Bellicose Harvest

By: Gus Victoria

Cold steel plows the land,

Blood soaks the soil

To grow the terrible harvest

That shades will reap,

The heroes fight no more,

Enshrined in glory,

Buried in earth,

Gaunt figures of State

Cry their valor

To the living.

The dead cannot object.

Gratitude flows from noble hearts

Beatifying the fallen,

To fill halls of honor,

No justice stands

To give form,

Only destructive chaos reigns,

Stalwart against humanity,

Darkness and the thick fog of regret

Sacrifice the future

Of a forgotten dawn,

Love drowns

As bullets fly,

Love cries,

As hope dies.

The Game

By: Gus Victoria

On a cold winter’s day

The frost of January

Gives way to the dreams of autumn

Staged on the green

Of a gridiron mirage.

There the warriors

In their colors arrayed

Take the field against the foe.

Among their ranks you will find no Hector,

Not an Achilles, Ajax, or Aeneas takes to battle,

Yet those in that stadium,

The massive descendant of Vespasian’s monument,

Shout as if there those mythic heroes

Would come to life again

And clash in combat once more.

These are athletes that compete,

Speed, skill and strength as currency

Easily spent to purchase

An opportunity,

A chance at Victory,

That sultry, seductive goddess

Elusive to many,

Loyal to none.

Again the cheers ascend,

Greater and greater the sound,

The stands tremble,

The very earth shakes,

In knowing anticipation;

The Game has begun.