‘The Battleground’ and Other Poetry by Ken Kenigsberg The Society May 15, 2014 Humor, Poetry The Battleground The slashing blades strike fierce and deep The newly stricken fall down in heaps. In vain: the foe storms back enraged, The scythe-like swords remain engaged. The rampaging hordes beat with passion; Blade-wielders reply in their own fashion. Undaunted, the enemy tries once more, The swords, unstinting, produce more gore. Midst all the blind, untrammeled fury: No truce; no peace; no judge or jury. No quarter given and none received Is all the mad ones could conceive. At last, Thor, god of heaven has been sated. The roiling thunder stills; abated. Long sought peace returns to earth And wipers return to windshield berths. The Arborist He stands alone atop a tall, tall tree Athwart a strong bough with vines entwined. Not human but of another breed; An arboreal elf with a fearless mind. His sinewy hand holds tight a noisy ax A gas-powered chain on a metal blade That’s used for his relentless tree attacks To change a mighty forest into a glade Beneath him stretches a rising lofty stile The beam of a window that frames the sky And with its fellows forms a peristyle Flanked by green drapery on either side. Ensconced is he within a spry village Of blue jays and black birds with red adorned. Patrolled by scootering, squirrely pillagers Christmas treed with strings of dangling acorns No joy he takes from all this woodland scene. There’s work to do and not all day to do it He starts his trusty coughing cutter keen It kicks and expectorates a smoky spit. Swing left, swing right the gnashing, grinding mill With spumes of dust atwirl and high-pitched snarl Takes down the airy tree-house from roof to sill The wreckage spirals down to low-lying marl. A mighty tree is no longer tall, The giant has been decapitated. Brave elf is still held in destruction’s thrall; The hungry guillotine has not been sated. On and on the battler madly smashes, Below and below the devastation. Bough after bough converted to trash Limb follows limb, victim to amputation At last the final dreadful cut is made, The lofty tabernacle lies prone; Its trunk bare beside the oozing plate That once was bottom to a large green zone Embedded within the roiled leaf-strewn soil A coterie of acorns lies hidden and mired, Remnants of the mad recent turmoil, The children resurgent of the parent expired. Ken Kenigsberg is a poet living on Long Island. Featured Image: “Revolt in Cairo” by Anne-Louis Girodet (1767-1824) NOTE: The Society considers this page, where your poetry resides, to be your residence as well, where you may invite family, friends, and others to visit. Feel free to treat this page as your home and remove anyone here who disrespects you. Simply send an email to email@example.com. Put “Remove Comment” in the subject line and list which comments you would like removed. The Society does not endorse any views expressed in individual poems or comments and reserves the right to remove any comments to maintain the decorum of this website and the integrity of the Society. Please see our Comments Policy here. Share this:Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Click to print (Opens in new window)Click to share on LinkedIn (Opens in new window)Click to share on WhatsApp (Opens in new window)Click to email this to a friend (Opens in new window)Click to share on Pinterest (Opens in new window) Leave a Reply Cancel ReplyYour email address will not be published.CommentName* Email* Website Notify me of follow-up comments by email. Notify me of new posts by email. This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.