The Game of Chess

By Noel J. Nolan — July 2025

The game of chess is one of skill,

Of maneuvers sharp and silent will.

A game of balance — attack, defend,

Where one must fall, and one ascend.

Unless both hearts agree to draw,

The winner stands, the loser saw.

Each move a message, clear or blurred,

Each silence speaks without a word.

If you fail to see your foe’s intent,

Their strike upon your king is meant.

The battle builds, the act now three,

The curtain falls — inevitability.

The final call, a voice that’s late:

Checkmate — the end, the game, the fate.

The Chessboard and the Battlefield

Before a war ignites the land,

Spies creep forth at one command.

Through shadows deep, they seek and pry,

For secrets born where soldiers lie.

When nations sleep, while drums are near,

The price of peace becomes too dear.

Blind to movements at their door,

They wake to find themselves in war.

A tyrant rises, fierce and bold,

His eyes are steel, his heart is cold.

The dove’s soft words, though kindly spun,

Will only feed the tyrant’s gun.

Never yield, not one small part,

To those with war inside their heart.

For when the bombs begin to fall,

No peace remains — no hope at all.

Then tanks will roll where children played,

And boots will march where dreams once stayed.

Among the ruins, ghosts will weep —

The city’s heart no more to keep.

#poetry