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Poetry by Shigé Clark

"Let the battered heart rejoice"

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fight

to my weary warriors

A little poetic doodle for today:

I wish the world was softer for you. I wish
It touched you with feathered fingertips
And didn’t twist its fist into your chest like
One at war – when I know
That you don’t want to fight,
That you would talk it out if
Anyone would listen. I would lift
This burden from your shoulders
If I could. I would warm the colder
Corners of this house with all the light
That doesn’t shine outside.
I would hide you, if the choice were mine.
I would guide you to align
Yourself with peace, and protect you
From the harm. I would warn you away
From all that grieves you, keep you
From the fray, and ever sheltered
From the world that needs you.

The Disease

The Disease

Call to Open Arms

Friends, in response to my previous post and in light of all that’s happening in the world right now, I offer you my humble reply.

Call to Open Arms

Stained with Dreams

Stained with Dreams.png

It Suffices

It Suffices

You

Theme Week: Heroes – 3

You

Theme Week: Heroes – 1

RISE

Weary soul, lost and abandoned,
What did you last have your hand in
That was worth the measure of your time?
In this life, so frail and fleeting,
You have just one, red heart beating.
When did you last step up to the line?

When did you give up the battle,
Fall into the herd, like cattle?
Can your soul still hear the burning call?
How much was your silence bought for,
Laying down the cause you fought for?
Rise! There are some mountains worth the fall.

– s. Clark

Theme Week: Christmas – 1

I know that I am so late in posting this, I got caught up in the holidays! I hope you can all forgive me, and that you are having amazing holidays of your own. Love you, my dears, thank you for reading!

This poem “Christmas” is a VERY non-traditional Christmas poem, meant to speak to the reason for the season. I hope you still enjoy!

 

The air tastes sharply of iron
As the dust is tainted red
Frantic shouts across the valley
Rise in notes of mounting dread.
For though we may fight with fervor,
We have met a fearsome foe
Creatures, jagged, black, and snarling,
Tearing through us row by row.

Not a man has stood before them,
They have slain both swift and strong.
In the hundreds we have fallen
To the fury of their song.
For the song was one of darkness,
Draining all our will to stand,
And it soaked into the soil
Like a poison in the land.

Now we pause, bloody and broken,
Some have quit their post and flown,
And the brave are few in number,
While their ranks have only grown.
Faces turn to watch the castle,
Voices cry out for the King.
But with all the length between us,
Who could hear our suffering?

All our swords have fallen heavy,
Trembling, we cower back,
As the monsters roar and cackle,
Setting for the last attack.
Then a shout upon the hillside
Draws our eyes across the land,
Silhouetted by the sunset
Is the figure of a man.

He lifts up his sword, defiant,
Hulking shadow, edged in light,
And he spurs his stead to gallop,
Charging down into the fight.
Raise your heads and see, my brothers,
Shrink away in fear no more,
For we have not been abandoned,
And the King’s son comes to war!

– s. Clark

You Were There

You have been there. The fight has grown so long,
I have lost count of all my battles fought.
My blade is bloodied, and my flesh is torn.
This war that we call life has made me strong,
and each success has been so dearly bought
beneath the weight of struggle and of scorn.

Though there are many crowded at the line
to watch me win the race, you shared the road.
So in the times I fell and lost my heart,
or knelt with broken knees and twisted spine,
you reached to raise me, shouldering my load.
You walked the weary wasteland from the start.

And there are always those who claim the win,
who show up for the trophies made of gold,
but you have been there for the grueling climb.
You offered faithful words and cheering grin
through all the pain, the tears, the biting cold,
through hateful words that rained like acid slime.

So let them come and boast with puffing chests,
and let them list me in their accolades.
The straws they grasp are empty as the air.
For in the times the haggard line was pressed,
I found you at my shoulder in the glade.
Through hell, with all its heartache, you were there.

– s. Clark

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