Tag Archives: warrior

Sally forth I say!


 

 

It’s a glorious morn for battle on the field of gold.

So be bold!

Attack the day lest you fall prey

to marauders at your gate.

Go forth and grind them to grizzle

pick your to teeth with their bones

while finding rapture in hearing their moans

Push! Push! Push !

through the tall grass.

Head low!  Be wary but

Go! Go! Go!

For its been said, that fortunes

go to the ones who are bold.

Ha! Ha! Ha!

Why I,  am the boldest of the bold can’t you

see!

So where be my fortunes, where be my wench

to console my pains, and give me succor

this day?

Where indeed.

Think not too hard on your gains not gotten

lest you fall ill to them before you

meet them my friend.

Be not so arrogant! Be not so aggrieved!

For any  man’s head can leave a

neck with but a peck of a well honed axe

unseen.

No man’s future is certain nor ordained

by the vicious gods who play

their crap game

in the dark corners of your fated life.

Wise words, so heed them

or only peril shall follow

all your days.

 

by Philip Wardlow 2017

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Warrior Chi


She strives

Tested, time and again.

Blood spilled just as readily asWarriorChi

her own tears.

A woman.  Just a woman? Never.

A warrior,

A leader with  a heart laid bare

A protector…

keen of mind,

going in

with innate skills

As death places its deal

upon her table and

she answers back

in kind.

For she was forged in a lifetime

of sacrifice.

Do you hear that?

A soft whisk,

a honing of a blade to

a sharpness like none

other.

Delicate, determined, Beautiful.

Yet, who holds those warrior hands

As the light dims on her day?

Who holds her heart?

and brushes

her tears her away?

Stay strong.

Stay strong Warrior Chi.

 

by Philip Wardlow 2016

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Crow Waits ~


crowwaits

The Crow Waits~

I see it on high sitting in a tree, a Crow amongst the sparse fall leaves
that yet hang to the branches, even though winter fast approaches,
no one told them it seems that they are dead and should already be on their way.

The crow with its pitted black eyes knows me it seems, for it calls my name
across the wind while I languish on the ground in my own blood which spills
from my body and forms around me like a macabre picture frame.

Funny thing, how the crow knows my name, a simple carrion bird waiting for
this warrior’s death so it can pick me clean and leave nothing but my bleached bones,
rusted armor, and a forgotten sword as my only legacy.

Long has the battle been gone from this place I now rest in, the victors have gutted me
like a fish on a stone and left me to the flies and the maggots to fester inside.

But yet shall I live, ever stubborn to die and only the Crow truly knows why.
I hear it laughing at me, calling me a fool for an adventure I sought full of folly
with only death to be met at its end.

It has seen many a fool I am sure and feasted contently before the sun has set.
But still I live! You will not have me fool or not!

So sit your perch and wait for you shall not have me this day or the next,
for even if I should pass these earthly bounds so shall my shade pick up
my blade and strike you down!

The sun has set and the night grows cold, the crow sits in his tree and
waits;  for it has seen many a warrior born and bred and knows full well their
strength, courage and the valor which fills their head, but it knows when dead is dead

by Philip Wardlow

 

 

 

 

Warrior Woman – A Poem


WarriorWoman

 

Warrior Woman ~

Ah yes, she be a beauty…

never a finer woman did grace the land.

From the tip of the toes to the top of that pretty little head.

Ah yes, she be beautiful indeed.

But you would be mistaken my good sir at trying to take advantage of one such as her

whether in  body, mind or soul,  as she would send all three of yours  straight to hell for the

devil to collect his due.

Flaming  red be the color of her hair,   burning much like her heart that beats in a warm bosom that knows no peace, nor solace in the silence between the madness that is always sure to come after.

Every turn of her blade is poetry…every dance a death sentence to her partner.

Care to be clever, to compel her to be contrite,  or woo her with wicked words

and she shall simply cut your tongue out.

Yet, she hopes, endures for that day,  when a compliment to her nature crosses her well worn path, fights through all her misgivings,  deep protected fears, and wrestles her to the ground, flings her blade from her hand and drives the darkness away.

 

by Philip Wardlow 2015 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Warrior’s Quilt



Warrior’s Quilt

My fortune has forsaken me for I am stranded in this cold wasteland

next to a flickering flame about to die.

All I have are my fears, a quilt to keep me warm and the labored breath of life.

The thick heavy fabric enfolds me in warmth from my head to my feet.

It is a comfort as I try to calm my restless mind and fall

to sleep.

I feel warmer yet still as I pull it closer to me in the night.

This warmth seems to come from a different place as I hold

the quilt to me tight.

Like a close friend it is a barrier against the bitter cold that wants

to suck the life from my chest with every stolen breath.

I began to reflect in my minds wanderings

Does this quilt have a story, a past to explore?

I picture strong delicate hands, patient hands,  cutting and sewing in

endless hours to reach an end.

A quiet anticipation to see the job done with  the reward of creating

a piece of art as a gift for a friend.

Did her mind wander while she worked? Did she daydream and get lost

in a world of mystery of her own design while her fingers danced from

seam to seam with the passage of  time?

From mind to hand, to hand to cloth, did these wanderings, these dreams  seep

into the fabric?

Is that why I feel as I lay on this cold hard ground like I could float up to the

dark heavens above  me and touch the stars that twinkle down.

Is this quilt that I’m wrapped in imbued with a magic that I cannot see for it seems to

be reaching  inside me and guiding me to a place where I can be free.

I dream  of a woman and see her smile. Is she the one who has sewn this quilt for me?

Am I now part of her wanderings and fancies?

Is that why my heart is so light?

 Is that her embrace I feel as the quilt consoles me in the night.

My mind is not restless , my body is at peace.

I lay wrapped in my quilt next to a fire long

gone out and forever asleep.

by

Philip Wardlow

Flash Fiction Story – ‘Flight through the Forest’


Marek ran hard through the thick underbrush, wary of outlying limbs or wet patches of dew covered  grass. No need to go down in a tumble, then he would should surely be dead. Almost there, he thought wildly.  Almost there, was still not near enough.  Do these things ever tire? The gods know I am, he thought.

He could hear their caterwauling screeches all around him as they communicated  to each other in some inane language he couldn’t began to understand, cooperating, trying to box him, trying to trap him. Intelligent little bastards, he wouldn’t have thought as much. Out the corner of his eye he saw a flit of shadowed forms appear and then disappear suddenly out of the darkened mists which collected in clumps on the forest floor like a rolling wispy snake crawling across the ground.

They were gaining on him.  If they surrounded him he would be hard pressed to fight through them.  One creature no problem,two no problem,hell not to boast but ten would probably be no problem for his strong sword arm,  but to his estimation there were hundreds. So he ran like the dog he was.

It didn’t help that as he ran he was hindered, with one hand having to hold the large package that he was hired to steal back from a temple of zealots buried deep in this god forsaken forest he now ran in. Half his job was done, now he was entrusted to return the package to its rightful owner, King Erris; whose contract he had  foolishly taken on. The second half of the deal was looking to be harder than the first had been.

Knowing of his reputation as a cunning fighter and fearless warrior they had offered him a payment of  twenty thousand in gold, literally a Kings ransom indeed! How could he refuse! The few meager coppers he had in his pouch along with the pitcher of ale in his hand when the King’s men approached him in the bar had been his only possessions besides the sword and the clothes on his back. The meager coin and ale looked more inviting at this moment, not to mention the big hipped serving  wench who had been giving him the eye all through the night while he drank his weight in spirits.

Let this be a lesson learned if he survived. Some jobs were just to big for any amount of gold to be had.

The King said the treasure stolen by the religious fanatics was more priceless than anything, worth more than a thousand kingdoms he had told him. If this treasure was not returned, kingdoms would fall, men would die, destinies would be denied. What was this treasure that the King had stolen from , Marek had asked. The King would not say even when Marek had pressed him. Only that he would know it  when he came upon it. Four other contracts such as him had already failed, some individuals like him, others who had went in teams of three or four.  Only one man had returned of them all, empty-handed and had died three days later from his inflicted wounds but not before giving them the valuable information of where the treasure was being held inside the temple.

Know it Marek soon did , as he had crept into the inner sanctum of the black veined marbled temple after scaling up the almost vertical walls to the uppermost parapets where he was told it would be housed in a circular chamber guarded by the blackest of demon dogs you never would wish to encounter. The three dogs surrounded its circumference , all clad in steel mail over their entire body with the color of the darkest pitch stealing the  light as it hit its surface.  Sharp canines dripped spittle from their massive muzzles to burn like acid upon the stones they walked.

Marek had quickly rushed one catching it by surprise sending it  over the edge to tumble and bounce against the hard stone far below.  The other two well, they had been a little tougher to deal with not being caught by surprise.

Luckily they had never been trained to work together against a common foe. As they advanced on him they actually more than once snarled and bit at each other to see who could get to kill Marek first.

He had used their dislike for each other to his  advantage by keeping one always in front him with the other behind its companion  causing the rear dog to lash out at the other dog’s heels in frustration.

He had  taken the front demon dog in the eye with the point of his sword when it was distracted sending it into a wild spasm as his sword entered into its brain and scrambled it like eggs in a frying pan.

The other dog had advanced on Marek slowly, weary now that its two companions had been so  quickly dealt with by this new adversary.

Marek knew he had to dispatch this thing soon before any others came along, but he didn’t dare go in for a strike to the thing’s mailed body and risk the creatures bite or even drippings of its spittle on him which could cause him to lose the use of his arm in an instant. So he did what he was good at, he ran.

The creature thought him scared and running for his life so it had become emboldened and ran after him. Marek ran faster and gained some distance on him and then he suddenly stopped. The creature’s momentum carried it forward and with blade held at eye level, Marek jumped high into the air toward the creature as it came in its headlong rush at him. He came down in a stabbing arc to the top of the creature’s head to bury his blade in deep dead center between the dogs ears punching through  the black mail covering its skull. It quivered and died.

With the last of the beasts dispatched he had entered through the bronze doors to the inner chamber.  There inside on a raised dais made of white marble inside a crystal bowl of the palest blue was a baby wrapped in a red silk blanket. Nothing else had been in the room chamber save that. So he knew what the treasure was as the King said he would.

These creatures that chased him now were different than the foul dogs he had faced. These things seemed almost human in nature but twisted with thin whip like bodies and elongated distorted  limbs propelled them through the forest after him. He only caught glimpses of them as he ran but that had been enough to spur him to a faster pace.

Through it all the baby had been as  quiet as a mouse not saying a word. It just looked up at him as he had run with its deep blue eyes with all the confidence in the world it seemed, that Marek would carry him from out of this place, safe and sound back to his home. For very personal reasons  one being his own neck, Marek didn’t want to let the little imp down.

The day was coming up fast as the sun was just breaking the horizon ahead through  the trees. Soon he would be able to see clearly what was chasing him. The trees were becoming more spread out and the vegetation less dominate in places. He was nearing the edge, he may yet have a chance. These creatures he was told, feared the desert, that was why the other man had made it out and back to tell the tale. He just had to get there first.

Then the thing happened he did not wish to have happened, his right foot caught the edge of a wet moss-covered rock throwing him off-balance. He instinctively rolled into the fall across the ground smothering the baby in a loose  but tight protective cocoon with his arms and hands as he did so. Marek ended up on his back looking up at the nighttime sky  through the forest trees, it was a dim blue with a wisp of white creeping in.

He heard the chattering of many voices draw near. Marek tried to stand but was met with pain in his left ankle. It felt like he had twisted it. Gods that ale would taste good right about now, he thought idly.

They drew in closer, from behind, to the left, right and now they closed the circle, in the front. His exit to the east was closed.

He forced himself to stand. fighting through the pain and drew his sword, leaning against a nearby tree for support. He saw an army of them crawling over the ground to him. Their eyes started to glow gold in the burgeoning light of day as they neared.

He looked down at the baby he held still with its eyes blue and confident in him. The treasure to topple Kingdoms the King had said, for destinies to be lost or made.  What will they say of me little one?

Marek reached out a finger to touch the little one’s cheek. The babe held up its to  little hand to grab it. Marek noticed a tattoo, better yet a birthmark it seemed on its small forearm in the shape of a Crescent moon with a pale mist of cloud passing in front of it.

Marek made a sharp intake of breath. Could it be. The Redeemer?

He had heard the prophecies but he had never thought to see it come in his lifetime.

He gripped his sword tighter in his hand and looked out at the horde. They were all but twenty feet away in tight circle about him. They had stopped. They were waiting for me to turn him over to them.

They stood motionless shoulder to shoulder. A hair could not have slid between the space they allowed.

Arms ending with three sharp talons rested on the ground twitched occasionally, perhaps in anticipation of his imminent death at their hands and the fulfillment of their task the creatures had been sent for..

They did not chatter at each other or at him.  They just looked at him with cold dead stares. Their thin slit likes mouths were all closed tight in a devilish grin as if to say game over my friend.

He did the only thing he could. He tigtened his grip on his sword and the little one and grinned right back and said,

“Come on.” He whispered softly.

The babes tattoo began to burn bright against its  flesh, the moon glowing on its skin as if set high in a nighttime sky.

The pain in his ankle was gone, his strength had returned tenfold.

He raised his sword high and came at them with a growl…

The Crow Waits


I am sure you have seen my avatar the Crow on my Blog and other places such as my facebook page so I thought it only fitting to create a poem to commemorate it…so here goes..hope you enjoy…by the way my weekly blog in the Inquiry Section of my blog which hits on here every Wednesday…enjoy the poem below.

The Crow Waits

I see it on high sitting in a tree, a Crow amongst the sparse fall leaves
that yet hang to the branches, even though winter fast approaches,
no one told them it seems that they are dead and should already be on their way.

The crow with its pitted black eyes knows me it seems, for it calls my name
across the wind while I languish on the ground in my own blood which spills
from my body and forms around me like a macabre picture frame.

Funny thing, how the crow knows my name, a simple carrion bird waiting for
this warrior’s death so it can pick me clean and leave nothing but my bleached bones,
rusted armor, and a forgotten sword as my only legacy.

Long has the battle been gone from this place I now rest in, the victors have gutted me
like a fish on a stone and left me to the flies and the maggots to fester inside.

But yet shall I live, ever stubborn to die and only the Crow truly knows why.
I hear it laughing at me, calling me a fool for an adventure I sought full of folly
with only death to be met at its end.

It has seen many a fool I am sure and feasted contently before the sun has set.
But still I live! You will not have me fool or not!

So sit your perch and wait for you shall not have me this day or the next,
for even if I should pass these earthly bounds so shall my shade pick up
my blade and strike you down!

The sun has set and the night grows cold, the crow sits in his tree and
waits;  for it has seen many a warrior born and bred and knows full well their
strength,courage and the valor which fills their head, but it knows when dead is dead.