The Poet Soldier Pt. 4

Fall's feast of the harvest was about to begin. Each and every year, good years and bad years, after the reaping of the grain, gathering of the grapes for fermentation, and sorting of the lambs and calves for husbandry and slaughter, the land's bounty was celebrated and gratitude was given to God for all that was too often taken for granted. This year's reaping was grim. This year's wine was left wanting. This year's sorting was meager. This year's bounty was less than bountiful. Yet tradition dictated a feast of giving thanks. God's gift had not failed this land; this land had failed God's gift. Too much ingratitude had ingratiated the hearts of those lacking Grace.

The poet soldier was well aware of the gloom that had gathered in Autumn's shorter days. Longer nights would be spent ahead with empty stomachs sleeping fitfully with worries of financial finalities. Too much had been taken. Too much had been stolen. Too much had been expected. Too much had been granted. Too much had been too much taken for granted. And now the axe was falling on the heads of the least culpable and most capable of the people of this land. For their stomachs would be the empty vessels that would float on the bitter waters flowing from damned lakes bursting soon when empty hope could no longer hold. Regulation and oversight had dissipated and dissapeared under the unwatchful, cloudy cateractic eyes of capitalistic conservatism. This would no longer do. Longer days and even longer nights would again test the faith of the fated faithful.

Selections had already begun to direct the head in the direction the body must move. From a rival camp, and a once close alliance, the wife of a former leader was chosen to represent the poet and the land in all the lands of all the world. She would carry the messages, the hopes and dreams and wishes of the masses and minorities that peopled the land of the poet soldier. A new team of new names and new faces, each well respected of their own accord would face the challenges of righting the finances for the people that had been wronged. Above them all, but for the poet soldier and God, would be the man of final arbitration of the laws that had made this land known to all others as the shining city on the hill. The clean light of the law might shine brilliantly again.

His wife and daughters held close this day, the poet soldier considered other men that might not have the means to celebrate the harvest in such a manner as he. For times today were trying to many. Too many had no wife, no daughter, no son, no home, no employ, no hope, nothing to celebrate but hardship and despair. Fervidly he vowed to give them reason and means to celebrate a more meaningful driven life. None of this dream for his people would come to fruition today. Nor would it likely come tomorrow. With enough tomorrows ahead his dream might one day come as another man's dream had come to him. For this opportunity, he was lovingly grateful. Sweet smells of baking bread and roasting game wafted from the kitchen in peaceful grace. Fall's feast of the harvest was about to begin.

The Poet Soldier Pt.3

At twilight's last gleaming, the poet soldier portended the perilous night ahead. Dawn's early light might yet be years away. This land's legacy and futurity weighed equally upon his frame. The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune might set him in his grave before this land regained it's past glory and glorious gain. He had only this opportunity to prove his oratory sound. Past prosperity now past, parity proved illusive. The people of this land divided dividends into have and have-not as never seen before. Those few with stacks of coins they owned grew their stacks ever higher, while those with none fell further behind in coins they owed. A situation exagarated by his predecessor's predatory plunderings. This fell upon his shoulders with all the weight of all the wait in the world. But wait was what he could not do. While waiting for things to turn to better, things turned to worse, 'till nothing overtook everything.



Moneylenders lent only to those with property or security enough to repay or repossess. Men with dreams and women with wile were told to look to other sources nonexistant to fund their future. Dreams and wile remained in lip-serviced limbo. Those that had refused to open their vaults somehow convinced the powers that had been to fill their coffers with treasures borrowed from the generations that had never yet been born. Golden gifts bestowed upon rancid hearts created rancor among the masses. Great in number, diminutive in power, dissmissed in decisions, the masses aforementioned found no recourse but in devined, destined revolution. Marks that marked their votary vouched their choice for change. The weight of the world, the wait of the land would wait no longer.



This was a land of clever people. Their innovations a product of inspirations, their ingenuity of genius light, adaptable and adroit, they seemed to always find a better way to do the things to do. For far too long they always found the better way first; second seemed a distant last. Now the present seemed a past, the future far away. Today the need was great for greatness. A greeting of green beginings seemed the greatness needed. For if he could, the poet soldier would, lead the cleverest of these clever people to the greenest pastures of accomplishment. The sun and the winds and the tides shone and blew and rose and fell each day upon the shores and fields of this land. If only the sun and wind and tide could be commanded and directed to the benefit of the people, none would be so bereaved or so bereft. The benefits of untold bounty might be the catalyst of creativitity leading to blessed betterment. Conservation, efficiency and savings were words not heard in generations of gusto and greed. These words in active being might also lift the clouds of despair that seemed to hover in threatening grey.



Appointments needed to be made to positions that governed the decisions of the land. These new minds and hearts would, with God's grace, lift the people of the land to levels and heights desired and dreamed of once again. But only if the minds and hearts of those appointed positioned themselves to serve the governed, not the governing. Much more and this weighed heavy on the mind of the poet soldier as he made way for the twilight's last gleaming.

The Poet Soldier Pt.2

This would be a good day. The poet soldier awoke feeling refreshed and energized. Recriminations and regrets were washed away in silent sleeps' repose. Twenty-one new moons had travelled night's starry skies since first began his own travail. Battlefields littered the length and breadth of this land in the wake of his armies' resolve. An arduous campaign of skirmish, engagement and battle had kept of dust, of smoke, of blood, of sacrifice, of honor, of fate, of birth, of death, of just, of dawn of destiny, of course. Nevermore would he raise his sword against his brave brethren. Today would begin a reconciliation, a repatriation of disenfranchised citizenry. His final battle fought, his victory complete, his greatest challenges lay yet ahead. He faced them with the same determination that had secured this destination.



All issues of mortal men in balance have a tipping point. Freedom from fear being simply little left to lose, the hearts and hopes of so many left without, turn away from the status quo and toward a new tomorrow. 'Till once a body of men and women and children bend down to retrieve a stick, a stone, a club, a rock, to use to demand a better future. Bread and circuses had long distracted the better nature of these people. For fat and happy people fight for little more. But now the wine stored in oaken casks in cellars of the wealthy had turned to the vinegar of neglect and hoarding. The people of this land demanded better. They wished to drink the wine before it turned. They wished for bread enough before it became stale or moldy. They wished for something real beyond the fantasy of the circus.



Mercenaries bought of the merchants' purses had faced him often on the fields where battles had been fought. Now those very merchants and others of that ilk sought him out to kiss his hands and wash his feet. He would have none of this. For mouths that kissed and hands that washed would soon again become lips that sneered and fists that threatened. Forty-seven Winters had passed since last a man of promise came. Eight Summers of lies and low had brought this land to it's present dire straits. The coming Spring might once again see nature's bloom. The dictate of the Fall again gave possibility rise. All else eternal, Earth abides.



Tomorrow's promise borne of history's shame, the poet soldier faced a legacy of an uncertain more perfect union. Diversity with quality would be recognized. Only those of substance of service might serve. The tasks ahead near insurrmountable, focussed attention on matters of minutia might make the differentiation necessary to move beyond today's pretext. He thought upon all this as he awoke this morn feeling refreshed and energized. Today would be a good day.