"smithed" poems
#
*This place. I don't know.
so many people / want to block..
their words--
they climb all over me.
one's in particular:
Heart-expressed words bringing down
the healing light of relationship to the parts of me
who up until now
have known little or no relationship of its kind;
and there is conflict within me as I fight it..
years the locusts have eaten; and the opportunity of restoration;
often squandered. in vanity.
none of that mattered much;
until now--
When the unredeemed heart-parts of myself
reveal to me their dormancy: left detached
from community with one another--
an internal community necessary
to withstand the brilliant light and glory
brought down by those here who write as she does.
but she;
through her unfiltered heart-writes
brings down the very magic and beauty and fullness of the
relational dance of the godhead.
And it's raw beauty is ****** slayin me.
I so want to block her for the conflict she creates in me
.
but I will press on
and allow her supremely-smithed words--
(words not even written to me)
to have their beautiful way,
in
and through..
the help that has been all around me;
(each and every one of us)
waiting...
all along
**--as if they were cleaning my soul,
re-integrating my fragmented, heart-parts.***
#
Apr 11, 2021
Apr 11, 2021 at 8:21 PM UTC
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.
Aug 22, 2021
Aug 22, 2021 at 10:30 AM UTC
The probity of paraclete malafide
By crocodile tears smithed
Thrawing the wand whilst green
As the chime child of the
Passing bell trips the light fantastic
By hook or by crook in best bib
And tucker igniting corpse candles
Travelling along the soul road
Shroved by guardian crosses made
Of that fatal tree, the gallow of knowledge
Hung by familiar elders
Taking back the breath of life.
ELEETE J MUIR.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 8:52 AM UTC
The soldiers of life ceaselessly toiled.
It was a dream, never to become soil.
These men saw comrades of old depart to join.
All strengths and skill was churned out in pain.
With paths designed and tools smithed again to gain.
Victory o'er the grave remain the prize they wait.
Scared to end the generational race for victory.
These soldiers of life kept the pace in their chase for glory.
But for the Grace, their lives may have had the same story.
Not dazed by the light of His holiness.
Them gazed on His gift for the helpless.
Today, praised them for His salvation so selfless.
The battle their bravery failed to win.
His Grace painfully won and gave thru Him.
Those soldiers own peace and for His service are fit.
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 1:10 AM UTC
~
preamble
*in this vividly colorless frame
the artist leaves the coloring to us,
and to imagination's meandering waters.*
~
a most picturesque
canyon in the dead
of winter's grip;
white contrast of
new fallen snow on
a red rugged rock;
her river’s pacing slowly
a choreographed flowing
yet a minder still
that she is his
ancient sculptor,
her ever changing moods
etched in centuries deep;
carved together,
she rests her head
on his broad shoulder,
as with soothing voice
she lulls his weary
soul to wintery sleep...
she, his crooked river,
winding through his
smithed rocks.
~
post script.
(nuances of Oregon abound in this.) Central Oregon’s Crooked River flows through Smith Rock State Park... with its easy “river trail” and arduous “misery ridge” hike, they are compellingly reminiscent of a relationship’s lows and highs; a favorite of rock climbers, hikers, and photographers, their views together provide the sweetest hiking companions for my love and i.
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 2:04 AM UTC
News Flash:
Religious Science has created life!
With heat and pressure
and Sounds Sounds Sounds!
Watch their lead-boy
dance and sing
recordings placed in his
chest
by People Who Know.
Listen close
to his strictures about what
is abominable
you can hear their voices
in the crackling gray
noise:
The buzzing of cieling fans
in offices far away, Oz
The humming chatter of
"The maid found a dove
drowned in the pool!"
"Oh, how unsanitary,
truely abominable."
You really should see
him dance
in the Starstudded Ballroom
where the wicked pace
in the side-halls
dreaming of childhood summers
at the lake
and kisses in the morning.
Holy Science has smithed life!
Holy bullets smelted a fine
man.
Wholy Holey Holy Bullets.
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 3:46 PM UTC
When I go, they'll say how they knew me. That they knew my passion. She'll say she pursued me. The only thing they show is nothing but cruelty. Neglect me, and vexed me, filled me with regret. I expect the fake tears, you've been practicing for years.
You'll say that you knew me, when you were never here. You were never there for me, but I cleaned up your fears. You'll say that you were down for me. Well you were never near. You could've saved me, from the wine and the beer.
You'll tell them they don't know me, when you don't know me too. You left me for some ha-ppiness, the pun's intended too. They'll tell you I was magical. I smithed my words with ease. They'll tell you it was tragical, the pain I pushed on me.
They'll say I was a saint. They'll say I was a sinner. they'll say I enjoyed being the center. They'll call me a hero. They will call me a winner. But I haven't won, I never entered. They'll say was arrogant. I needed anger management. They'll call me a villain, because I lost my feeling. I started talking killing.
Me myself and I have watched you all go by living on in your lives, I don't even get a hi. You never say goodbye, when you walk out of my life. You just keep on walking by I'm not even on your minds. Even though I find the time to sit here and dry your eyes, you'd think you could return the favor sometime. I'd tell you I see through you.
But really, are you surprised? I'm taking the time out for you before my demise. Sometimes I despise all of you guys. So I wonder why, I just wonder why. I wonder why they say they know me? I'm a ghost of their past. I'm losing color fast and I'm fading to the contrast.
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 1:19 AM UTC
Les soldats de la vie sans cesse peiné.
Il était un rêve, de ne jamais devenir le sol.
Ces hommes ont vu de vieux camarades à se joindre départ.
Toutes les forces et les compétences a été égrenée dans la douleur.
Avec des chemins et des outils conçus smithed nouveau à gagner.
Victoire o'er la tombe reste le prix qu'ils attendent.
Peur de mettre fin à la course pour la victoire générationnelle.
Ces soldats de la vie ont gardé le rythme dans leur chasse pour la gloire.
Mais pour la Grâce, leurs vies ont peut-être eu la même histoire.
Non étourdi par la lumière de sa sainteté.
Les contemplaient Son don pour la défense.
Aujourd'hui, les loua pour son salut si désintéressé.
La bataille leur bravoure a échoué à remporter.
Sa Grâce péniblement gagné et a donné à travers Lui.
Ces soldats propre paix et pour son service sont aptes.
Si vous aimez cela, ne pas hésiter relire et partager
#amour
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 12:04 PM UTC
“yes, you can”
they say to we, the writers,
when we are clung to writing desks
and textbook conversations as school naughts—
boys and girls who churn with knowledge in a mad pitch for
the matter of the American dream.
And through it all, this sneaks between the lines:
That dreams and matters and states are smithed by words—
Words that mold the landscape
That plough the fields
That pave the streets
That breach the wild for mankind to explore.
Do you remember the lessons?
I still remember the wheelbarrow, glazed
with rainwater, beside the white chickens…
And I still search for the farmer who
brought them together, whose footsteps cured
the chronicle of white and black,
the chapters of women and men,
the tables of hungry and over-fed,
the acts of untold races and the mix of tribes—
the history of we.
“It is writing on which we walk,” our forebears croon—
“but be prepared not to earn enough
to buy a scrappy pair of shoes.”
Nov 23, 2017
Nov 23, 2017 at 9:38 AM UTC
I highly dislike the word love but not the concept
Because hearing others say I love you makes me feel inept
And when some one doesn't say it back it feels like a theft
and after the echo fades what's left?
Was saying it right?
It should be seen not heard since it shines so bright
or felt like a wave of the ocean
since it's just as strong
as any stupid l word song
Stronger actually
At least eventually
since over time it grows
and rollercoasters through highs and lows
While the word stays the same.
Who's to blame?
Whatever self proclaimed linguist smithed the word should be stripped of his name
because it's some thing you feel not some thing you hear
and saying it produces more fear
So just show me my dear.
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 4:30 AM UTC
Old man Oxford, plump
and merry in shape
and glee, a professor
of all things written
and green, his friends,
wooden and tall,
endowed him a pipe
of oaken skin, gilded
in bark and mirth, and
with this gift, he
smoked their leaves
and painted tales
of wondrous things,
each puff and ember
smithed his words,
carrying his thoughts
up high, where they
ventured in the golden
glitter of the sky, and
onto pages, forever,
in our minds, so,
thank you kind Tollers,
for you are the treasure
at the start of this
adventure.
Jun 12, 2020
Jun 12, 2020 at 9:40 AM UTC
*O Columbia , forever in the chrysalis -
of battle , stoking the furnaces of tyranny
with rivers of fire fed from the backs of disenfranchised
labor , her abundant wealth smithed into golden sabers ..
Diamond boulevards , dancing waters , pristine
countryside
Poverty , malnutrition , political deflection , genocide*
*O Wanton Republic , deceiver of her citizens
Ringing the bell of war to distract her minions
Forgetting the health of her own children in-
pursuit of clandestine missions
Filling the coffers of American Royalty with -
blind ambition* ...
Jan 3, 2018
Jan 3, 2018 at 9:56 PM UTC
The morning was there, shinning like
Freshly smithed iron. And I, I
Was in my room, tightly gripping a knife...
The window opened and I saw
A cat brush against the wooden frame.
"Still the same, still the same" I heard it say.
"Let me be, and just let me die.
I beg to have the last moments
Of my life; to do so in solitude."
"Fool... still the same..." I heard it say.
Its eyes looked at me as though the void
Was staring at me with its emptiness.
"Leave, ****** cat. All I knew is wrong,
All I had is now gone. I am...
Empty... so tell me why I am a fool."
"All you knew may be wrong, but all
You did not may be right. Why turn a
Circle into a half one? Tell me why."
"I don't understand you demon, go,
Leave me, let me die alone, let me
Be at last, at peace. I wish only for that..."
"Still the same, still the same" I heard it say
"Why run and get tired, when you can walk
And feel at ease, and have strength for later?"
"Leave me, whatever you are, leave me
And let me die. I do not understand
Your riddles, and words as empty as my soul."
"You do as others have done, you fail as
Others have failed. Like a cockroach you
Search for the darkness in the light."
"Go away, I am no petty insect... I am less,
A virus, a virus that only kills others and
Not itself. Now leave and let me die alone."
"Blood will not spill your sins, steel will
Not end your grief. No death will bring life.
And no darkness will escape the light. Now see..."
The morning was there, shinning like
Freshly smithed iron. And I, I
Was in my room, tightly gripping a knife...
Jun 14, 2015
Jun 14, 2015 at 6:04 PM UTC
Darling is a word,
smithed for prettier ears.
Eventually, rejection becomes
the familiar hum.
Hope was the thing to be feared.
Possibility made my breathing shallow.
Turning my back to the moon,
I trained my eyes to ignore
the silver shadows on the black horizon,
Gravity wasn't just keeping me grounded,
it was keeping me safe,
from floating off into unknown space.
"We can't protect you, where we have not been", my Past selves whispered.
At least I think that is what they whispered.
I was preoccupied,
While they whimpered,
I was letting go.
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 5:11 AM UTC
#
And from the abyss
of an un-owned, nothingness
rises up the majestic image--
supremely crafted, from
well-smithed words;
this something..
formed out of nothing--
this counterfeit substance
this ancient, hide
this cowardly, self-formed answer
to the Universe's primal core question
this childish refusal to grow up..
to own up,
and face the music
This fooling of the whole world..
this glory of the moment..
and then, one final pirouette,
before your unavoidable death-scream
at that final moment of truth..
Ah truth, baby.. what a concept.
#
Jun 14, 2020
Jun 14, 2020 at 6:37 PM UTC