Bread and Blood


The first discipline: Do not touch the blade.

The blade lives scabbarded in green.

The hilt is capped with gold and brown

Clan colors, and mine.

It fits the hand–

Knuckle, pad, tendon, bone.

The edge is curved subtly,

The full length of it,

Cap to end,

Sea of sharp waves.

Gentle razor, beautiful death.

The second discipline: Consider the blade.

The blade has no balance.

It rests glue-still,

Edge upward,

On the throat.

The blade has no strength.

It cuts Toledo steel like grass.

The blade has no will.

It cannot be deflected.

The blade has no desire.

It drinks blood;

It drinks lives.

The blade has no goals.

It cannot be deflected.

The third discipline: Forget the blade.

It is the feet that balance.

It is the body that is strong.

It is the hand that cuts.

It is the arm that wills the stroke.

It is the heart that drives the will.

There are no goals.

The fourth discipline: Consider the warrior.

The man without the blade: powerless.

The blade without the man: powerless.

The warrior: two made whole.

The fifth discipline: There is no other.

Poetry Writing Dancing Badger