HERO OF OLD, by John Keller:

The hero sat upon his horse;
his steely gaze was set.
Before him was an army fell.
His blade with blood was wet.

With aching arms he held aloft,
a blessed, shining blade.
His battered plate-mail dully shone,
No fear his face displayed.

A horde of reavers, giants, trolls,
crashed steel on shields, and roared.
The hero said a short, quiet prayer,
then urged his warhorse for’ard.

O’er clattering hoof and snorting steam,
A distant voice was heard.
The hero reined his noble mount,
and turned at Mother’s word.

He laid one hand on horse’s neck,
and felt the smooth, cool stone.
Then turning from the park he left,
and hurried on towards home.


John Keller lives in Cross Village, Michigan, a tiny town with several hundred residents and a long history. He’s lived a life full of old Odawa Indian stories, deep-snow blizzards, and a lot of trees.


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