‘s Looking Glass of Wonder, we can always go to.
They say that there is a lot about someone you can tell
by the way they walk, and the way they cast their spell,
as they walk through the world with their head held high-
always looking above and beyond- to the future, or to the sky.
A persons gait can say a lot about their intentions;
about the way they think, and about the confidence of their inventions;
about their constant and absolute belief in their own flair-
that what they possess is just as important as breathing air!
What we resonate and emanate, how we carry ourselves and interact,
how we act, attract- how we generate the gravitas required to make an impact-
may only be a thin, and sometimes transparent, veil that we wear to convince
the world around us that we are, in our own mind, nothing short of a prince-
when in actuality your reality is far from the idylic picture that you paint:
the reality that you are imperfect, flawed, and that you are not a saint.
A person’s gait, like that of a garden gate, is but someone’s first portal-
an entrance to what lies within, behind and beyond the physical and the mortal.
Someone’s gait is not a definition of themselves-
it can be a second identity, a mask, a projection of their inner-self;
or, perhaps, the person that they hope and wish to be-
the figurative acorn that could one day grow and flourish into an Oak Tree.
Memory, nostalgia- that special feeling of yesteryear;
our hopes, our dreams- that which we hold on to like a souvenir-
never to be replaced, never to be extinguished:
the constant of everything for which we have ever wished.
Eden, Utopia- a perfect place of eternal bliss-
that place you go to with a friend when you reminisce-
one of the most powerful draws that lies just over the horizon,
a promise that we can be whatever we can possibly imagine.
A foothold of faith; a leap for love-
that first glimpse of the one you adore and are in awe of-
not only a memory, but an Eden in it’s own right;
like a forever beckoning beacon of emotion and light
that resonates infinitely and is an uninterrupted delight,
which, even after first sight, makes your heart race and take flight-
the rush, the essence, and the allure of love at first sight.
“Roses in December” is the gift that memory bestows-
to be able to go back in time, and deliver like a single red rose:
the scent, the palette, the poignancy of life that our senses merely hint to-
an infinite, unrelenting, penetrating, perfect, beautiful view-
that forever and always stays with you,
and will carry on even after our last adieu.
“God gave us memory so that we might have roses in December.”
— J.M. Barrie
Take my hand, come with me- I have something to show you;
I want you to witness with me the creation of the new.
Unlock with me, walk with me through the door’s of inspiration;
feel with me the energy all around, and invoke the muse of creation.
See through my eyes all the people who have influenced who I am,
who gave me so much, and broke down the barrier of my figurative dam.
Revist with me the choices that have led to my life’s current sphere-
relive with me my emotions, my memories, my feeling of arriving at a new frontier.
Become with me, understand with me- see the poetic perfection in the chaos;
be a part of the eternal rhyme, live forever- be the meaning of life’s gloss.
I may write the rhymes; I may imagine the imagery;
I may be the sole believer and follower of my own personal philosophy;
but I am not the only one who will be there at this poem’s end,
you will be there too, my friend-
because, whether you know it or not, you have been part of something-
you have brought more to this poem than I could ever hope to bring.
If you’ve given me this much, maybe you would be willing to give me a little more:
take my hand, come with me- stare again with me in awe at what the future has in store!
The moment I fell in love was like jumping off a cliff;
like defying the laws of nature, and turning gravity into a myth.
The moment I fell in love I felt as if I had been reborn,
as if I had been struck by lightning; or pricked by a rose’s thorn:
a powerful surge of energy began to course through my veins-
as if a spirit within me had transcended, and my heart was now unrestrained.
The moment I fell in love began like any other day;
however, by the end, I could no long understand, nor obey,
how I was feeling, nor what my heart was trying to say-
but one thing was for certain: I never wanted to feel any other way.
The moment I fell in love felt as if I had been enveloped in a wave,
an indomitable force- a direction in my life that paved
a way of looking at the world, the ability to feel energy tangibly-
a love that every day seeks to, and is successful, in enlightening me.
The moment I fell in love is a moment that is important and precious,
a moment that, to this day, still brings about in me a fuss-
maybe because the moment that I fell in love took me places I had never been,
made me write like never before, and see things I had never seen.
The moment I fell in love will always be a part of me-
everyday I think to myself about that moment when my heart was set free;
that moment when from out of nowhere my poetic voice began to emerge-
that moment when every possibility in the universe became real and converged.
To me, William Shakespeare is the “People’s Poet”-
whose timeless and beautiful works always permit
the identification of yourself within the words that you read;
a further understanding of the human condition, and it’s need’s-
who, through his poem’s, play’s, sonnet’s, and character’s
always ask’s questions, and gives answers.
The more Shakespeare you read the more his words rise from the page,
especially if you are in the audience of them being performed on stage.
Tales of love, loss, ambition, and jealousy,
of time, comedy, tyranny, and identity,
are but a handful of the themes that Shakespeare explores;
and through which, like a key to the lock of many doors,
The Bard himself transports his audience to many places-
allows us to feel, and understand the motivations of many faces.
quattuordecim
The Life, the Light, the Tears, of the Poet of the Sphere 