Thermopylae

By Peter Balan

The thundering tram of Fate’s demise,
A Yell of dreaded bronze,
Vermilion Sygils wax balefully bright,
The Lion’s thousand sons.

Ten thousand studded sandals strike,
Ten thousand feet defile
The foreign soil of wisdom’s root
The Persian plague revile.

Like the sword at the Gate
That burned to turn back all,
There was an angel lord with blazing sword
To make the Persian fall.

Lost once its wisdom but now foretold
In Piety’s veiled designs,
The glory of Greece its straining thought
In clouded greed declined.

A weakened prey exhausted caught:
Greece falls beneath the bite
Of Persia Lion’s rapine strength.
What will turn back its might?

But Lo! The western winds stir up
The screech of wisdom’s flight;
The owl of Athens prepares its shield,
Remusters forgotten might!

A candle’s flame in a gale wind blast,
A defiant cry in the dark,
What stood so tall and saw so far
Strains high for the mark.

As the measured tread of Persia’s host
Strikes up the holy dust,
The Minos of windy Greece cry out
For defense from the Lion’s lust.

Then out of the west a cry picks up
A roar like the drums of the sea.
The iron men of Sparta raise
The sword of liberty.

Burned and beaten as blast-forged iron,
Honed on the wheel of death,
The sword to kill the Persian Lion
Rips free from its black sheath

Three hundred picked by the wolf Leonidas,
The wolf-king, hound of war,
Three hundred never to return to their home,
The flower of Sparta no more.

Now on the rocky roads of Greece
The marching ranks they arise
As ancient Tartarus, sentient death,
Burst forth as animate cries.

The heights of gods, temples of stone,
The thrones of deity,
The final altar for libations due
Where mountains kiss the sea.

Now as the weary studded steps
Grind the dust of fear,
As Sparta takes her final stand,
The godly word draws near.

Between the high rocks of bellowing silence,
Stand firm, somber, and still,
The crashing sea and crying birds,
The last bastion’s strong will.

There they rise, gorged on blood,
The stately Orient Lion,
Brilliant vermilion, an aura of gold
Marked the proud legion.

But now as they draw near to the pass,
Berserker blood-fury rising,
Faltering, slow, uncertain, they see
Gold sun on bright shields shining.

A song like a fire, an offering to god,
To god their skill and their might,
Purging and cleansing the bodies for death,
The purging oil of right.

 

Sad Day

By Peter Fraser

Stumbling into morning prayer
Just five minutes late,
Hope they don’t notice my white socks:
A sentence of terrible fate!

After prayer they call me out
And say, “White socks are bad!”
Against my wishes I was now on Dishes,
And trooped back feeling sad.

The ladder in my room was not
Screwed onto my bed.
It slid and fell and took me down;
I really hurt my head.

My room was last because of me,
And breakfast was all gone.
I ate a bagel off the floor
And didn’t like it none.

Oops! Oh, no! I trip and fall
Down the Academy stairs.
My books fall out, I bump my head,
And no one really cares.

I had to do pushups first thing in class
For undoing both my collars,
And for the graffiti in my book
I’d to pay them thirty dollars.

Me and my room were going to Ritter’s
For some after dinner fun,
But I was late and they didn’t wait
And said I’d have to run.

But at the end my bed was warm,
And I lay there as I waited.
We had a sleep-in the next day,
And for once I wasn’t raided!

 

Untitled free verse

By Peter Balan

Look at the ash
a quick slight wind, blowing
away, the leaves passing in the morning
October sky.

ash, disappearing in the dust,
perhaps with someone’s final thought
a quiet cigarette,
an outward sigh of inward pondering.

and there it goes.

 

The Sweeping Nun

By Angelo Verona

In this old building there is a tale
About a wicked nun
Who bumbles about the hallways at night.
If you hear her broom, you run!

She is a twisted nun who sweeps
Up and down the hallways;
Into the deep, moist hours she drifts.
She always vanishes before bright day.

She is not out on every day’s end,
Only on the most dark nights
Where there is no light from the moon.
She is a nun who hides from all light.

If you stumble upon her
She will make you wail.
She will mop up your soul—
Or this could just all be a tale.

 

Robin Hood Day

By Kevin O’Brien

On the second week of September
A long line of youths gather.
They start their march through the timber.
Around a fire the boys disperse and scatter.
A voice barks out the prologue.
Beside the Burger stand his acolytes.
His voice starts low and rumbling like ( )
And then it grows higher and almost bites.
Hoots and whistles emerge from the ground
When the name of Maid Marian is read aloud.
He grabs a bottle and takes a pull;
The thick English accent exudes.
A laugh from the youths like a thunder roll,
An English act the Burger eludes.

 

Hey Dudes

By Liam Treece

Hey Dudes,
so comfy I wear,
on my feet,
now I walk
alone.