I have received some criticism about my poems being to short. Rest assure I can write long poems But lets face it the longer a poem is the more boring it is. So here is my response.
Two groups of ten look up at the same moon in the night’s dark.
Of hateful enmity of clans, in blood a part they mark.
After centuries do any know what was misunderstood?
Hard to think the people on each side are so calm and good.
When mighty clans clash such as these too few people cheer.
Because warriors fighting this intense project great fear.
The one side wields the long blades like they are a part of them.
So accurate with an edge they can cleave just a robes hem.
But in the fight it will be ten necks that they go after.
They will lose brothers that shared in revelry and laughter.
The other side is formidable though quiet at that.
Spent their younger days in physical study on the mat.
So fast and nimble their bodies may seem slender and slight.
But this faction is ready to give their lives in a fight.
It seems so strange to think of it this way but dare say I,
Some on each side in their hearts want peace starring at the sky.
Tragic Precursor To Warring Clans
The cool air of the night is quiet and seems real intense.
The pounding in his willful heart is fast and immense.
A letter on his bed to meet there is all he got.
He has no idea how it came or by who it was brought.
This young man heads out under the cover of the dark.
Soft fall the agile feet as they move like a swift lark.
Coming to the gate, he must outwit the old house guard.
For such spirited youth it proves to be none to hard.
Under light of crescent moon he waits by the lagoon.
The brush rustles, and a figure jumps out all to soon.
At first our man grabs his sword, he is taken aback.
There stands before him a person clad in only black.
Of the young man’s pose it seems the figure does not mind.
He notices whoever it is, their eyes seem kind.
With quick motion the figure tugs on its dark layer.
It reveals itself with each piece to be no slayer.
Rather it is a kind woman with a friendly face.
In this setting her gracious smile is in perfect place.
A cheerful, devoted woman of which any would boast.
This man is happy to know who it is that loves him most.
Aftermath Of Warring Clans
Of twenty who fought one warrior remains.
But from this there is nothing she gets in gains.
In no particular direction she limps.
Her eyes are failing, she sees just a quick glimpse.
Stabbed the last one in the back, he did not beg.
But drove back straight into her forward, right leg.
She thought then there was no difference it made.
But too late realized it was a poisoned blade.
There is no snow in summer but it feels cold.
She wishes she had her soul mate here to hold.
Of the youngest warriors he was the best.
But several arrows carved up his firm chest.
Falls over hard, too weak to use either hand.
She just lays down never again to stand.
When I write a story like this it is always a challenge for me to decide to write it in chronological order or the order I see the story happening. This is because in the mind I build the stories asynchronis.