I am a warrior angel not

a made-in-man’s-own-image, baby angel.

I throw down

for the up

side. Too, though,

I am God’s handmaiden, convening

by the river, meditating

in the peace.

Yet, if what I love

is threatened, I am

the elf confronting the

hooded goliath slinging

barbs through a chain link

fence at my pale

son playing football in the ghetto.

Perhaps, I could do with a

bit less scrap,

bit more discretion.

However, I will not

apologize for my verve.

I would take up

righteous weapons, but weapons


I would wield the blade

of inner strength

vs. outer force.

Puffing and posturing

to prove a point

is like fighting a

Jedi with a wooden knife.

When I rise

and take my place

at the right hand

of the Father,

(You know that place?

It fits every being in God’s creation)

there is no fighting.

There is only unsheathing

truth like a laser.

The bout is never

against another

but the foe within

who would take another’s

hooks and impale himself.

This then is my ablution:

to direct the valor

that would go forth, blood streaming,

to hold

on the Mount, survey

highest action

rather than


To exist as love

and persist as love

even when all


compels me

to be less than love.

To have courage

enough to fight.

To have courage

enough not to fight.

To be the Spiritual warrior

who knows when

to do which

and when to disarm with love.