This Poem was Submitted By: Dianna Recod Woodhams On Date: 2001-11-17 11:54:17 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

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The Warrior

                         He sits alone                       shrouded in Memories.                          Some are dark,                  darker than the darkest night.                 Others are all color and light,                 the brightest days of his youth.                      His large, blunt hands                              rest.                 His thick chest rises and falls                      with the slow rhythm                     of effortless breathing,                       broken occasionally                    by a deep, soul-felt sigh.                       Some would say that                      he has earned his rest.               How good it is that he can spend his                          "Golden Years"                       in comfort and peace.                They cannot know the restlessness                         of the Warrior.                      Peace is not a tonic                   to the soul of the Warrior.                 The Warrior shares his appetites                          with few men.                      Only another warrior                    can know and understand.                          Food is energy                     to fight, to do battle,                     to conquer, to survive.                      He will eat his fill,                    or all that is available,                  he will do without if he must.                 His only exercise is surviving.                           Fight, Hunt,                           Fight, Love,                              Fight.                      His appetite for rest               is a truce with the laws of nature.                 Enough to repair, to replenish.                    More than that is poison.                     His appetite for love                     is a ravenous passion.                    Beauty is cherished by one                     who has seen the limits                           of an ugly,                          brutal world.                            Softness,                   though despised in himself,                           or any man,                  is revered in the gentleness                           of his Lady.                       His Home and Hearth                     mean safety and comfort.                        His Love is here.                        His Life is here.                 The Warrior's need to protect                       is a driving force.                 Let nothing threaten His Domain.                   Yet, he challenges the world                        to offer a threat.                       His need to protect                exceeds the perimeter of his Home.                            His Domain                 exceeds the perimeter of his Home.                            His Domain                     is on the Battle Field.                       His Love is at Home.                       His Life is at Home.                 He Thrives on the Battle Field.                     As Death and Destruction                     erupt around the Warrior,                   the thrill of Life and Living                     pounds through his veins.                   Never does he feel so Alive                         as when he is                       fighting for Life.                        Not just his own,               but for the lives of his Companions,                 and the lives of the Oppressed.                            They are                            The Cause.                       They are the Wives,                  Daughters, Sisters, Children,                             Mothers.                   The Warrior fights for them.                         They are Sacred.            He has been charged with their protection.                    The Warrior will not fail.                     He will not only Fight,              but he will teach their men to Fight,                         that they may be                               Men.                      He witnesses the birth                         of new Warriors.                         Not all, a Few.                         He knows one day             he will leave this Battle Field to them.                       It belongs to them.                       It is their Battle.                  He returns Home. He is happy.                      He Loves. He is happy.                       His charge is Safe,                           always Safe.                       He has his Memories.                   Bright, beautiful Memories.                 Brilliant, flashes of Memories.                     Dark, tortured Memories.                      Sad, lonely Memories.                 The Warrior recounts his Coups.                      He counts his losses.                       He recalls the Dead.                        He Remembers them.                     The Warrior sits alone,                      shrouded in Memories.                        Obsidian eyes ask,                     "Where is the Battle now?                           Who Fights?                    Are there enough Warriors?                      Am I needed to Fight?                          I will Fight!                         I am still Able!                               I Am                           The Warrior!"

Copyright © November 2001 Dianna Recod Woodhams

Additional Notes:
I decided to resubmit this in honor of the Warriors who fought and are currently fighting for the freedom and protection of the threatened and oppressed. I wrote this for my dad and his fellow Special Forces soldiers, both active and retired. He shared memories with me of his 30 year career . . . not all . . . but enough.

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