Was it the mother who cared for the child
That grew up and learned how to fight?
Was is the teacher, so humble and mild
That taught all the village to write?

Was it the doctor who saved the life
Of the soldier who nearly drowned?
Was it the maiden who fought against strife
In the village where women were bound?

Was it the soldier who drowned the man
That shackled his country with lies?
Was it the woman who made up the plan
To replenish the doctor’s supplies?

Was it the child, who, learning to read,
Escaped from her teacher’s cruel hand?
Was it the women who, once they were freed
Fought until tyrants were banned?

Was it the man in a tyrant’s disguise
Who wrote so the children could learn
That they could be doctors or teachers or spies
For as heroes, they’d all take a turn

Beginning with the slightest twinge
like bubbles bursting in dry air
a door shifts on a rusty hinge
and deep within there is a tear

the muscles tighten and contract
upon the shore beat waves of pain
when fears of the unknown attack
hormonal surges flood the brain

well coached and prodded by the team
the traveler will reach the light
and human courage reigns supreme
when helplessness turns into might

the merest inconsistency
invites a flaring of alarms
eventually the crown is free
delivering a king in arms

the end result of labor spent
the tiniest of humans curled
it’s not a commonplace event
to bring a life into the world

Below a freezing Highland fog,
Chilled to the bone by driving rain,
My face set hard against the wind,
And the thought of sudden death and pain.

God, grant me strength to fight again,
While my kinsmen battle, ever near;
May the Claymore sing it's ancient song -
Let us show them what it means to fear!

Show them terror, give them hell,
Spilled blood will make them understand,
That Scotland's sons will not forgive
This trespass on our native land.

Our cause is noble, right and just -
The Clans will fight to their last breath.
But the ranks of cannon, sword and pike,
Mean little more than certain death.

Exhausted, starved, we stand and wait
The raised flags and the battle call,
And a thousand screaming voices as
We face cavalry and cannonball.

I will not fear the clash of steel,
Or the dreadful whine of rifle fire,
But waiting for the call to start,
I know this day makes me a liar.

Because, I said I would return,
That I would hold my child once more,
But in my heart I know I'm lost,
All that awaits this butcher's floor.

Now the order comes around at last,
And brutal, futile death looms large.
Goodbye my brothers; farewell, my son.
The last stand of the Clansmen! Charge!

Sat proud on their steeds with their flags flying high,
They rode into town with their prize.
The people they cheered as they welcomed them home,
Brave heroes in everyone's eyes.

A feast was prepared to sing praise for their deeds,
Much wine freely flowed through the night.
The King raised a toast to the Knights' gallant feats,
In honour of those who did fight.

Fair maidens they danced as the town's children sang,
The slayers of dragons were famed.
And bright banners fluttered through sapphire blue skies,
The freedom from fear was proclaimed.

The jousting began on the old castle lawn,
Both Princes and Knights taking part.
Then duelling with swords for the brave and the bold,
The Knights winning many a heart.

At the breaking of dawn on the very next day,
With chain-mail, armour and helm,
They mounted their horses and took to the road -
No rest for the Knights of the Realm.

As the cowardly Persians
Made haste to retreat,
The mighty Greek phalanx
Danced in the street.

"Praise Zeus and Praise Ares"
The pious man said,
As his blade pierced the hearts
And turned dying to dead.

But Darrius the hoplite
Threw down his spear in disgust.
He was done with the killing
The blood and the lust.

To be Darrius the husband
And father of four
Was all that he wanted
And not a thing more

He sat foot on the path
That would return him to see
Where Carlyn his wife
And his children would be

But as he came home
The sound was not right
'Twas not the sounds of a farm
But the sounds of a fight

The Persians were there
Outside of his door.
He counted ten men
But there could have been more.

His wife was being passed
As the men took their turns.
His children lay bloody
As his home slowly burns.

He screamed and he ran
His world turned to black,
And the men took to arms
And began to fight back.

He attacked with nothing
But a stick in his hand,
And the first Persian fell
His blood on the sand.

He picked up the sword
And saw naught but red.
He hacked and he slayed
Till all ten were dead.

What right does a man
Whose heart is at odds
Raise his fists to heaven
And dare question the gods?

Way off in Athens
The party still roared
As poor Darrius the widower
Fell on his sword.

“No,” she said, and kept her seat
No more would she give in defeat
She sat there most defiantly
And started something -- giantly

That day when Rosa Parks sat down
Exhausted from her work in town
Seemed like all other days before
But something new she had in store

For every day before that one
When all her garment work was done
She paid her fare and rode the bus
And put up with the racist fuss

For even though she paid the same
If someone White her seat did claim
She had to stand so he could sit
Or else a crime she would commit

The year was nineteen fifty-five
And segregation was alive
Especially in this southern state
Where Rosa Parks had tempted fate

For Rosa Parks was forty-two
And tired of bowing to folks who
Thought they were better just because
Their skin was lighter than hers was

So when the driver said that she
Must give her seat to somebody
Well, Rosa, with a lion’s roar
Refused to vacate like before

She was arrested and her ride
Was in the news both far and wide
And everyone then came to know
Of Rosa Parks, who just said, “No”

A nearby preacher heard the news
Of Rosa’s Alabama blues
He came to take up Rosa’s side
And called a boycott on bus rides

The boycott went a year and more
And opened up another door
As segregation now was torn
The movement “Civil Rights” was born

The preacher, Martin Luther King
Stood in his pulpit, orating
That pulpit went to Washington
That’s where “I Have a Dream” was spun

Though King espoused a peaceful “war”
Like Ghandi did in years before
This speech by Doctor Martin King
Sparked years of strife and rioting

The Civil Rights Act, sixty-four
Killed segregation’s open door
But still assassination struck
And put an end to Martin’s luck

The years go by and each one brings
Us fewer racial happenings
Who could have known how things would go
The day that Rosa Parks said, “No”

He
sits, head
down in shame.
Age is taking
over his withered
frame. His life is too long,
he thinks. Ferocious battles-
swords clashing, horses screaming, men-
oh God, all the men, the boys, all dead!
Blood-soaked meadows on crisp spring days,
stinking death for kings' glory.
He led them to their fall.
This will be the last,
he hopes, he prays.
This is his
only
choice.
Today
they will come,
wretched armies
of greed and desire.
Like himself, he supposes.
It does not matter at all.
He stands and mounts his waiting steed.
Now they fight for life, glory be damned.
Words pour from his throat; his men cheer
him and bravely raise their arms.
"Ride on," he cries, "for God!"
Hear the trumpets sound!
See the surge of
gallant knights!
To war,
for
naught but
to survive.
The old king sneers
and lifts his weapon.
He lives for this
damned worthless
bloody
war.

A siren screams; smoke pours into the night.
Red lashes leap across the darkened dusk.
A cutting cry unveils an unfair fright
as all that holds of home and hope is husk.
Her child waits within, ensnared by flame
with seconds left to flee the fiery scene.
But even after bellowing his name
his figure in the flare remains unseen.

A sihlouette from flick'ring framework sways
protecting precious cargo in his arms.
His final deed: to free them from the blaze
and collapse dead amidst the cold alarms.

A selfless soul surrenders consciousness;
the hero's sacrifice is limitless.

The piratical squint was fixed,
Yet all was not yet done,
Seven battles more there were
Before this war was won.

The first casualty of the fight
Fell soft and red upon her pillow
Uncrushed by the loss of her hair
Red would be no weeping willow

Now look, her friend has joined the fight
And shaved her head quite bald
She's not alone in her battle
Reinforcements have been called!

To take the healing poison
Four trips now through wind and snow
Assailed by treacherous stomache
Or weakened by blood brought low

She celebrates each day at school
and laughs at every chance
She points on shoes and fancy dress
to join her friends and dance

Three more times the drugs will flow
To kill the traitourous cells
Then time and hope will see
If a cure this torure spells

Not all heros change the world
For when I think of Red
I wonder if the most epic deeds
Are done by those who but climb from bed.

The steel sea crashes
against the lone rock
the sea is thrown back by its might.
This is one of many clashes

Standing proud,
he holds his ground.
Warriors fall at his steel feet
while he holds off his defeat.

Finally the rock crumbles,
and the sea storms over
the fallen warrior
forgotten under the armies rumbles.