A thousand years have past and I gasp
at the work of the last; those of whom we choose not to see,
It is because of them that nature does not bend.
They reside it the Irish meadow of the stone.
where their homes of centuries old were honed.
We see mother nature's hands hold strong,
the mount so there may be no wrong.
They heed to us as we push through the brush without a care,
trampling the places were no human has ever set foot.
watch for the root with your careless hoof.
They watch us pass and then they laugh,
because they know we wish for them so, so as we go
there is not a care in our head when we lay down and bed.
It is then they do their work without slumber
far to many in number, more than the stars at night.
So we continue on and leave the hidden people behind,
with a picture in my head of the new, not the dead.
There where the fern and sapling rise from under the bed,
of the workshop of the few that remain, to gain a future
for the world to see, in the next century.
by Bryan Bennington
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
Silence dances around the rings,
As the silver blades sing.
The thunder of the wave rises,
Leo graces us with song disguises.
The clash of arms at hand;
As the wheeling suspect thrashes,
Past the net and lashes.
The voices are loud and bold.
How does the troll keep his hold?
As the enemy scolds his rim,
With a barrage of lethal hymns.
Now everyone takes heed
As the smallest of them bleeds.
A five gun salute stresses,
How the one on one blesses.
A night of drama and flashes
Now ends with laughter and glasses.
The better of the two withstand,
And win with bent stick in hand.
By Bryan Bennington