"legionnaires" poems
I had not been born yet.
Still, I can see you at your labor -
alone, scouring the meadows
for the stones -
lifting their gray shoulders
from the moist earth -
pulling them from the
green grasp of briars,
goldenrod, and
Queen Anne’s Lace.
The smell of the earth
must have filled you with
your own childhood memories -
of plowing fields
and cold mornings
trudging across barn yards
mud thick on your boots -
promising yourself
that someday you would leave
and never return.
I can hear the pick axe -
the sharp strikes
against the stones,
and the dull thud
when the earth
swallowed the blade -
and the deep exhalations
when the stones tumbled into
the old wheelbarrow – new then -
that now leans rusting
against my garden shed.
Some of the stones were so large -
far too large for one man –
how did you move them?
I look at the old photographs
and you seem so young –
so much younger
than I am today - and so thin –
staring off-frame beyond the camera.
What were you looking for
in those fields?
I can see you sorting the stones,
stacking them -
building and unbuilding
and rebuilding the walls
and terraces
until the walls were true
and the terraces level
and planted with dogwood,
birches, soft grass for bare feet,
and bordered with roses.
Did you know
that you were building my castle?
That the highest terrace
would be my tower and keep?
I remember calling out to my
knights, my legionnaires,
and tribesmen –
rallying them in defense
of the citadel – ready for
the coming siege.
I also remember looking out
across that verdant kingdom
for the last time -
no longer a king or a boy –
and miles away, across the river
to the west, I imagined
the new home that awaited us.
I couldn’t know
how far away it would be
or what it meant to leave.
This morning,
as I looked out across
the garden that I have built,
I felt the weightlessness of time
and its gravity
settling me into place.
For a brief moment I had
the sensation that I was standing
on the shoulders of
gathered stones.
(for my father, Guy Spencer.)
Tom Spencer © 2015
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 12:13 PM UTC
The Roman Road runs straight and bare
As the pale parting-line in hair
Across the heath. And thoughtful men
Contrast its days of Now and Then,
And delve, and measure, and compare;
Visioning on the vacant air
Helmeted legionnaires, who proudly rear
The Eagle, as they pace again
The Roman Road.
But no tall brass-helmeted legionnaire
Haunts it for me. Uprises there
A mother’s form upon my ken,
Guiding my infant steps, as when
We walked that ancient thoroughfare,
The Roman Road.
2.7k
Did I tell you how I prayed
on knees before the morning came
and listened to by bells that rang in mighty decibels
and fell to crush and stay my uttered syllables.
Where in the singing of the psalms did blood appear to flow from palms
and calm this torture
played out as a platform game on X box three or was it me
who could not grasp the significance
of an abeyance I would deign make
what if fakery was the order of the day and would then the bells ring out to say in sixteen chimes or as many times as I could bear
Would the lines that led to crucifixion day be written any other way?
Did those legionnaires despair
or on the darkened unlit stairs did they rejoice at choices made?
And we fade as thus we shine and in another time we'll do it,did it been there and bit by bit we bid this happening to reoccur
so we the unfit,unloved,unwashed,unholy,outcast ones can join in and share
the melancholy felt by those the ones who knelt before the cross
in the loss of things
or in the losing and the grief it brings another lonely bell rings out
with heartfelt pleas and once again I'm on my knees
and giving thanks for these the moments when the light has flashed
and bells have crashed to smother me with talk of other times
the chimes
the chimes
and would there ever be the time to hear them all before the call was sent
Did I not rend the air with blasphemy and would he see the truth behind the curses that I spat into the gutters
when in utter abject poverty
blinded by those who could only see
the misery and not the man?
I wonder if that was in his plan to make the beggars saints and vice versa
or could it have ever been the plan to make a man who felt so bad
that man who knelt would go quite mad
and wrap into a bundle tight
to trundle off with head down in the night.
I kneel before the altar
altered irrevocably
I don't need to see what others see
I now see me in my many faults
for I have walked and talked deep within the vaults of introspection
and selected only those the pieces suitable for my inspections of my soul
and now the hole there was is filled
and stilled the raging mind
and stilled the storm and tempest
instilling what is best and disregarding all the rest
I go to take my rest
and am at peace.
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 1:55 AM UTC
Abba!
Abba!
Abba!
There was silence
Except the rustle of the dry leaves
And the wind
And the thumping of the heart
Everything was silent
The night was moved, not to move at all,
Least, they would come, and the moments of love
That flowed as blood, would turn in screams!
Love cries would be turned to love screams
Flesh made for freedom, would be freed from the bones
Hush! Said the night to the leaves, and they feared to stir,
Let’s give this boy, some moments of peace, and silence they said,
For the boy was born in silence, moved in silence, lived in silence
And silent was his mind, for knowledge has been stirred in love, God said’
Abba!
Would you forsake me?
He cried, cause he knew, his faith on love was to be tested tonight!
Slowly wrenching heart out, in front of Ma!
Would you forsake me? Abba!
If this is your wish, so be it!
He said!
And night whimpered in fear, the moon hid her face in pain,
Leaves failed to move
The Legionnaires have arrived
As King is being carried to Kingdom!
So was the King taken away to rule!
All hearts of love! till the world would break apart, or explode of love!
If this is your Wish, Abba! So be it!
May 5, 2020
May 5, 2020 at 1:41 AM UTC
‘Write this down, and read these out to anyone who will listen- listen to the tale of Phalgacene’
Phalagacene is the twin of Ritacene, both very beautiful, for they resemble one another
Ritacene’s beauty is magnified by her grace, compassion, kindness- around her, cities are built
Phalgacene’s beauty was charismatic. Despite her many sharp teeth, she inspired others
Now the creation of Palcion and the destruction of Retisbon created a process so strong-
That spirits lesser to the gods yet greater or equal to man were born from the friction of the two
These spirits sought power for their place in the world, and like plants, attached themselves-
To kings, to men, to lovers, and to fools. The wiser sought to seek the gods and their power
These spirits sought power for their own power, out of rocks they hewn and trees they felled
Cities of divine magnificence for their object of worship- these cities would soon begin to tower
One of these cities was the realm of the twin of chaos, Phalgacene, to where the end welled
Her followers took up spears and swords, not for war, but to honour her teeth and power
The legions of Phalgacene were fearsome and powerful, and defended her divine city, Phaxon
Among them most obedient, but among them radical, boisterous, full of vice, and most immoral-
The Bahalzaryan, led by Da’raan, courted Lady Chaos, pined to wed her, and bear him a son
She refused, and in this, he was angered, so rose to foolishly threaten a Chaos that is immortal
And so with her meteors with chains spanning all of space called for and faced Da’raan head on
He, with his Bahalzaryan, were defeated and they were banished from Phaxon forever more
Da’raan led his men to Chazan, who for them opened to grant them audience with Retisbon
In the darkness of the primordial court of the Twin Creator and Destroyer, they bowed to latter
And asked ‘Great ratisbon of the Limits, grant us a home, for your daughter has orphaned us!’
And in response, the great on took out his hand and carved a hole into ‘nothing more after’
It was dark and was the nothing of nothings- there he threw the Bahalzaryan in a ******
It was empty, so empty as it was the nothing of all nothings- and so as this hell, forever empty
And so the fate of Da’Raan and his legion of exiled Bahalzaryan- the first of hell’s legionnaires
And their master, the first great demon- Da’raan the Heresiarch, who disobeyed Phalgacene
In the new realm within the nothing of nothings- a hell named Ayar, filled with fire and acid air
Within Ayar, the memory of every battle and war plays out forever in endless strife and misery
Within Ayar, to protect himself and his army, Da’raan built a fortress in the acid lake Mizharyan
And so the tale of Phalgacene and her legions, and Da’raan and his men, the Bahalzaryan
Jul 10, 2021
Jul 10, 2021 at 8:19 AM UTC
There is a glass dome given by father
enforcing an encephalon enclosure
citizens claw at the wall for freedom
testing the structure's durability
but they only scratch the surface
desperately covering all 360°
and the temperature only rises from there.
The citizens form an insurgency
against their flesh ruler
measuring their humanity
determining inadequacy.
The militia inside fights internally
arguing against acquiescing to aqueducts
barring bridges from being built
while legions fracture over stagnant water
until the entire nation contracts legionnaires' disease.
Bewildered beleaguerment brings bulky breathing
fogging up the inside of the glass
until the citizens can't see out of their own bubble
floating around—ready to pop.
The citizens bang on the glass
staring at their own reflection
the only way out is inside
a place they've come to despise.
Feb 7, 2022
Feb 7, 2022 at 2:39 PM UTC
I hear your squirrel faced inflected scorn
But I am not the subject of your masquerade
There is no running from the truth within my circle
There is no hiding from the harm you've made
With nothing of the fearful scribe in me, I have become
Your challenger, your truth teller, your unveiled voice
Of revocation, Justice long denied has hurried home
To my protestations, my unyielding force for choice
There is not one obliquely terrifying word you've fumbled
That has found solace within my intentions
No remorse at hearing your lewd, vile inventions
Your nasty woman-hating world will crumble
In the blast of my ice poured upon your blather
Do you hear the drums of sweet November call?
There you will be tossed and tumbled
In reality you are no kind of man at all.
No kind of man we would embrace for any price
Though you cling fast to every dollar in your grasp
Wring benefits unearned from others, squeezer, vice
But never leader, only backward stretching wasp
Bring out your ugly legionnaires of doom to face the music
Of the young, the elderly, the strong against your hooded lies
Those who long for justice aim to curb you and your avarice
Bring here your crippled trumpet too be smelted in our fires
For every child of every mother, every sister, every brother
Father, will take no prisoners, but free the wrongly caged
To fill your coffers slaved the migrant, not today
And never more shall we sit quiet in our rage.
I call you traitor to your country, traitor to your college students
Traitor to investors, every one. You plan to win.
It's now your time of trials will begin.
Expect that it will never end.
Sep 17, 2016
Sep 17, 2016 at 5:31 PM UTC