The spear moved in slow motion
As if moving through water
Heading for your heart
Finding the mark
And tried
Gone

Laying low and waiting
in the grass, see the sky.
Light above is grating,
caught, perfect, in your eye.
How the moon guides you by
its untroubled movements.
Pristine, untouched, how thy
hand makes no improvements.

With the spear you’re weighting,
once again you will try
in the dirt translating
(caught, perfect, in your eye)
that unbroken line. Lie
that your own amusements
could hold that light. Each sly
hand makes no improvements.

While you stand hesitating,
I place your hand on mine.
“Look,” I say, “duplicating,
caught. Perfect, in your eye,
the moon reflected, spy.
Despite the light’s influence,
to your beauty, his high
hand makes no improvements.”

In vain we satisfy
our heart with our reply.
All of us are truants--
all of nature’s students.

Truces
by Michael R. Burch

Artur took Cabal, his hound,
and Carwennan, his knife,
and his sword forged by Wayland
and Merlyn, his falcon,
and, saying goodbye to his sons and his wife,
he strode to the Table Rounde.

“Here is my spear, Rhongomyniad,
and here is Wygar that I wear,
and ready for war,
an oath I foreswore
to fight for all that is righteous and fair
from Wales to the towers of Gilead!”

But none could be found to contest him,
for Lancelot had slewn them, forsooth,
so he hastened back home, for to rest him,
till his wife bade him, “Thatch up the roof!”

We must sometimes wonder if all the fighting related to King Arthur and his knights was really necessary. In particular, it seems that Lancelot fought and either captured or killed a fairly large percentage of the population of England. Could it be that Arthur preferred to fight than stay at home and do domestic chores? And, honestly now, if he and his knights were such incredible warriors, who would have been silly enough to do battle with them? Wygar was the name of Arthur’s hauberk, or armored tunic, which was supposedly fashioned by one Witege or Widia, possibly the son of Wayland Smith. Legends suggest that Excalibur was forged upon the anvil of the smith-god Wayland, who was also known as Volund, which sounds suspiciously like Vulcan. Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, armor, sword, Excalibur, spear, Lancelot, wife, domestic chores, war, peace, homework

Lance-Lot
by Michael R. Burch

Preposterous bird!
Inelegant! Absurd!

Until the great & mighty heron
brandishes his fearsome sword.

I wrote this poem for a great blue heron who visits a pond that I pass on my daily walks — a truly majestic bird and the ultimate spear-fisher.

Just because you now use your spear
as a walking stick, doesn't change
your past's sanguinary veneer
men, women, and children, your range.

All for us to sing of your κλέος,
the shades come back to haunt,
your glory, your fame, your albatross.
dreams of slit throats and screams daunt.

You have given up bloodshed,
we no longer sing your praises,
now you can finally rest your head,
and the enemy thanks you for your hiatus.

I’ve chosen fight today,
I’ve been choosing fight every single night and day.
I bear the scars now of victories
And the still dripping wounds of defeats.
I’m a fighter now
I fought for me and you.
If I could I’d lay down this spear.
Just to rest for a day or year,
But battles need to be fought.
So I’ll just keep choosing fight instead of flight
Until it’s no longer needed.

MONTHS are mature, the moon comes, I pluck you, with a doubtful hand and an abundance of anxiety. Night is ripe, night comes.

Moon hungry, wild moon. You make me a bat, take out. I am from the blind stone cave, hunting you. Night hungry, wild night.

The moon is sharp, the moon is deep. I'm a diver fisherman, long sharpening. Spear, on you I shut my eyes-wounded. Night sharp, deep night.

Why did I fall in love with you?
Our souls couldn’t unite, but still lost in you was I!
You couldn’t be chased away from my dreams,
you couldn’t be sleeping in my arms at night;
still lost in you was I.
With flowers I wooed you every second,
With leaves I chanted your name by minute,
With machines I carved your name,
With knives I killed myself every night;
With envy I even murdered your knight,
With anger I endangered all in blood,
With guns I threatened your being.

My intense enigmatic love broke into pieces by the moonlight, The spear ran through your engraved name.
Words that flowed out my mouth: Sometimes killed my real self for it.