In fearlessness, and gallantry there was a knight
among the brave ones that stood above ground
soiled and flourished with mead from the conquer
brandishing light borne from heavn’s gate toiled.
Upon a field of weak and weary-
Behold! The thrashing of bodies trembling under sword!
With what has thou won
than the freckled rust upon the blade
pouring down unto the holy land
with holy means
and boldly speaking to                 Our Father
in prayer, beseeching mercy as the soul uncoils.

If their prayers are allowed then so be ours
for in the grace of The Almighty the heathen struck down
hard upon the breastplate
with the diminishing sounds of clanging iron
whose sons will rise to fill their places
‘mongst the dead falling like the ribbons of their banner.
Their king who is not
                                                        Charles VII of France
                                                        to ribbons for thumbs are more enticing
                                                        than a bloodline confiscated by the lack of heir
                                                        as two families collide and thrust themselves
                                                        into the mighty seat.
Between the bloodlines ransacked by demons of a
different kind-unapologetic hard mounted cavalry
galloping in to wage war;
faithful steeds and lines of warriors
bound by royal decree.
Loyal to the kingship that is rightfully inclined
to rule with majesty and justly comings
and bring peace through the darkened clouds of
plague, famine; ruthlessly devouring the people.
                                                          And here I stand, where the red rain
                                                          spattered the ground at my feet
                                                          running rivers through my loins.
                                                          Still I see that banner waving proud
                                                          man against man; warriors of kindred kind
                                                          masking the truth
                                                          in dealings with folds of linen
                                                          sheathing those who had fallen.
                                                          We gather the dead
                                                          and watch as the banners fly
                                                          with tufts of billowing smoke
                                                          and the blue war paint that follow close behind.
                                                          Prayers are whispered to those who journey
to The Almighty upon the great white chariot
down from the heavens in mercy’s reply.

But what treachery is this?
within the hundred years this battle waged
Wilhelm, my brethren liege
spoke of one with flaxen hair
seen from across the field
shorn of the detail of soft tendrils adorning the face;
"The Maid of Orléans" she was called
a woman with visions of grandeur!
What mockery is this?
What traitorous villainy!
To bring a woman to a battlefield
where men marks more as many
lives besought the bravery of kinsmen and infamy
whose bodies lain tattered ‘mongst limbs and excrement!
What place is this for a woman?
                                                                Ne’er a day was spent in battle
                                                                rather spending time roughing
                                                                delivering orders as preordained
                                                                by God himself who she justly claimed
                                                                is the informant of her king’s success
                                                                that we pitted against for many a sacrifice.
For where a woman’s place is that of a window
waiting for her husband’s return
and if he shan’t return, then she grieve his loss.
She should tend to her children and be beauteous;
but to dress as a man,
an imposter is she, who wishes to be something
greater than her capabilities
through false pretenses of God The Almighty
who brought forth she from his rib
to turn and cast aside and become the downfall of Eden;
the paradise of man.
This woman, this scathing child with lips of venom red
and countenance an abhorrent culture
of the false knighthood of femme!
She will pay for this deception!
This dishonor among men!
                                                                Countless have fallen
                                                                hand-to-hand where we see their faces land
                                                                down on dirt where they take their last breath.
                                                                While this demon seductress masquerades
                                                                makes a mockery
                                                                of man with the devil in her cause
                                                                and wiles of Eve.
                                                                She, I fear, will be the downfall of our English king!

For the fear in this land is of the heretic Maid
who has seen the light through the edge of blade.
Wielding clothes of her brother
armor of men, having seen battle and edge of arrow
marking her distinct as her banner flies
among the French soldiers meek and weary.
Bring justice to the Charles king!
For when she was captured, a fortnight later
Wilhelm, my liege looked naught for good will
nor pleasantries imposed,
rather weary with darkness shrouding the
shadow of his eyes, darkening his figure as he lavishly brandished
a cloth to clean his sword.

“Go on man,” I say, “Tell me of her capture?”
Drunk on the souls stolen today,
he reached for the hilt and sheathed his sword and
told me of The Maiden’s capture.
                                                                  “She had spoken of the demons
                                                                    that she calls the English, where the birthright to the
                                                                    throne of France will be bequeathed
                                                                    unto the hands of
                                                                    Charles, a birthright owned and blood spent through an
                                                                    heirless throne before…
                                                                    Though it is ours! We must rule! We must ordain
                                                                    But a woman? Who shall rule to put a woman in armor
                                                                    and carry herself as equal? Who pays disrespect to
                                                                    her soldiers around, her mouth a cackle
                                                                    like vermin snapping,
                                                                    wild animal unbroken and forgetful of her place.
Ragged, worn, with banner in shreds, she was taken.
England bound to be tried for her crimes.
For the seventy charges against her ranged
from the thieving of horses, to the sorcery of her stead.
From the representation of woman on steed
riding as a man, and the appearance of such.
Such wickedness from a soul so corrupt
it could misrepresent the Lord God
through the false teachings of demons
brought to her mind in a plague of sorcery!
To what end is she?
And wives at home, what if the influence is spread?
as a plague darker than the plague that caught so many souls
within its trap, sickening to think of it.” He said.

From the seventy charges against the Maiden plain
whittled down to twelve before she was slain
as a heretic, a soulless demon is she
or a plague of sorcery of the devilish kind.
To which was founded an incorporation of cultures
of lovely songs and ballads of love
and free men find solace within arms of women
whose justly veils of servitude spent
gleefully sewing the clothes of her husband
instead of wearing them.

After years of war mixed with famine,
my days of valiant soldiering goes
by way of the hillside as the wayward soldiers pass
and acknowledge victory in different ways.
My dear Wilhelm wrote me a letter
that one day would be read and cut to the nether.
A prediction of sorts, channeling the Lord Almighty
                                                                    as she…
For the ideologies of women who’s places may be
set forth among the weakling children suckling at her breast,
she speaks not of war, and ne’er should.

“Later to date The Maid of Orléans
became a mark of history claimed
to be a patron of God as she had foreseen
the gallantry of those French in the name of their king.
To wage a battle of a hundred years to gain independence
from dear England!
To kiss the ashes borne of heresy
and once damned and diminished the memory and shame
Of a woman whose armor had helped earn back a throne
and turned it into an empire of gallantry imposed.
Biding time within the villainous voices encumbering her mind.
To the Holy Spirit who won the war within
and brought about such a sin, heresy!
But it shouldn’t be mentioned or foreseen
that England is sore from the loss of the war
whose moral upkeep was from the wiles of woman
whose strategic prowess brought about the downfall of us all!
For though she was burned and buried, her memory keeps
alive in the morale of the men she had watched and guided
clutched safe within her bosom, in her embrace.
She warmed the country, as a mother would coddle or scold a child
and brought upon us all the soundless cry
of the Lord Almighty’s true intent.
                                                                   To lead not into temptation
                                                                   but to deliver us from evil.
                                                                   Sadly, the evil that is us.
                                                                   Charles is King of France, as rightfully be.
                                                                   May our lesson be known that
                                                                   God works mysteriously, in ways we cannot fathom
                                                                   through miracles and might
                                                                   through the edge of blade through darkened times.
                                                                   The faith is strong in those who can fight through
                                                                   diminished numbers from plague and fright.
                                                                   Underestimated them we had, our enemy
                                                                   with divine right over sovereign ground
                                                                   for freedom with their own crown.
And thus the Maiden fair, shorn of locks and tendrils
of life and motherhood, knighthood and all in between
had died in fire, to be born again in light.

©2013 J.V. Stanley

In such a compendious acquisition of heart
Should anyone trace the outline of its steady rhythm
or merely stare at the scars?
Much like the verbarhypotheca,
remitted debts of life and existence were paid
with tears that tarnish
the metal shield of strength.
They run from eyes;
tiny trickles of blood spewing 
rivers of emotion seeping from
torn seams
that aren’t self-inflicted-
saturated within the soul.
The unease of the contrary:
to save one’s own soul, 
or another’s?
Open the gates; the ones that threatened to dull
the shine of sword, 
with intent to sheathe
instead used to serrate 
the fine, fragile edges of ego
and self-worth
until there is nothing more 
than tattered pieces
used to dry the eyes
and dull the pain. 

Emotions can easily be corroded
if left out within the volley
of a hailstorm.
Standing there, alone
with nothing to gain
and no more to lose
than its polish. 
It becomes a relic;
a once-was,
an idea that
never existed.
As rain streams, the wind of words whip
the flag of independence
creating within it
an implodent sound;
its sullen twang upon metal
disenchanting the illusion of change
until the core is rattled
and its shell becomes dented
cracks, 
falls away.

A dream of being
one’s own liege;
a sovereign independent
immune to the stronghand
that bears down like weighted pebbles
thrown at a window 
to attain an amount of attention
required for existence. 
Time, in essence 
pours through veins
producing the anticlimax;
the end to which 
there lies no happy ending.
Draining out fronds 
of dried crimson
are used to disimbitter;
to forget
and replace with 
an alternate sense of healing.
An auxiliary sense of escape. 

Here, the latimer,
disperses truth, 
inconveniencing those with 
preconceived notions of
unconditional love for 
the chimerically impaired. 
Debts paid in the apoplexy
as emotions continue to 
hemorrhage;
debts paid with every slice of sword
whose whetstone once used to 
brandish the obvious complexity 
of misinterpretation
now left to embody the
misconception of 
self-sacrifice
feeding upon it like a glutton. 
The invoice strikes the blood ties
paid with interest ad valorem
without the hope of the shield
whose strength enables 
the soul to become
incompressible
despite the avarice. 

No longer safe within its harbor,
its anchor cast well past the shore;
the buoy of hope floats absently
in hopes that perhaps 
by distance
by the sheer intrinsic will of spirit 
hope can be seen
and remembered
before the armor sinks to the bottom
and becomes consumed within
the rust of its own red rivers. 

©2013 J.V.Stanley from the forthcoming epic poetic novella and poetry collection "Irony, Karma, and Fate Walk Into a Bar" with expected publication of sometime fall 2013