J.M. Jordan

Overheard Whisper from a Backyard Fort

Quick now, quiet.     Keep it down low,

here in this hidden     place of our making.

Secret spot,     remnant of night-time,

blessed arbor,     child-whispered secret,

nursery-rhyme riddle,     forgotten by wolves,

unknown by grown-ups,     usurpers of thrones.

Well-armed we are,     war-ready, willing,

country-side scoured     for weapons to wield:

alley cans tilted,     rummaged and rifled,

spider-web sheds     unlocked and looted,

dank cellars raided,     robbed of old secret

things in the shadows,     in the dust and the dark. 

Now we have piles,     good-gotten, gathered,

weapons of war     and makings of mayhem:

magic mop-handle     lances and halberds,     

cane-pole spears,     rubbery swords,

a rusty toy musket     and five pocket knives.

And armour enough     we have here in heaps:

clanging shields     from lids of trash cans,

skateboard helmets,     broad shoulder pads,                     

musty shin guards,     old goalie gloves,     

beach towel capes     and crowns of bright tin-foil.

So send not your spells     accursed to call us,

Your threats of famine     or feasts without flavor,

Or castings to exile     in cruel quiet corners,

Or threats of books     and early-to-beds. 

Ring out no bells.     Call out no names

we scarce remember,     forsaken, forgotten.

For the time is at hand,     the hour is here,

for we are now gathered,     the noble assembled,

the last knights     of late afternoon light, 

forever rebels     of every lost cause,

of the Sacred Heart,     the final stand. 

For we are olde friends,     the fellowship strange, 

the keepers of secrets     who last and alone

will rise and restore     the King to his throne. 

J. M. Jordan is a Georgia native and a resident of the Old Dominion. His work has appeared in Arion, Gray’s Sporting Journal, Louisiana Literature, Modern Age, Southern Poetry Review, and elsewhere.