The Battle

Morning, evening, noon and night,
evil walks within our sight.
With winged hate and hollow eyes,
it walks on earth and soars thru skies.

Awake, asleep, somewhere in between,
a watchful eye perceices all unseen.
Sword held high, platinum armor glinting,
staunchly held against the pox evil brings.

The clash begins, our hero stumbles,
his high minded ideals humbled.
His sword has dropped, he falls to one knee,
evil looks one with unbounded glee.

Yet out hero has only faltered, not fallen,
evil sees our hero’s resolve, crestfallen.
Sword raised and chin held high,
the hero rushes in, his destiny nigh.


Warm bodies, useless in their skills,
hired en masse, fired en masse.

Helping those incapable of
assisting themselves.

Half those employed are saints,
half because no one else will take them.

In an industry made to help
the most vulnerable,
an appalling lack of standards permeates.

What can be done?
People are needed, and few want to come.
Do we take the job ourselves,
and struggle with a caustic combo
of hard work and useless compatriots?
Or do we bemoan the injustice,
and do what is best for us?

Neither is an obvious choice.
One noble in it’s service,
one practical in it’s self-service.

Is it better to help others
at the sacrifice of ourselves,
or ourselves
at the sacrifice of others?
How do we find the balance?


March, wandering in from the shortness of

Will it allow comfort and peace in
wanderings and musings,
or punish with the indiscriminacy
of a blustery January?

Lions and lambs,
old truisms repeated by
mothers and grandmothers alike.

Peace and all good
in the upcoming roar of March