#fencing
That blue fabric so rough against my skin. The familiar grated vision. Supple worn leather loosely hangs on my finger tips. Wind comes through the small hole on the side of the black. My extended arm lets off a string of silver attacks. Blocked by the masked figure before me. We begin the dance of death. Only one shall prevail. Red shall fall on our black and white forms.
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 1:21 AM UTC
Everyone here seems to know each other
not like a son knows his mother
but they know each other
and I'm sat looking over
hundreds of people
yet alone I feel
in an unknown city
with people wearing white
people dressed to fight
they fight with swords
but not with shields
in straight lines
is where they choose to shine
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 12:40 PM UTC
En-garde fellow poet
who stands with gold pen sword.
Raise thy weapon and duel with me
in bout with words.
My tool be sharp with potent prose.
sonneteer stand is ready to fight
Yes En-garde I say
for be know to slain one with a mighty song.
And I am Known to gather crowds
who watch many a victory
Un-garde I echo with parry to cut thy thoughts.
With sabre pen sharp with ink red.
Perhaps than you shall bleed
as we will meet upon ground of page.
En--garde you who cast a shadow
of judgment with they eyes
For battle shall commence
on Fields a plenty
And I will win a sun for sure.
Jan 4, 2020
Jan 4, 2020 at 11:26 PM UTC
It took a few years to find ourselves.
In that time, my hair grew out,
and your height grew tall.
We grew like sunflowers.
All the other girls wanted crowns,
along with a Prince Charming,
while I took up fencing, and learned
how to shoot a basketball properly.
You learned the arts, how to
play sharp staccatos and paint pastel skies,
while the boys your age were
breaking windows with baseballs.
Your performances stunned the crowds.
Your fingers moved mountains.
You came to my competitions.
My saber moved faster than light.
From a distance, was how we grew.
We were the sky and the sea,
watching each other from a distance.
So close, yet so far apart.
Jan 11, 2020
Jan 11, 2020 at 9:32 PM UTC
And with sword like pens
we will duel Inside hearts
creatively fencing our way
through a poem.
Un-guard the moments right.
Touché the air is sweet.
I bow...we both win.
Apr 29, 2019
Apr 29, 2019 at 1:00 PM UTC