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
nonetheless.
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
reaction.
To exist as love
and persist as love
even when all
experience
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.
