Ode to Atilla

Along the ridge side by side

Roman and Goth did meet

Awaiting the arrival of their mutual disgust

The Terror of the East.

In clouds of dust the hordes came

The Evil under the Sun-

The Goths and Romans did steady themselves

Prepared for the mighty Hun.

Somewhere down in the depths of the bowels

Came their battle cry!

By stomping hooves and clashing sword 

Many men did die.

The land was ripe with blood that day

When metal, flesh and earth became one.

No Roman or Goth would stand alone

Against Attila the Hun.

But the scourge of the earth road onward

Raging his bloody cry!

As he raped and ravished poor Italy--

Only Rome would not die.

On to Rome the marauders would go

Leaving destruction in their wake

But Rome was fortified and ready

When the Barbarians arrived at the gate.

Ahh, but even Attila had his Achilles heel

  In this case it was Caesar's daughter

In exchange for her he would leave Rome

And not lead it to slaughter.

But Caesar became enraged!

This insult he would not take!

The Romans indignantly took up arms

Causing Attila to consider his mistake.

Long is the day for a worn warrior

And the Huns were worn through and through

Their energy spent and their resources depleted

Retreating was all that Attila could do.

In the eyes of his people Attila was a hero

And a hero's welcome is what he received

Victories of the Hun were widely celebrated

Stories of glorious battle believed.

As the custom was with his people

Attila had many wives

None had ever claimed his heart

Assuming they even tried.

There was one woman, however, young and fair

Seeming sent from above

One simple glance his way and the fearsome warrior fell;

Attila was in love.

Soon a great wedding was made;

A feast to end all feast

People came from near and far

To see this beauty of the east.

Now there is nothing more ridiculous as a warrior in love

Their commonsense and boldness are sunk

So Attila did what all besotted warriors do

He  wholeheartedly got drunk.

As with all great warriors of his ilk

Attila wanted to die a warriors death.

Engaged in combat on the battlefield 

He wanted to draw his last breath.

But for poor drunken Attila

It simply was not to be

He suffered, you see, a bloody nose

And died unceremoniously.

No hero's death for him

No warriors last stand

Nature did for history

What could not be by man.

Writers Block

A cup of coffee to clear the cobwebs

A cigarette to help get the blood going

An empty page sits before me

Still I can't get the words flowing.

Many are the stories that beg to be written

Many are the legends that long to be told

The words of these now escape me

I fear my brain is getting too old.

I sit and stare and pray for inspiration

Day after day, week after week

I finger the metal keys of my typewriter

So cold and hard and fast asleep.

And that blank page-that damn blank page!

It sits so smugly in its bed

Mocking, taunting and teasing me!

It likes to play games with my head!

My coffee pot is empty; my ashtray runneth over.

I fear my literary end may be at hand

As my deadline grows increasingly near

The minutes tick by like so many grains of sand.

So its come down to this has it?

A final face-off with time.

With so very much against me

How can the eleventh hour be mine?

But I must rally my troops, boys!

Gather ALL my arms around me!

One long deep breath before I fire

As I bravely strike the first key.

One word, then two--a sentence is formed,

A whole paragraph upon the page!

"Mock me now!" I cry,

Fingers flying in a rage.

Well into the night I create

So many people, places and things.

My brain dances, my eyes grow wild!

My typewriter virtually sings!

By mornings light six chapters have been born

From a former infertile brain.

My publisher will be happy by noon today-

I am officially back in the game. 

                                                                        ---Katy jean Leslie

My eldest son and myself at the time I wrote this.

I was 21 and he was 2.

When I originally wrote this we were still using typewriters--I had a big metal black one with gaps between the keys--no idea what maker--I got it from a yardsale back in the mist of time.  The 'M' key would often stick.  I also smoked a lot back then.  Some how the two things seemed to go hand in hand.  Now the typewriter is a laptop, the cigarettes have been replaced with pretzels or chocolate.  The coffee, however, is the same.  Only  stronger.  

Enough

Am I enough?

When you look at me what do you see?

Am I young enough?  Pretty enough?

Smart enough?  Rich enough? 

When you look at me do you see 

 The glow of youth long surrendered?

The shadows of childish endeavors?

Or do you see the battle scars;

The crevasses of time I wear on my face; my body? 

When you listen to me do you hear

The intelligence of my mind?

The wisdom and compassion of my years?

Or do you hear something different-

Unlike your mind, your thoughts?

Do you hear what you expect to hear?

Do you hear me at all?

When you speak to me do you

Speak with your whole heart?

With respect?  Equality?  Authenticity of being?

When you speak to me do you speak to me

As if I were important?

Or do you speak above me?  Down to me?  At me?

When you experience me do you 

Feel good about you? 

Do you feel safe?  Encouraged?  Valued?

Do I show you respect?  Compassion?  Love?

Though I may sometimes fall short 

I will always value you

And should you sometimes forget

Or get busy with living

I will forgive you as I forget too.

But never forget:

WE ARE ENOUGH