"crucible" poems
We're forced, each man, to walk a trialed path—
resisted trek, uphill through blinding daze
that shrouds with crucible's perplexing haze
till fog-white skies yield quick to black clouds' wrath.
Affliction brims a thorny pack to bear
whilst dewy darkness drenches in the night,
but where is calming lamp to lend us sight?
And who will come to give us saving care?
Here through veil is heard a whisper certain,
then o'er the mountain creeps the dawning day
and with clear eyes we see the brume give way
as God retracts His theatre's curtain,
unsheathing velvet waves whose morning sheen
beyond grey mist splays vast and wondrous green.
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 12:51 AM UTC
*The crucible of Wants is insatiable
Expanding the chasm of greed
Hurling us into depths of obscurity*
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 12:33 AM UTC
It's pretty and precious when you speak and spit those words of yours that are meaningless.
It's deep and thoughtful when you think you own the land that you were raised up on.
I think it's hilarious when shoes are compared to the price of bread.
Is it me that sees material being more worthy than food?
Brazilian weaves become ends meal and yet no meal is eaten at the end of the day.
Gold twisted to coins
And yet POVERTY is still a lifestyle.
The TRUTH being twisted into LIES.
Fast money reaching it's greatest peak
But in reality we know that slow money is more purer.
Our hands are filled with BLOOD
Our MINDS are locked in chains
Our wrists are slit with blades.
We are blinded by our stories
Covered by our problems
Scared of the truth.
We'd rather face the darkness than being caught in the light.
Because I heard that once you're caught in light
You're a "GOODY-TWO-SHOES".
We throw punchlines
But they bounce back
With lines that form a REBOUND.
Superficial, materialistic and cynical is what we define.
DREAMS burnt away
As if in a crucible where metals are melted and purified.
Our streets are blocked by ashes
Our senses are polluted with gas.
Yes, our MEN are filled with violence
And yet our WOMEN appear to be resentful and bitter!
But have you forgotten that BITTER was once SWEET
HATE was once LOVE
ENEMIES were once FRIENDS?
It's more simple when we reflect our backs on the mirror
'cause now it's not us that we face.
We running from the truth
Due to our fear of our roots.
Remember that God didn't create a coward
Neither did he create a sinner.
It's just the life that we face that trickles us down.
We pop bottles in funerals.
We take shots on horses 'cause we want a hell of a ride.
Our tongues twist what's true to false.
We have become slaves of our sins
So in denial, lost, confused and BRUTALLY tampered with.
We are set for LIBERATION,
INKULULEKO
FREEDOM.
We have misused our freedom.
Yes , we don't appear to be SINNERS,
We are sinners!!
But I prefer to be a RIGHTEOUS SINNER . . . .
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 9:47 AM UTC
the clutter of words taking wing
beneath the wide arms of dense green oak.
the deciphering symbols now begin
as parts of the mystery fall into place
one by one, each piece reflects in a mirror
so similar to what I held up to catch the sky
and reason, fragments that collided in mystical shape
and formed into spirals seeking fresh answers
the dreams that haunted our togetherness for so long
and I languished in every stroke of your poetic pen
now falls the silver cross and the lining in these clouds
that have twisted and turned me inside out
yet I've built a crucible of hope from endless hyperstrings
and pieces of magnificent beauty that I first saw
in your writing and significantly stayed magnetised
by the unfolding of your life into my own searching.
I will stand here forever, watching, even as the sun dances
into dark of night and my feelings grow a new pathway.
Author Notes
Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago
- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11580728-DreamCatcher...-by-Marshall-Gass-noguest#sthash.3aDaqvOh.dpuf
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 7:52 PM UTC
It's that time again.
When rangey youth
in wounded utes
are sent to pick up tin.
Eyes peeled for
shiny mangled bikes
and steely bits
of thing.
I want to see
the crucible
they put it in.
Behold the pearly
metallurgic
mess unfold.
A gleaming steaming
mass of brassy storm
So cooked
and cooled
and coaxed
and clicked
and jewelled
into mercurial form
Then moulded
bright and fine
once more.
This is the
Copper loop
of life we mine.
Eternal
Circulated
Alchemy
Divine.
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 2:30 AM UTC
We are hopeful; we are loud
We are nonperishable,
Cyclic, changing-
Remolded constantly in a crucible of
re-understanding; unrelenting
Unvanquished, not even by death.
We are caring and wishing
dreaming, fulfilling
We are breath, in and out-
One, two, three:
Leap without looking
We are above all, hopeful
in the face of adversity
To be human is to hope.
To be human is to dream.
To be human is to be,
never to become, but just to be
Like wind ever moving,
seen and unseen-we pass
through one life to the next
leaving impressions behind.
We are purposed in that our purpose is
a thing to be found, to be sought
and even if it remains lost,
it becomes apparent at the end.
But even the end is a beginning.
There is no such thing as a wasted life;
no such thing as wrong
no such thing as right.
There just is, and whatever is,
is up to us to find.
We may never know where the big bang came from
or what was before.
But if we're lucky, we may one day know ourselves.
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 4:33 PM UTC
In the intricate tapestry of love,
the adage "once a cheater, always a cheater"
weaves a cautionary thread.
It is a phrase laden with the weight of experience,
a mantra that whispers of broken trust and shattered vows.
When someone treads the path of betrayal,
leaving the fragments of a once-whole heart in their wake,
the scars run deep.
The echoes of deceit reverberate
in the corridors of love,
leaving those who have been wounded hesitant to trust again.
The notion, "once a cheater, always a cheater," emerges as a defense mechanism,
a shield against the vulnerability of being deceived once more.
Yet, in the realm of love,
the narrative isn't always so black and white.
People evolve, learn from their mistakes, and yearn for redemption.
It's crucial to acknowledge the capacity for change
within each individual.
While the wounds of betrayal may linger,
they need not dictate the course of someone's entire romantic journey.
The human experience is multifaceted, and relationships are complex landscapes.
People stumble, fall, and sometimes, they rise anew, reshaped by the crucible of their own errors.
Love, at its essence, encompasses forgiveness, growth, and the possibility of second chances.
So, while the cautionary phrase carries the weight of wisdom,
it is equally important to recognize the potential for transformation.
People can break free from the chains of their past misdeeds,
learn to value trust, and construct relationships founded on honesty and integrity.
Love, after all, is as much about healing as it is about the initial spark.
In the end the tale of "once a cheater, always a cheater"
is not a universal truth
but rather a reminder that love demands conscientious navigation.
It prompts us to approach relationships with discernment,
to treasure the fragility of trust,
and to foster an environment where growth and change are not only possible but celebrated.
Nov 25, 2023
Nov 25, 2023 at 7:26 AM UTC
You'll never get to experience the depth of the still water until you're submerged.
The iceberg of the mind...
There are no mistakes, only lessons manifesting in various degrees of challenge.
Adversity is the crucible through which character is shaped.
Let my equanimity be mistaken for indifference,
as my tolerance is for acceptance.
Because the mountain piercing the heavens is actually a dormant volcano.
Jul 8, 2020
Jul 8, 2020 at 11:26 AM UTC
an octagon tent
wide enough that chucking rollies
to the sand made impossible
sprawled layers
you turned to quote Dali
told me how pale blue washed with lucy
shimmered skyline into dimension
acryllic-smeared sass drips canvas
into murmurs circling dilation
dimethyltryptamine stains
painting dreams on my eyelids
with flowerbrushes and silk,
mushroom dust gathers in discarded hues
on your pallet, where the colors of your irises
dry into a nebula of night-blooming jasmine
the scent of how you move when you sleep
and sleeping is never so sweet
as dancing through lucidity
with you as my sheets.
and i've traced your thumbprint so often
i'm sure if it were stretched around a marble
like buffalo skin on spirit-caller drums,
a globe would be seen
in which Greenland is finally proportionate--
the map on my wall always bothers you,
but I do too, and everyone does,
urging me under the geography
etched into the sea of your surface
by the crucible of your purpose
and working me into
empty behind your right
below the 22
between i'ching
and the forty two names of god
clasping your fore in silver
copper wound around my finger
hamstrings woven like wire
kambaba jasper, two to share
you hang Tibetan tektites
to elevate space
meteorite fragments
lodged in your helix,
stardust blood,
mandala sand from your mother,
and our tendons wrappe
by dexterous carpals
make such a pretty pendant
of my heart,
for synesthesia mistakes not
and my addiction to the pen has eased
for you breathe murals
and syllables never could
match brushtrokes of carbon dioxide.
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 1:13 PM UTC
Hot gold runs a winding stream on the inside of a green bowl.
Yellow trickles in a fan figure, scatters a line of skirmishes, spreads a chorus
of dancing girls, performs blazing ochre evolutions, gathers the whole show into
one stream, forgets the past and rolls on.
The sea-mist green of the bowl's bottom is a dark throat of sky crossed by
quarreling forks of umber and ochre and yellow changing faces.
2.5k
Father, you are the blueprint of my soul,
And though I sense our parting drawing near,
The crucible of death will make us whole.
The day or hour is not ours to control
Yet even strangers read your passing here.
Father, you are the blueprint of my soul.
In paradise's fields I see a knoll
Where, shucked of flesh, we sport without a care,
The crucible of death will make us whole.
As age and weight make diamond from the coal,
So I am fashioned from your smile and tear,
Father, you are the blueprint of my soul.
I will not dread the shedding of my role,
A promise waits beyond the footlights' glare,
The crucible of death will make us whole.
So, father, do not fear to pay the toll,
I am the sun, your shadow I revere.
Father, you are the blueprint of my soul.
The crucible of death will make us whole.
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 3:29 AM UTC
It was never my intention to place you in harms way.
Enlisting your heart to trouble after we kissed on that precious day.
As time elapsed, my heart took a moment to understand.
You were portraying your earnest emotions subtly then crass.
The turmoil you must’ve felt during the time you kept to yourself…
Causing you to experience agonizing despair while delving into mournful swells…
Find it in your heart to forgive these third degree burns.
For it was never my intention to crucify your kind soul.
My love yearns to romanticize unhurriedly,
Seducing passionately while intimately feeding the soul so fluidly.
Is it too much to ask for an amorous exploration?
For what is love without a genuine vibration?
If *** is all you seek,
Be explicitly direct; don’t play games that will cause deceit.
Otherwise, in the end, ambivalent emotions will prevail.
Crafting a false sense of endearment that will soon be too much for you to bear.
I once journeyed to a crucible of love and hate.
Traveling far beyond the unfathomable depths of heartache.
Hopelessly exiled to endure the slowest of brutalizing pains;
A light was discovered, allowing the abhorrence to dissipate.
By: Michael M. De La Fuente
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 12:22 AM UTC
What
((holds)) you
to unyielding self?
Petrified
you stone your sins
and still miss the mark;
attempt to beat soul
into healing.
Fool.
Even this
nascent struggle
to understand
casts another rock.
Would you lobotomize...
****** a stick
into your eye socket
to see more clearly?
The peine forte et dure is
in the resistance;
you know,
and do not accept
grace
in the hands
easing you toward
the gentle current
of Spirit
washing around you.
Why?
Entombed by need
to atone,
you cannot roll
the rock aside alone.
Stop asking for
"more weight",
Giles Corey...
you are a fearsome man
standing upright.
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 1:56 PM UTC
Molten Mercury swallowed whole
Love is a crucible turning all things gold
Sunlight dancing on your dark still waters
Love needs no words only drawing in quarters
Perfectly one now, perfectly blended ,
But what is left when love is ended?
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 7:18 PM UTC
You need a porcelain mixing bowl and a wooden stirring spoon
a cup and a measuring jug.
Add one teaspoon of ripe inconsequentiality.
then add two teaspoons of innate stupidity.
Pour in one cupfull of political lack of integrity
preferably nurtured in hot smelly air.
Add 4 cupsfull of facile celebrity chatter,
preferably with the volume turned down..
Add 2 cupsfull of shallow religious nonsense
full of obsequious morality.
Add 2 cupsfull of vain "god" chatter
and sacrificial demands.
Pour in 1/4 cup of nonsensical "goddess" humbug
and fatuous posturing.
Sift untold millions of youthfull soldiers dried
and powdered bones until finely ground in the crucible
of never ending wars.
Take up the wooden spoon of societal hypocracy
and stir slowly with gossipy backstabbing.
When all these ingredients are blended as smoothly as a shaven young girls **** put to one side covered with a bloodstained cloth for a millennia to rise to the occasion.
Back in an hour
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 12:40 AM UTC
O! How the winds cry!
O! How the earth weeps!
O! How the heavens pour forth their tears!
Thy face knows no blemish!
Thine eyes rich as diamonds
Your perfect attributes cause all others to pale in Comparison, like the tapestries of Arachne!
O! the Sun wishes to shine as you do!
No! 'Tis blasphemy to even but dream
Of placing oneself above so fair a maiden.
The fury of the Erinyes at those who dare
Is apparent to all.
O! The thought of not seeing
Your impeccable features once again
Is maddening!Heartwrenching!
But my gaze is like a stain
Upon thee. No love is felt
But pain is delt
Insanity comes upon me.
With little hope;much despair
For me, I beg, Send a prayer
I cannot; WILL not bear the agony
Of which is like the apostles upon the stormy sea
Whence Jesus remarked "Oh, ye of little faith."
I am such a man incapable of receiving
Thine divine compliments
Which I save myself from with doubt
And questioning;O! the torment!
I love thee, I try to show it
But I am unable to merit
Affection in return
Time and time again
I exult you my friend,
Yet how can you receive my words of praise
When your words I do but raze?
O! The neverending cycle which perpetuates
The need for love, which does not abate
How can I love you
When the thought of self-love is so new?
But I feel like to you I do belong
Chose me or deny; the point of my song.
Oh! How the crucible of love
Causes me pain in the heart
Self-love does not endure in part
Or in whole, but love for those dear
And love for those near
Is where true love starts.
Sep 26, 2010
Sep 26, 2010 at 7:48 AM UTC
Trust is like the clear waterfall
Flowing down difficult terrains
To make them hospitable and fertile
Its origin is from the heart
That is tranquil and full of love
Filling every crevice
Of the parched grounds
With conviction to soften more hearts
Touch the magic waters
Bathe yourself in the flowing beauty
And trust shall have you transformed
Love to trust
And trust to Love
Hold the magic water in the crucible
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 11:19 PM UTC
Knowing makes me wonder
At evocative truths which abound
Salient sentience is a crucible
Where the enlightened meet
To sip ambrosia’s elixirs
Enrapturing mesmeric enchantments
Fecund grace ensues
Pervasions depths seem within reach
With treatises we expound
Lecherous libido’s pandemic liaisons
A chorus so unique
Each one a sentinel equation
In harmony replete
The decadent arrogant squirm
As rubato’s flair reveals
All the things that might have been
The love that they concealed
As they reach with grasping greedy hands
For things they can not steal
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 3:15 AM UTC
Blurry regrets of stumbling nights
And entangled intrigues
Lifelong sparks and crisp clean elation
A love affair for risk-seeking souls
And a haven for the lost
that seek something
To satiate the raw, raw emptiness
Of our hearts.
You're chaos, my own version of order
filthy but magnificent
Reliably unpredictable
Escape and anchor intertwined.
And Yet,
I choose you
My sanctuary,
my crucible--
&I; love your imperfections;
For the mess of what you are
Is exactly what I see in me
And so I am yours as you are mine
And in your embrace
I feel whole and alive.
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 10:45 AM UTC
You are a crucible,
within you are the ingredients
that will coalesce into such
wonderful shape and form.
I am an unlit pyre aching to burn
Find the spark that will
push me to ignite.
Feel for the pressure that
will force your contents to unite.
You will make forever in your own shape.
A fine thing it will be.
People will look on your
achievement and inundate
you with deserved praise.
You are more than a glorified stain.
You are permanent. You will last.
I am almost nothing.
I will blaze for such a short time.
Ash and dust and nothing.
But, my god,
my friend,
my love,
I have such a gift for you.
Watch as I burn.
Apr 8, 2011
Apr 8, 2011 at 2:23 AM UTC
Grasping vagrancy in one's child
Most simplistic act is not
Fractured maternal heart bleeds wild
Suffered soul the abyss caught
Crucible ever prevails fraught
Futile remedy ailment breeds
Posturing all heedless things
Neglecting primal earthly needs
Harsh inebriant trappings
Averse entirely lucid pleads
Clamping malady straining chest
Wakeful blackness vanished days
Clutched slight suckling babe at my breast
Cast tears enduring malaise
Reflection of having caressed
Tragic sustinence chosen vile
Sighted resolves not to see
Relentless self imposed exile
Indifferent to love me
Offer life to capture a smile
Grasping vagrancy in one's child
Cognizant of special spot
An alternative to beguiled
Alter processes of thought
I am needing to know she fought
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 1:01 PM UTC
Thick heavy smoke rises
From chisled scars
Embers spark with skin flakes
Into toxic smog
Deep inhale, chokes lungs
Burning misfortunes churn
Red eyes swallow
The cloudy inferno
Golden windows to the soul
In the wake of consumption
Ashen flesh molded
Crucible sculpted perfection
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 2:32 PM UTC
~~~
*to whom do I address this?
to whom do I
forward fling, weep and sing,
this bequest~request,
prayer~cum~worship~cum~blessing~cum~
howling
to and upon?
where shall I commence?
for there is no beginning or end,
resurrection,
a continuum,
a progression permanent,
from inside out
to harmonize, coordinate,
what the outside has taken leave to
inject, insert,
to our selves query,
our life hood very,
impoverish our senses
and still, and yet,
to ever inspire and seed
relief
do you possess that requisite
belief?
that all
that is illogical,
beyond sensory comprehension,
that all
is a steady running creek
of fluid starting points,
none that can be deflected,
nor forever held
that all,
being demands unchosen but acquired,
that all,
demanding constant reflection,
and realization
that the acceptance mystery is but a
molten crucible
wherein wonderful and awful
must of necessity,
coexist
so you alone must construct,
what chance desires to destruct,
weld the joints of new iron works that
require the bonding of a special solder
of asking and acceptance,
to be the special soldier
of acceptance
overcoming that which we can never accept,
yet must
be purposed to build high the edifice,
to stand upon the crane,
to look down on what
has been lost as well as
not yet gained,
and that
requires saving
to see the far, observe the near,
merging both into a single point ring alloy,
manufactured in order
to never forget
to be forever certain,
it is within our assured power
to comprehend and apprehend
belief in blessed resurrection
where there is no birth nor death,
no start nor finish,
just the
munificent satisfaction
of lawful acceptance,
that all we build of any matter,
that which we create,
cannot be destroyed,
but will be recreated,
for that is the purposeful meaning
of resurrection now
and every day forward*
Atlanta, Georgia
Nov. 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 5:40 PM UTC
a woman's passion is a fiction of the sun
a radiance that forms and lingers
it's time burning like a rag in a guttering flame
it flickers, it spits a storm, a moment's certainty
a lifetime's doubt
it is the whisper of the wind in barren trees
a crucible for gravity's fervor
a silence dreaming its imploded sounds
Sep 26, 2025
Sep 26, 2025 at 3:53 AM UTC