"Warrior," A Poetry Post

I married a 

great warrior.

When the front lines

got hot,

and the smoke

didn't clear,

and the sun

had set,

and the noise

was unbearable,

and shells and shots

flew,

and shouts

went up,

he 

stood firm beside me

with his hands

hooked into the

solid oak 

battering ram.

And if every man fell,

to the right and to the left,

behind us and in the flanks,

I knew 

I could 

look to the left,

and a sharp battleaxe

would be ready,

would be ready,

would be ready.

An endless onslaught 

of offenses came on,

came on,

came on,

but in between attacks,

we would look at each other

and run a quick check.

We have to go again?

We have to go again.

Okay; we go again.

And God was with us,

through many waves of battle:

whites of the eyes strikes,

long distance missile strikes,

intimate hand to hand strikes,

friendly fire and sabotage.

When life came at us

HARD,

the ram was always even.

I can go again.

Can you go again?

I can go again.

We go again.

It is certainly odd,

to look to the left

and not see him there

facing down the enemy

with his "Don't cross this line" grimace. 

It is 

HARD

to hold the ram

alone,

to hold the center,

to defend the front,

to anticipate at the back,

to go on without a check-in.

And yet,

a promise being made,

to the warrior and the King,

I will. 

I will look to the hills,

from whence my first help came,

and will remain suited and armed,

and trust that if the left slot is empty,

I am now equipped

if only for a time

to hold the line,

hold the line,

hold the line.

To lock both arms in 

and get behind the Oak

and PRESS

whatever occurs around me,

whoever falls,

whenever necessary.

My husband, 

he married a great warrior.

-T. D. James-Moss