to The Brothers, and Sisters, in Arms . . .
as the Caissons, go rolling along, Ever still . . .
( dust, to dust )
because long before Glory, there was Grace . . .
( what Dreams may come )
and One Dei, within these Pages,
Men, will Ever write, of what They do,
Women, will Always right, of what They knew,
* Men, will Ever write, of when Their ~conquered~ knelt, *
* while Women, will Always right, of just how it ~felt~, *
* Men, will Ever write, of All Their Empires built, *
* Women, will Always right, of the Blood that *
* They spilt, and Men, will Ever right, of *
* Their All and Their Sums, leaving *
* Women, to Always write, *
* as Their very own *
* Kingdom, *
comes . . .
from Book I, The Ring ( First Light ) The Third DoveTale – The Gates of Dawn
( of Pen, or Sword )
There are Poets, those who dance, with Words,
when Thought and Deed, are not Enough, and
there are Empires to build, or lost Dreams
wait, to live inside Their Walls . . .
There are Poets, who walk, where Echoes go to
die, knowing The Winds blow, by The Names
of Patience and Longing, or a Muse, who
answers, to One and The Same . . .
There are Poets, who teach Wisdom, to Reason,
finding Truth in Both, as They lay Our Hearts
down to rest, upon a Leaf, upon a Wave,
upon a Sea, Once upon a Time . . .
There are Poets, who hold within Their Arms, A
Breath of Understanding, wrapped in a Cloak
of Simplicity, to be left on The Doorstep,
of The Child, within Us, All . . .
from Book II, The Sword ( Second Sound ) The Third DoveTale – The Rail of Sighs
( They cried )
through These Windows, came The Sounds, of Glory,
of Empires, and of Legacies, and A Soldier’s Story,
of Men, and of Machines, and of Sacred Things,
of Honor, of Courage, of the Voyages of Kings . . .
through These Pages, now tattered, and torn,
came Heralds or Prophets, Sages were born,
from Dawn, to Dusk, came Wonders, anew,
over Fields, and Forests, Our Destinies flew . . .
through These Gates, came His Tales of Old,
of Castles, and Camelot, and Cities, of Gold,
of Fame, and of Fortune, and Destiny’s Hand,
of Sons and Swords, and Monuments, of Sand . . .
through These Echoes, so His Stories would tell,
of Legions, on Battlefields, Men marching to Hell,
of Gods, and of Galaxies, and of Creation, unknown,
of The Tides, and The Times, when Angels have flown . . .
and through These Moments, All gathered Here, and Now,
come The Whispers of Horses, and His Dreams, SomeHow,
and No Matter of His Journey, not of The Where, nor The From,
because, finally, Here, at Hand, Yes, His Kingdom, has Come . . .
from Book I, The Ring ( First Light ) The Eleventh DoveTale – The Shelter of Kindness