It’s not about the biggest car.
Not about being first.
About indulging the urge to kill
in the name of privilege and wealth.

Valour defines its arena one way:
deny fate, envisage what should be.
Valour is seldom found in the public process,
except the moment when the candidate puts their foot
in front of yours and explains why you should vote.

Valour is the opening of eyes at daybreak
the readiness to face another day.
Valour is remembering fallen friends,
fallen foes. Valour is the conviction
it’s worth it. All of it.

When we remember those who died,
we cast off the conventions of facade
and deceit, allow ourselves to say,
“Despite misfortune, he lived well, she lived well.”
Know this: the valorous stand with the dead.

Valour faces a wall of flame and says, “no further”;
stands eye to eye with imminent death and says, “no further.”
Valour faces the mirror in the flames that says,
“Be all that you can be.”

and replies, “No, I will be
what I must be,
for those who need me,
those who look to me for guidance,
those who have never witnessed
honour in action. Its gift of good.”

•
I’m dedicating this poem to my son Stephen Arlen Maxwell who died on this day in 2004 due to leukemia. A child with the bravery of a man, who held a deep belief in honour and good.
In the picture, he’s wearing his cap because he’s bald from the chemotherapy. But that day, he was just a kid hanging on the beach.