Bittersweet Victory (Incomplete)

Gliding on her gilded wings

Swift Nike comes to me

Sweet Goddess over Victoy

Garland-weaver to kings

Comes to me within my dreams

Touching tenderly upon the ground

She turned with eyes of grief

Her voice as sad and sans relief

My heart would break at the sound

Morbid each word echoed and rebound.

"The battle pieces have been thrown

But ere the first's pike's clash

Or silver swift flying arrow flash

Lo, the flag too soon been shown

And white already been flown,

And now sent, I have come unto thee

Not clothed in garments of gold

But in iron that burns so cold

For though I stand here as you see

I am but a hollow Victory."

"Milady, please, I do implore,"

I said now upon bended knee

"If thou'rt but a hollow Victory

For reason stand thou here before

the one who, thou so adores.

Why come upon thy gilded flight

If there has no battle been

And the sun no blood has seen

How can laurels bend with thy might

Crown a victor without battle's sight?"

"Thy adversary has now withdrawn"

The gildless goddess spoke in tone

That froze fire and melted bone

"The worthy one, who did not warn

Attacking on that fateful morn

She who crossed thy river's bands

She who breached the great walls

Toppled your gates beneath her soles

She who came upon thy lands

So innocently in song and dance

O son of man that you could not know

That the Siren's call was near

In danger all you held dear

Your kingdom come to overthrow

At the way her eyes would glow

But you saw through that disguise

And drew your sword to make war

To play the games that boys so adore

But you did not see the fear in her eyes

The truth behind the truth behind the lies

Now she has withdrawn beyond your reach

And you still speak of making battle

While your spear and sword rattle

Because your own heart has heard her's beseech

That there is something for her to teach."

"But how, O Goddess, can I find her now

For she has made it clear

Psalm of Frustrations

What is this inside my heart?
Look beyond the veil if you can
A weight weighs down so hard
Frustrates me, I don’t understand
What is this thing God?
Why does honey turn bitter at the taste?
Hands that yearn to grip their tools
Despise their labor as mere waste
This hidden thing so deep
In my soul it frustrates to no end!
God! God! These hands cry out!
In mercy, let Your answer send!

Silence.
A drop of that which is precious to You.
Silence.
What can I, a mere man, do?

I am frustrated! But by who? By what?
No with you Lord, definitely not
Only goodness, kindness, and mercy
Have I ever from You got.
With my family? No. Friends? No!
With my life? My love? My place?
No! No! A Hundred times no!
Am I frustrated at my own face?

A breakthrough. A glimmer.
A silence one more time.
A hit close to the mark.
Missed it barely by a dime.

I see my face. I see their faces.
They all suffer and I am man.
What is this true burden?
What I’d do. I can’t but would can!
Faces before me of starving children
Crying for a tender word, or act
One thing to show Your love exists
That it’s beyond consolation. Fact.

This is my frustration and birther of others
This which seeks to show them tenderness.
But my arms aren’t wide enough.
Time my enemy. My heart is not endless.

A whisper. Your whisper.
And all the Heavens grow still.
My being is broken before Your coming.
My soul in terror and thrill.

“Your arms are not wide enough.
But mine can reach them all.
Your love is not deep enough.
Mine springs up, bright and tall.
Your heart is not big enough.
Yet it is still after Mine.
Align your hands also now.
No more to wrestle with time.
Not by might, nor by your power,
Never was it to come from you.
But by My Spirit and My Love
Will I work the work of love through you.”

Now I sing because I am happy!
And I sing because I am free!
I have brought to Him my burden
And He has laid it upon me!
Who is there that have eyes to see?
Is there to be found anyone?
That can see into this mystery
Of what the LORD has done!

The Winner

The dark figure stood in the field of rippling wheat. A shadow mark upon the face of the golden landscape, it stood as still as the earth it was upon. And the figure’s face turned to the northern sky as the first flash lit up the heavens. The visage of an old, leathery faced man peering at the distant sky where the storm was boiling.

He had stood there before, many times before, as he faced and weathered the storms of the plains. He knew how they came, how they raged, how they left. He could foresee the coming cloud mountains, dark behemoths riding upon each other’s backs. He could almost smell the crackle of the lightning as it rippled through the heavens.

He planted his lithe, muscular figure firmly in the middle of the field, drawing strength from the bedrock far beneath the ground. He was a titan. An ancient titan of the earth, born of the rock and raised by the stone. He had more dirt in his veins than blood. He stood defiantly facing the storm as it approached nearer and nearer.

His grey green eyes fell upon his small field of wheat, heads of corn bobbing and swaying in rhythmic motion to the warm gust of air. Somehow, with the swaying wheat and the greenish hue of the sky overhead he felt as if he was underwater. He swayed slightly with the tumbling waves of wind then caught himself. He steadied himself firmer in the field. His eyes didn’t leave the approaching wall of purple and black now. He was intent on standing, no matter what.

The storm came. It howled and raged and beat and blew and thundered across the great plain. The old leathery tan man raised bone worked hands to the sky as the warm winds whipped his long grey hair around his face. The rains then came, drenching the world in the warm late summer rains. Large drops fell and splashed and ran down the old man’s skin onto the dusty ground.

Soon the solid figure, yelling and raising his fists to the heavens, was beginning to slip in the mud. It began ever so slightly, bit by bit, as his footing was lost. The lightning peeled overhead its victory cry as the storm continued to batter the old titan. But even as he fell into the mud, he raised his head up from it and cursed the storm. And he stood once more and cried out once more and the very waters that had threatened to overcome him now washed away the filth.

But he did not seem to notice the filth. For he was, after all, a son of the dust and a man of the mud. Even as his feet sunk deeper he sat stronger and drew his strength from the firm earth itself. And the storm grew weary, its thunder died down. The rains stopped as suddenly as it had started, and the clouds rolled on past the little field.

The old man pulled his legs from the sucking mud, already drying from the sun playing between the clouds. He turned around and gave a loud crow of victory to surrounding emptiness. Then he turned in his victory and surveyed his empty field of battle.

The wheat had been flattened and had left empty patches around him. Some places the mud had claimed all of the crop, but others still stood as strong and firm as him. He smiled as he looked at them, seeing future hardier, stronger crops in their seeds that would abide the empty world much better.

Then the old man walked back to his home, his empty little shack. The roof was near caving in, the walls were all bent and buckled. The bent door hanging on one hinge opened into the empty room with the empty bed and the empty table set with three places, three empty places. The old man walked and sat down in one and leaned back.

He had done it. He had weathered the storm. He had stood his ground. He had been victorious and now he could enjoy the sweet fruits of victory. He gazed around at the empty room, and felt sorry for it. No room should be left bare and alone, he thought. So he walked across the bare floor to the empty bed and lay down wearily. He was the winner. He was the winner. I am the winner, he thought.