~ By Courtesy of
War Cry is Poetry,
for it comes from their soul
The poet settles
through the hall at night.
He joins within the scattered talking there.
His lute and harp are strung to ease the fright
Reminding sons and brothers what they dare.
The heroes from the past do live again
With legend for their blood and fame their name.
Cold weapons hot with purpose do begin
To pulse with passion for the daylight game.
Around the hall, the hounds of battle stay.
And, with the night, lay quiet for the now.
Come dawn, all thought of else will shattered be
But now, in dreams, their fear does furrow brow.
The harper plays to give them strength and cause.
The morrow sees him sing with what he draws.
© G.Robin Smith -
Resume. His Website Ben Franklin -
History you can talk to.
is looking for an
illustrator and/or publisher to publish this work
as a fantasy-tale book, and can be contacted through his website.
more chivalrous works at Brand´s Poetry
Page, his yahoo
and his music on
Poetic form: Shakespearean Sonnet
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