Poems for Planets: Mars

 

 

o-MARS-OCEAN-facebook

 Another wonderful day, and  poetry must go on. I did not forget this project!

Here is the latest of the lot, and Ode for the Martians among us!!

Mars is the planet that follows on after earth. Its the second smallest planet in our solar system, but boy what a beast. Crazy weather cycles, crazy sandstorms lasting for months and despite being smaller than the other planets it has the largest mountain in this solar system. Pretty bad ass planet, a fitting planet for the god of war, that ares spirit, that red planet, that Mars.

An interesting piece of information on the mythology that I found very interesting, was the icon spear of the god Mars. It was said to tremble and shake when war was coming, Imagine the excitement on his face when he felt that. Learning and piecing it all together was a challenge for sure.

 Without further delay, I give to you …

Mars: Ode

Your face forever flushed a royal crimson,

Your heart forever ready to brace the fight.

A man at arms, the ward of godly might.

 

Phobos and Deimos follow and echo your iron will*,

They march for a thousand leagues to feed you life.

Armored to the hilt holding your place in swollen nights.

 

 

We listen for coming glory in the tremors of your spear,

That summit of your Olympus that is the envy of your peers.

Your secret love for Venus showed your skill in love and war,

Though your size may strike us slight, your power harbors more.

Those torrents of raging mists rouse your passion for the fray,

Through the vigor of our Ares we live to fight another day.

*The two moons of mars.



B.N.

 

 

Forged in Fire

Moulded in the toughest moments, your decision will find its voice. There incisions will multiply in effect when applied with experience, that itself is earned through bad decision. 
The spoils of war can be fickle if the battles were void of venture, sterile with stencils yet tested, with what ifs unanswered. Go bravely into battle.

I can question victors tirelessly and ask for the remedies, ask for the formulae to construct my own pulpit. If I only step into the well worn shoes of my professor I can feel the wear of there tread, none of that can show me the road. I must lace up my own, I must take to the path, remembering well, the cautions and failings at my own accord. 

Champions aren’t made over night, watch for the scars under their armour. Those will be the most potent of teachers for the vigilant scholar. When you relish each battle, undiluted by the myths of completion, victory and effort will be separate but one. 
I have never lost a battle. I have grappled with my maladjustments. I have learned the pitfalls of vigour with no vision, learn the impotence of vision with no vigour, I’ve learned the power of the mob, the mob is fickle. 
The bellows are rampant and will not cater to your cadence, the furnace has no sympathy for the timidity. The anvil will spare you nothing, brace for the beat of the hammer. The mighty iron will mark time, crashing against the virgin or kneading out the impurities. The metronome of steel and grit will bound until your armour is finished, so then you can wage war on the horizon of your new beginnings.