"ironclad" poems
I'm jittery as ****
just plain out of luck.
Wishing I could duck
out and take just one drag.
Surely, that wouldn't be so bad.
I'm going a tad mad.
My will has never been ironclad.
Apr 11, 2018
Apr 11, 2018 at 2:46 AM UTC
///
ironclad clouds
rain rust
roiling
on streets timorous
tired and torporous
turgid with wetness
windblown
fowl run afoul of
flights of fliers
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 7:15 PM UTC
Like an explosion;
But in s l o w m o t i o n, a tidal wave crashes
This ironclad vessel beginning to thrash
Through the flashes of light though I see a brief passage
The corroded bolts past their toll
Give way exposing the hull
Capsizing the flood gates,
Negating promise of a safe harbor ashore
Amidst the panic and commotion
Together we sank, into the ocean;
*Sailing the high seas of impassion
I was impassive, &
Like an anchor*
Love plunged to unimaginable new fathoms
Dragging us down;
Perilously we claw hand over fist
The sorrows we drown
Adrift the turmoil and wreckage
Bubbles ascend toward the surface
(Spluttered echoes of our last choked hopes)
Water fills our lungs expunging the air
Fearing the end I daresay;
Babe take my breath away
Death is only the beginning
But I’m afraid of the forward path’s embrace
Dead ahead through the currents we tread
Shallow water blackout,
There's no turning back now,
Let's die as we lived
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 9:26 PM UTC
A Lone Walker nowe Ah!
Intae Theis Murky Naycht
‘Yont Whin-Rock menacin’,
Ewry Wound bygane an’ the Scar
Freish Bluid o’ mine fuelin’,
Lang, lang, IT! the Blacklyn Howr,
Unfathomable, Unearthly,
Verra Guid Fyre wearin’,
Burnan Hye! Gore o’ mine
Awa, awa, IT owre spilled!
Soil o’ Alabaster gravin’,
An’ abön, Great Orrah! a Presence yirr,
Near-hand ay flashin’,
Rumblin’, guid tremblin’,
Lyke a Rhodium-Demon Hyear
Unco! stick-an-stowe towerin’,
An’ a Mirror-Vision ay broo!
O’ Red Gore fuil an’ pruid!
Great Rowth ragin’!
Human nae, nae IT laanger!
Heyne intae Theis Skye-Mirror,
Image o’ mine! nae, nae IT laanger!
Ma Rubye Brooch Micht, och!
Stylle haiwin',
An' wae Veins o’ Deep Lowe imbued,
Ma ain stylle! Glamis’ Orrah! Dearest!
Athwart ma Solitarye Gait
Ays a Storm-Blast fallin’,
An’ wnto me! wnto me noo, IT!
O’er an’ o’er! Carham’s Scyld-Hel Orrah!
Stylle Theis Dangerus! Verra Dangerus, IT!
Highlan’ Thwndir-Rode o’ mine
Intae Theis Guid Kintra whooshin’,
An’ the nae ****** Cauld Landis Micht,
Swaird-Wounded, stylle Ironclad Ah!
Fore’er unco! wi’in Oun Hye Fyre
Thro’ nae croud strollin’,
Ays yf frae Hye Þunor His-sel
The Lone War-Whisper Weel-Gaun!
Wae Thae Verra Woirds o’ Battle-Angyr
Lewdlie! Theis Specular Bluish Fyre o’ mine!
Thus Thwndir-Taukin’:
NUNC IN HOC SIGNO VINCES
QUIA FOCUS TEMPESTATIS MODO EST TIBI
ET VEXILLA FULMINIS PRODEUNT UNIVERSI
IN FERRO CAERULEO SANGUINEQUE
AD TE PICTORUM NOCTE TETRA
ET IN SPECULO RESULTANTE FORMA
THOR GOTHORUM UBI DESCENDET LAETO
AB ULTIMA GLITNIR MAGNO MALLEO
DEUS FLAVUS QUI ALTO FERRO SECURIQUE
TONITRUO INDIGNAM VIAM MALEDIXIT
FULMINIS IGITUR TETRA UMBRA TUA
ALTA FLAMMA CALIGINEA VEXILLAQUE
SUPREMO IGNE OVERMAN ULTOR.
Jan 23, 2021
Jan 23, 2021 at 6:54 AM UTC
Time is a mysterious thing. One we think too little or too much about as if it was either an extraneous concept or a recognizable one but never simply an acquaintance. We fear to gaze in to its dark eyes for fear of what we’ll see in its untamed structure. Perhaps we fear the absolute freedoms of it in how all its courses are never underlined by incongruous moments such as once that hunt our very existence. Or maybe we’re jealous of how youthful it stays while we slowly deteriorate to our graves as it watches with indifference.
I wish to give time a gender so it fulfils all my assumptions of it. Perhaps it’s a women, gentle and eloquent; with a heart that grounds the most feral of things. Her touch is knowledge and wisdom but also all things unknown. She is sculpted like the goddess praised while her love burns oceans from existence yet she watches alone from a distance quite unreachable. Lonely everlasting. Nonetheless her soul is cruel and unforgiving; her betrayal unexpected. Her expectations to high that even the most eligible of men would not dare attempt such a futile conquest for to even try would be to fail. However her compulsion is too powerful to disregard so no man sits ideal.
Perhaps it’s a man with a will that is ironclad. His grips too powerful for even the greatest of empires to resist so all chose to bend for fear of breaking. He rules like he makes love, with intensity that shatters all the women underneath him but they still come back for more for his touch, his magic stroke. Non who have been touched by him have ever resisted or those who have were swallowed by the tide that was his fury. Yet his heart is gold and he cares more than he expects as his gifts last eternity and from the sweetness of it, just a moment.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 3:25 AM UTC
Ashes in lashes,
Dust becomes rust
Enter this Temple,
in You I trust
Three stones at the altar
Five moors to the creek
Seven days for hunting
Nine chains that peak
Ironclad crosses
the blood that seeps,
red through this armour,
wounds what weeps
Sweep, bright bunting,
sweep, now sweep. . .
The Clouds cry, a-wanting
the belfries be steep.
Bring lilies to my chamber,
rest roses at my feet.
Milk for the thistle,
blue moon for the heath.
Sweet are the meadows,
Don Ironclad sheath
Chained to Her crown,
The Dag Dei will breathe
But I hold the Sun
when You call out my name
I feel Your kisses
in the warm spring rain
Enter this Temple,
enter it full,
From the grove, the forest --
my Lord, my Rule
Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 7:37 PM UTC
Och! Airn an' Thwndir!
An' Urquhart's Wae Verra Hel!
Great Warlike Glamis' Firey,
An' Hwmyd Loch Doon's Orrah!
Downe! Downe! tae thad howch owre miserable!
Ye a' swithe hame, hame! wae ma Airn ***
An' weile 'yont yondir Suthron!
Waefu', waefu' heyre Ah! War-Ironclad heyne Ȝell,
Wae burr-thistle’s Gowlin’ Storne Micht!
Frae ma verra, verra! Ah ageyne!
Tae the Cauld Enraged Wynde
Unco! intae Æternall Battle Scorchin'
Towardis Moorlan Chain Mail-Bosom o' mine!
O'er an' o'er IT! increasingly thro' Force returnin',
Wae ma verra Blacklyn Tartan o' War heyne,
An' Silvery Brooch, wi'in yondir Lone Sceadewe!
Unco! wae the Rubye Stane deep-shimmerin'
Naixt tae Carham's Gory Landis, an' the Targe-Hell,
Thro’ nowe Tune Martial, stick-an-stowe Ȝell!
Airn-Curse Core-Firey, Hye-Flamin' IT!
Heyne unco rychte Airn-Moorlan o'er ye a'!
Ah, bye nowe the FEUDAL OWAR-MANN!
'Yont thad Auld Whunstane Tower-Shrine
Togider wae Lang Titanium-Claymore, Airn-Dazzlin'
An' ne'er, ne'er, IT! stick-an-stowe tae wane!
Wi'in theis Bluish Fyre syne! Verra War-Swaird Rairan IT,
Intae Thae Hringiren Æternall, Thwndir-Devastatin' o' mine!
QVOAD FEODALE MEA CVM RVBRA SPATHA
ET RELVCENTE HOC SCVTO AC FVLMINE NIVEO
SCOTORVM INTRA HANC TEMPESTATEM MAGNAM
QVÆ FLOS IGNEVS EST TONITRVO NOMINE ALTO
NEMO GELIDO HOC LOCO IMPVNE ME LACESSIT.
Oct 1, 2020
Oct 1, 2020 at 4:42 AM UTC
What's your mirror think?
Does it watch you disappear?
Does it watch you blink?
Safe beverages
8 decades to puppeteer
Love your blemishes
Dating makes us sad
Auto-ionize our fear
Acting ironclad
Romance; the great farce
We just wanna climb up here
To indulge the hearts
Earth grips my poor eyes
Her key to the stratosphere
Locked up compromise
Dying for mudpools
Mountaineers might make things clear
Hope ya like blood-stools.
Send me a cartoon
Send a silver chandelier
Send me poems soon
Dec 12, 2017
Dec 12, 2017 at 4:30 AM UTC
The land of the free
The huddled masses
Salute the flag and
Raise your glasses.
Just going along fine;
You never had a hunch
And then America gives
A sneaky sucker punch.
With malice toward none
The land of equality
Everyone the same
Just like you and me,
Unless he is black
Or some other non-white.
Then, not really equal.
No, sorry. Not quite.
The rules are laid out,
Not in the constitution.
To be okay in the USA
Is an ironclad institution.
You don’t make waves,
Or rise above your station.
A handpicked few white men
Are in charge of this nation.
The land of the free
The huddled masses
Salute the flag and
Raise your glasses.
Just going along fine;
You never had a hunch
And then America gives
A sneaky sucker punch.
So, don’t start whining
About equal opportunity.
That really isn’t for you
Only for the likes of me.
I’m a rich white man, you see
I control most of what there is
Which is almost everything.
Tell you when to take a whizz.
There are haves and have-nots
And you know which you are.
If you’re lucky you get to own
A TV and inexpensive car.
But other than voting for
The two parties we allow
You just pay taxes, that’s it.
Nothing else, not ever, not now.
The land of the free
The huddled masses
Salute the flag and
Raise your glasses.
Just going along fine;
You never had a hunch
And then America gives
A sneaky sucker punch.
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 10:05 PM UTC
This is for a girl whose name means light,
Who fights every day of her life to beat the gravity of depression,
Whose dearest pastime is turning everyone she encounters to poetry,
Who’s never stopped looking for fairies or shaking glitter over everything,
Who is tall in the flesh and tall in the heart; love overflowing,
Who aspires to be ironclad but always tender,
Who knows too much about bruised innocence and precious things ripped away,
Who can never get enough of walks in the wind and rain—all of that pulsing sensation, all of that alive-alive-alive,
Who salutes Eve each time her teeth break the skin of an apple,
Who is thoroughly in love,
Who has taught herself to bleed out with dignity,
Whose defiance could halt the turn of the earth,
Who grew up on bare feet, free will, and the softest joy imaginable,
Who would die for justice,
Whose soul is warm and messy and unfurling,
Who has a family of artists living in her head [Alcott scribbling in the cerebral cortex, Van Gogh mixing pigments near the frontal lobe, Ginsberg clacking at his typewriter beside the cerebellum],
Who dreams of avenging the marginalized,
Whose arsenal includes sturdy black boots and neon strength,
Who is ruthless yet sentimental beyond belief,
Who slipped into the world with a sweetness she’s never really lost,
Who lives like she writes like she laughs like she argues like she loves, with heat and certainty and unending vibrance.
This is for myself.
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 10:57 AM UTC
"Relationships are a funny thing,"
That's what my papa said.
(This was his excuse for why
OUR relationship held barely by a thread.)
We were never close,
My papa and I.
I'd try to fix us,
But he'd be preoccupied.
When I hit my teens,
I hit 'em hard.
Those boys and I
Went way too far.
I'm all grown up now,
Wanting to get married
The man who's interested
Has never varied . . .
He's smart, and kind.
He's ironclad.
But more than anything,
He's just like Dad.
Jan 12, 2012
Jan 12, 2012 at 7:59 PM UTC
Balochistan
Tattered and torn
Brother
Forgotten and forlorn
Belief
Cracked like the arid land
Bridge
A hopeless demand
Bomb
Ticks at the rate of your heartbeat
Breath
Becomes heavier and incomplete
Blood
Ironclad? Iron. Ironic.
Body
Broken and bruised, it’s chronic.
Bury
Under the infected earth
Birth
What is its worth?
A note on the sectarian violence spreading across the nation of Pakistan.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 5:05 AM UTC
No confusion wrinkles her forehead, eyes affixed first on his lips
until magnetically drawn to eyes blue as a mountain lake.
Comfort rests across her chest. Hips burn together and
her cheek brushes the ironclad hardness of his bicep.
They walk enmeshed. Traces of trepidation,
scars embedded in her mind from tragic romance, fade.
Residual fears fall to the trail among twigs and stones.
Rebirth of trust creeps into her heart.
Together their feet trample her qualms.
Dec 29, 2016
Dec 29, 2016 at 9:48 AM UTC
There is a voice of comfort,
a poet of the truth
chords interwoven in every crack,
to lighten and to sooth.
Silken syllables singing
like distant thunders' clouds
to the lonely, humble ones
whose candles soon burn out.
A blessing from a being,
bestowed between the bad
who sat upon his whispered throne;
beaten, black and ironclad.
The boon from a saint of satin tongue
to those humanity fit;
humble thinkers, meek and strong
of kindest hearts and fathers' wit.
There is a voice of comfort,
for all who soon pass on.
When the darkness closes in
to where you thought you belonged.
It will pass you on with dignity,
mirror mentors of the Minoan
"Hineini, Hineini. Here I am,"
sings the ghost of Leonard Cohen
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 9:20 PM UTC
I used to be hidden in my room
choking at my mouth's roof
as if stuck within a stutter,
exhausted from existing, hinging
like a wind-chime battered by a hurricane.
Then a troubadour with honey hair
had me humming to his ear-worm
of a melody, depicting a choreography
that jolted my legs into frenetic mania
like an early talkie starlet's.
For years, I have memorized
this intricate chord structure,
immersed myself in its crescendos
until I could belt it backwards.
It's the only song I know by heart.
There is this one tune, though,
if you can even call it that,
this atonal reverberation that alerts
the darkest corners of my mind,
a slowly muttered siren song
leading to lands I never want to visit.
I can never fully decipher
the lyrics to an entire verse.
It's the excerpts, scattered
like dust mites in a concert hall,
that try to nibble at me piecemeal,
romanticizing the revolving door
of self-destruction, bruises
veiled as smudged calligraphy.
So please excuse the minor notes
that hiccup from my vocal cords
every other half moon or so.
It's just the ebb and flow
of awkward drumming
that disorients the ear,
causes me to trip up
on the patchwork of refrains
we've spent so much time weaving
into heavenly cohesion.
Above all, please remember
that no static or din
will ever shoehorn its way
into our ironclad harmony.
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 3:53 PM UTC
Your stolen kisses,
Gifted me such blisses,
Your ironclad touches,
Clutched me so feathery,
Your piercing blue eyes,
Enticed my body to tithes,
Your coursing black hairs,
A wood, lost flesh, no cares,
Your moisty, heated breaths,
Such mead, what ales to taste,
Your broad, booms, shoulders,
Let my sails out, into yonders,
Your mossy, low, peaty voice,
Laid me down without choice.
Oct 14, 2015
Oct 14, 2015 at 2:38 AM UTC
So many words
unsaid,
trapped under the
ironclad guard on
my mouth,
all labelled with your
precious name.
Words- which flow
as easily as a
bubbling brook
into each other, to
make confessions
so teeming
with love that I have
no doubt
they would take your
breath away.
Confessions- which I
don't regret not professing,
but rather
regret being unable
to utter.
Because however
deeply attached I am to you,
and however
much you
surprise me
by genuinely
so caring
for me as well,
there will,
even if we were
by some
miracle
granted
d e c a d e s
of every day together,
always be that
one key
element missing;
the one that would
unlock
the cell
imprisoning
these words.
Jul 13, 2017
Jul 13, 2017 at 4:10 PM UTC
a couple of days ago we visited a land inhabited by deceivingly accurate portrayals of life. we grew so entranced by everything we saw. we spotted a very strange looking crustacean flanked by a really thin looking squid positioned upright. she quipped about how it looked just like a pen, and when we went to the store we made it our life's only mission to find it and buy a replica so that every time we confessed to our journals we'd remember the day. but it wasn't there. i think about it now and i laugh because what kind of a mentality is that? to just be so sure that something will be there, will work out in our favors, will come back despite all odds. i can't afford to think with such ironclad naivety. people are not infallible. funny as it is, i can't expect to find a squid pen, and no amount of determination can make tangible something that doesn't exist.
but the whale, above our heads, floated as lifeless and seemingly ordinary as a chandelier. a half idyllic half menacing scene at the bottom of the ocean. we laid underneath it and felt so small. our worries and problems themselves seemed even more infinitesimal. i pretended i was submerged underwater, letting all of my troubles disappear and become one with nature, and she was the only person who could listen to my thoughts.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 1:23 AM UTC
a thousand years ago, wrote a poem called
“why I always carry tissues” -
a labor of love to
mine own toddlers misadventures,
requiring love covered in tissues so soft,
yet an ironclad coating
of natural substantive parenting
useful for tearing eyes, running noses,
and the cuts of living outdoors joyously
children grow older and oft that means,
they seek not your counsel,
and if offered, politely ignored,
for so it goes tween fathers and sons
then one summer days you receive an
observation, a datapoint that irradiates,
a quiet confirmation that not everything
you’ve said and done has gone astray
a young’un of “almost ten,” informs her father,
around the luncheon table of three generations,
that her foot is hurting; the son, now the father,
diagnosis renders, a blister, which will require
a protective custody that will protect the child’s
feet from the ravages of furious Shell Beach fun,
or the rough of a Manhattan sidewalk
I watch with a joy so quiet and so overwhelming,
as the son-father reaches into a cargo pocket,
producing not one but two bandaids, for life
requires backups for there are other babes about,
who at moments notice, produce scrapes and cuts
of ever greater consequence for each year they age
his wife renders me overjoyed, when she dryly
observe how certain children are lucky that
their father always carries bandaids, a new factoid,
for me, an unknown that glistens like a wet shell
now my eyes tearing, for a message in a bandaid,
or a tissue no matter which, is a certified proof,
somehow a message got through the clutter,
marked “well received,” that loving well requires
an oh so very hard attention to details, and that deep pockets
are repositories of good notions, handed down generations
June 24, 2021
Shell Beach
Jul 15, 2021
Jul 15, 2021 at 5:07 AM UTC
When the waves of change make ripples that spread across the seas like wildfire...she is there.
Calming your fears of drowning in those blazing waters with words that weave lullabies throughout your mind.
When rage shakes the Earth, and comets rain down from a starless sky...she is there.
Keeping the pieces of your shattered soul together like the roots of a tree that clings deep into the soil; lending you her shoulder as those traitorous tears leave hot trails across your glistening cheeks.
When love denies you peace of mind. Leaves you frozen and chilled in a blizzard of misery and misfortune...she is there.
Reminding you that you're worth loving. Igniting the dried and brittle leaves of a lost hope into a roaring bonfire; that leaps to embrace you and all of your misgivings like hot soup on a wintry day.
When the world goes against you,
causing your once ironclad backbone to rust as it is weathered and tethered till it crashes into the ground in a catastrophic booming of dust,
fire,
and fear.
As everything you believe in falls like shooting stars, left to shrivel in the scorching sunlight as you abandon your hopeful dreams amongst the debris.
Laced with the toxic webbing that'd chant repeatedly, "You'll never win, you're nothing, you cannot fight us, you'll never win." Clawing their seeds of poison into your skin..
Rubble lies broken, muddied, and stained from the tears that continuously streamed from your eyes. Leaving you breathing in hacking sobs and frightened whimperings...she is there.
In the strength of your spine, as tall as the highest mountain and as mighty as a tiger prowling throughout his leafy kingdom. Knocking down any and all who stand in the way of your aspirations and happiness like mice being tossed about in the paws of a feline. She will assist in helping you find your place in the world, like the missing puzzle piece to the questions you've wanted the answers to all your life.
She is the mind,
and she is the fight behind your army..
You call her sister.
Now, whenever times leave you standing on the edge of a difficult moment..breathe and remember.
Remember the blissful sound of her laugh,
the way love coloured her voice as she spoke your name for the first time..
& that no matter what life may throw at you,
she'll always have your back.
My beautiful sister,
Alveena♡
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 10:54 PM UTC
with a love like mine
you'll never need another
our hearts will align
and our pasts it will smother
we'll forget all the bad
and find comfort in us
our love is ironclad
and not at all superfluous
i'm the pea to your carrot
the wind in your sail
the medal to your merit
simply put: we're dovetailed
with a love like mine
you'll laugh while you sing
we'll be okay, not just fine
and overcome anything
Dec 8, 2016
Dec 8, 2016 at 6:37 AM UTC
Hope here is dead. Man in a box, Cobain in my head.
Court me some love and spin on my throne,
Of brittle remorse.
Sick in the womb, the silver spoon pollutes.
Tiny tadpole in the pool, grows to patrol the Black Lagoon.
Devouring the newt it once knew.
Fearful men, conceal their worries, in tall tales of courage.
Ironclad, Iconoclast. Kings and heroes alike,
Plant their flags in fields of ash.
Jul 11, 2021
Jul 11, 2021 at 7:25 PM UTC
You are singing silence out in the yard,
the newly empty nest hanging overhead,
like cliché clouds of grey, foreboding so.
Twee words feather dust the ironclad guard
with your feelings locked in its bear trap jaws,
hold them long enough and they will starve.
Stoicism has its cost.
Oh Ghost bird, how can I fix what is wrong
if the tune is subdued? Sing it slow.
Let the words bend at the edges,
allow your voice to crack and crow.
There is beauty in its breaking,
a love in the nakedness of it all.
...
Muted light shown though like saltwater
spraying through holes in the canopy’s hull,
kissing your eyelids with a warm familiar glow.
Twisting paths of gnarly branches pass
towards either dark clouds or blue skies
and you are drowning under all its mass.
Confusion has its cost.
Oh Ghost bird, how can I fix what is wrong
if the tune is subdued? Sing it slow.
Let the words bend at the edges,
allow your voice to crack and crow.
There is beauty in its breaking,
a love in the nakedness of it all.
...
I meet you underneath the dogwood tree,
arms around arms, my forehead against yours
the rain now falling ever so softly under the sun.
I am pleading, let go the injured doe, yelping there
in the grasp of your iron bite and in the daylight
let go of what holds you in the dark of night.
Romance has its cost.
Oh Ghost bird, how can you fix what is wrong
if the tune is subdued? I’ll sing it slow.
Let the words bend at the edges,
allow my voice to crack and crow.
There is beauty in its breaking,
a love in the nakedness of it all.
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 12:25 PM UTC
Iron gray storm clouds
Hug a ***** desert city
Gritty
With years of dust
And rust
Mistrust
And disgust
Heavy rain
Slaps against a grimy face
Leaving clean streaks in its place
A highlight
To the plight of the homeless
Thunder rolls forth
In this ironclad storm
Down here it's the norm
I find it soothing
Almost meditation
In form
Helps me inform
Myself
Oh well
Thoughts gone
Another monsoon
In Tucson
Mar 29, 2022
Mar 29, 2022 at 4:43 PM UTC