An Ancient Breath

The wind that lifted the soil
from the face of Kansas in the
thirties is still here
It’s never escaped our
atmosphere
Perhaps near
Perhaps blowing
down your street
is the wind that
touched soldier’s cheeks
at the Somme
That writhed
through the jungles of ‘Nam
Every breeze a living relic
of human history
newly experienced

Horde

A dragon prow
pierces the shroud
of mist to
imprint itself
upon history’s
virgin pages

With bludgeoning fists

With axe and roar

The body of the leviathan
is the Viking horde

The grapes of their
wrath are forged of gold
reaped through blood
with the edge of a sword
they send the faithful
to be with their lord

Without regard for
the Christian’s hell
their victory comes
if in death
they die well
and the skalds
gather their children
their glory to tell