Forged by one's own hand so sharp a blade.
Cast by the universes strongest powers.
A forge so intense in heat and fire.
Bonds as strong as any smithed steel.
No artery immune to it's strikes and piercings.
Vulnerability at it's every mortal ******.
Yet still we choose to love.

it's our laughter that
bound us;
the moment of camaraderie
new friendship being born
unsure whether this'll be thorn
or storm
and i sat there, torn
unsure where to go from here
a welcoming clasp
palm on palm, fingers
coiled around one another
a peace treaty, a clap of agreement
a silent pact between us
" i gotchu"
a " thank you"
a smile here
a couple more there
am offer for selfless help
and pride in me
pride in you
teamwork.
teamwork,
that forged out friendship
and i thank you
for all your help
all of it.

The Forge
by Michael R. Burch

To at last be indestructible, a poem
must first glow, almost flammable, upon
a thing inert, as gray, as dull as stone,

then bend this way and that, and slowly cool
at arm’s-length, something irreducible
drawn out with caution, toughened in a pool

of water so contrary just a hiss
escapes it—water instantly a mist.
It writhes, a thing of senseless shapelessness ...

And then the driven hammer falls and falls.
The horses ***** their ears in nearby stalls.
A soldier on his cot leans back and smiles.

A sound of ancient import, with the ring
of honest labor, sings of fashioning.

Published by The Chariton Review, The Eclectic Muse, Trinacria, Poetry Life & Times, and  Famous Poets and Poems

NOTE: This is a sonnet about forging sonnets. The gray "anvil" is the human brain. The fiery "glow" is the poetic imagination. The cooling and shaping are the process of revision. The hammer is the poet's pen, producing order out of chaos. Keywords/Tags: Sonnet, poem, indestructible, irreducible, hammer, anvil, forge, labor, fashioning, shape, smithy, blacksmith, ironworker, sword, pen

what we become in
    rejection to the templates
        we succumb to
a positive negation of what
we once believed to be our
being
cast aside even the idea
of a revelatory rebirth
silence and space do not
    describe it
emptiness, void - they too fail
the more i write about it,
the less i say about it

Being rescued
At the eleventh hour
Is not for
The faint of heart

Looking doom
Straight in the eye
Knowing I could be taken down
At any moment

Letting go
And holding on
All in the same moment
Getting to rock bottom

This is my journey
How I get to my truth
For only through
The heat of the forge
Am I made whole

The birthplace of weapons.
The backbone of wars.
No sound but the throes of steel.
In fires that burn, unending.

Shaped by the beating of the blacksmith.
Each stroke, manifesting his will.
To forge the weapon of prophecy;
The sword to lead us to victory.
Bathed in the blood of its enemies.