Warrior II

My father once told me
as Mr. Roger's mother
told him:
“Look for the helpers"
in any atrocity.

“It keeps the world sane”
he continued,
"to know good people
risk their lives
for other humans."

My life and social feeds
were once filled
with a relentless search
for the holy grail of justice
amid political riots and shame.

"I am hurt, but I am not slaine;
I'le lay mee downe and bleed a-while,
And then I'le rise and fight againe."

was a battle cry throughout my life.

Until one day, the veil ripped
and I saw beyond an illusion.

Slowly, my life and accounts
became a reflection
of knowledge and opportunity
for others to know themselves.

But sometimes I wonder
if those sages who have transcended
this life, like my father
have left me alone
or if I’m just good at ignoring
the presence of their ghosts.

There’s a silence beyond busyness
and words, cracks in the structure.
If I’m quiet enough, I fall through
to feel my blood stirring
as volcanic magma
desiring to rise from my solar plexus
that many pointed star of nerves
into the cavity of my throat.

I am taken back to past lives
and childhood wounds
an abandoned house
the bicycle of a boy long gone
being captured by an oak
as though a prisoner of war.

Some claim metal is stronger than wood;
see how swiftly the ax fells the trunk.

Yet, it is merely another thing
in the way of natural growth
devoid of its power source
when left to rust.

Childhood was light and dark
God knows it took so much
till there was almost nothing
of me but belief and hope
in the warrior I was.

I still second guess, at times
my routines of self-care and love
especially the fighting spirit
I exchanged for all of this.

The crimes and atrocities continue
and are too many to list.
But at times my stomach becomes a fist
beating the walls of my abdomen
as a truth that wants to be heard.

Whenever I see my bank account
I yearn for the battlefield instead
and the cool skin of early fog
brushing against my face
with its thick cologne of moss.

Because I had dreams
of a revolution once
one that made a difference.
Where the system became obsolete
and I was martyred in death.

But, at my age, I can't brave the streets
in marches or protest
because I have people that need me.

So I resolved to use that bank statement
to feed the hungry and cure disease.
For that, I need to focus on business
with calm and balance
equal to the status of a retired soldier
like my father.

But, sometimes, late at night
amid the silence between thought
I wonder
if I’ve made the right choice.

Or, if I’ve just learned
through 63 years of wounds
the true cost of sharpened blades
upon the world.

Like the battle ax I left to rust
in the cellar
so I could become a better helper.

~