my hometown has a straight edge,
obedient new kid vibe -
one that other cities hate.
yet it resides in my heart,
its memories forming
the shape of who I am today.

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

To all the boys who have ruthlessly clinged themselves upon me, forcing me to make room for them, demanding me to fit into their dreams of me, expecting me to perform, wanting me to take them in.

To all the boys who have made me change for them, rushed my development, taking me out into the wilderness, so far away that I no longer could find my way back home.

To all of you who have shaped me into who I am today, leaving me less naive, so careful of others' feelings after learning to put theirs ahead of my own.

To all of you who have left me shining from all the love, more in touch with my feelings and my gut, a bit harder but beautiful in the adore from your eyes.

To all of you - I am done. I have nothing left to say to you, I've already thought it all. But to myself - I made it home. Bruised, scared and scarred but I made it. And even though it isn't what it used to be, I'm still back and the next time I go, it will be when I want to go and not because of a stupid boy.

i want to be the one
you see in the clouds
when you are feeling
tired & empty
and need a reason
to keep going

People come into our lives at every chapter, shaping us in different ways,
Some good and some bad,
How did you become both?

trust in the shape of a key,
good god how corny is that?

satisfactorily nonsensical, a Pharisee phrase,
so offal illogical,
it borders on the poetically reprehensible

who has time to state this stuff,
pretend it is worthy of something respectful,
work it into a Nobel Prize awarded script,
nominated for "really bad ****?"

an ordinary hardware key, brass gleamy,
and the squealing grinding noise
heard while a blank progenitor is reimagined,
so so annoyingly ludicrous in this century
of plastic replicators but the noise,
comfortably familiar as a sound of
things being made

run thumb test over the cuts,
as if your thumb should know
what order the points and bevels,
the toothy gap spaces should be,
the correct disorderly order of the teeth

there are very few locks on a farm;
indeed the front door key
has not
been seen
in many a year

what's that you ask?
ok ok - I get it - in harvest time
it is early to bed and earlier to rise,
conclude this mystery key,
red winter wheat needs laying down,
stop your word seeds germinating

there may be few locks on a farm,
everything rusts so quickly anyway,

but stop to comprehend just how many locks
the human body employs  -
at least 613,
maybe many more,
and only one master
for them all

a shiny gleamy thing,
strangely,
its cuts and grooves seem to
spell a word
trust

go figure

1:05am in the city

I wish that  

i
       would
                         stop
                                
                                   s i n k i n g


down to your
empty promises.