Three Poems

^[1]459 words

Lucem sequimur

“Until that day of awakening, it is up to us to keep faith” — Colin Jordan

And now the grey clouds come, and with them cold
Grey days followed by cold grey years. Our sun
Is gone. Our spirit, our people, our bold
Visions, and our future plans—stand frozen,
Almost as if they had never started
Or never had existed. We lost our
Sun! And now we are lost. Broken hearted
We check the grey skies, the grey heavens, for
Any telltale sign, any glimpse, any
Hint that this grey will pass and we will not.
For there must come a future dawn when we
Look up and see some light. When, from a shot
Sent forward long ago, thin gold rays rise
And our lost sun comes back to gild our skies.

(first published in Black Gnosis)

* * *

The Penultimate Campaign

War comes and with it comes the eternal
Break from all that is common and untrue.
There is no lie to war, no ritual:
Each dawn brings its own enlightenment, new
And glorious whether Triumph assumes
The day or, fallen, admits it did not
Take what it came to take and so presumes
To press itself onward, no matter what,
And no matter how dark or long the night.
Victory comes to those who do not yield,
War is not ordinary, and what might
Appear as peace is patience, well concealed.
Waiting is the penultimate campaign
We have not yet begun to fight again.

(First appeared in Mjolnir Magazine 2015, print only)

* * *

The Stamp of the Fallen Ages

“Kalki will act with unprecedented ruthlessness.
He will spare not a single one of the enemies of the
divine Cause: not a single one of its outspoken
opponents but also not a single one of the luke-warm,
of the opportunists, of the ideologically heretical, of
the unhealthy, of the hesitating, of the all-too-human;
not a single one of those who, in body or in character
or mind, bear the stamp of the fallen Ages.” — Savitri Devi

And are we so weak, I wonder, this race
Of ours, that we’d allow ourselves to die
Away for lack of regard, lack of place,
Lack of prospects left for us? Won’t we try
To get them back? Or am I speaking of
Two distinct peoples who just look like one:
Folk and those who once were folk; we who love
Our race and those who could be overrun
And never fight at all? We had been taught
That blood and those who share it fully are
A race . . . but I say it’s not true. We thought
They were Folk — we were wrong. The Avatar
Must return to this divided world then,
Made up of us and those we once called men.