You fix breakfast in your cast iron pan.
You sip your coffee.
The cat swirls around your feet.
Victory, it seems, is yours for the day.
You have clambered out of the bed.
There are things to do and with a battle cry,
“It’s showtime!”, your feet hit the cold red floor,
a stumbling warrior, not ready,
but determined, And that is enough for the day.
It is an odd kind of war you fight.
Battles easily won with the simplest of weapons,
but the victory never quite complete.
Still, you will wage it, gladly.
There is beauty to be claimed,
and you are determined to have it,
that and all you want is just on the other side
of the battlefield.
What is a bit of blood in comparison?
You can keep your secrets,
your frenzied plans and counter plans, your sureness
that you are overwhelmed
without your array of weapons.
I will keep my simple mantras.
Songs of God and doing, belief
that simplicity works.
And neither need trappings.
About this poem.
People make things too complicated. Even the battles we fight are simpler than we make them. The things we want are so close, just on the other side of the complications, we create.
I believe this with all my soul.