While the Village Slept

     This is a relatively new poem, and definitely not you grandmother’s poetry, or your mother’s.

     It is a story with a moral, change can come quickly and violently, yet we can become complacent and inured to almost anything eventually. Lest we remember the past…..

    Please read it, and take it for what it is,  just a story, and the product of the mind of a deranged poet!

     By the way I want to thank my loyal followers (though few) for checking in everyday. I’m thinking of taking a brief hiatus, to catch up on my backlog of material that needs to be transcribed. I’ll let you know.

     Oh, I almost forgot, the answer to the challenge is pre-adolescence. But, in my time it would have been, the teenage years, but kids grow up too fast today.



While the Village Slept

Out, beyond the range,

of the scent of the hounds,

the invaders massed, in force.

Preparing without haste,

waiting, without sound,

for events, to set the course.


Time, for them, an ally,

as the village slept, in peace.

Secure within the comfort, of their past.

Danger, long forgotten,

their defenses, had no crease.

And, against all armies, they’d hold fast.


The invasion planned,

well before the hour,

for all circumstance, unknown.

The villagers were soon to be,

without their usual power,

then, in to chaos, thrown.


At the hour of the rooster,

when he began to crow,

the invaders, took to arms.

And with the sun,

into the village, flowed.

Giving quarter, none, from harm.


The gore and blood,

in rivers ran,

from every site, and section.

Where, were the vaunted defenses now,

the protectors of the land?

Might there have been, defections?


When death’s visit ended,

and the slain, brought out to count,

hundreds, nevermore to be.

 Piled high, at center square,

a vast and great amount,

of those, spirits now set free.


 And the traitors, with their silver,

slithered back, away from there,

with their evil, bought and paid.

While the invaders, ate and drank,

from the village shares,

and no act imagined, was forbade.


The women were as chattel,

the children, kicked and scorned.

For to the victors, all had passed.

And the living, wished at times, to be,

they, who now are mourned.

And upon the traitors, curses cast.


Now the time of occupation,

would linger for an age.

And then once more, the village slept.

Secure now, in defenses,

that on a grander stage,

tricks them to forget, how once they wept.


 Jack Downing

Mar. 2011







About poemsandponderings

Hearth and Health are wonderful things and if you're without either such sorrow that brings So I cannot express enough thanks to my Lord and to my family and friends for the support you afford! ~Jack Downing~
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