Best Smithy Poems
The young generation, who believe in dissolution,
promulgating the manifesto
“tradition is the grave of the banality,
only solecism is the quickening of new life…”
yell upholding a flag similar to a bad check
which is unable to secure the needed guarantee for the debt.
They are sycophantic speculators hopping on the bandwagon
of the time, they are nothing but a product of a certain moment
of the swinging pendulum, their unfounded thought changes in consonance with the direction and the amplitude of the pendulum.
Although they think highly of themselves,
they assert themselves as the forerunner of the times,
actually, they are unbridled reckless colts jumping, hopping,
and running blindly in the wilderness.
They consider heteronomy as a shackle,
they, therefore, rush to a smithy and heat the shackles to cut it off,
they insist upon autonomy as the beat of the heart,
they, therefore, lay on the cold operating table to cut it open
to see the inside of the heart bearing an excruciating pain
but they found it full of red and blue blood
clotted in two atrium and two ventricles, the blood
contaminated with filthy and turbid human minds
which carried on from generations of generations
of past unchanged.
They try to ascend their thoughts, nonetheless,
above the traditional ones, it’s nothing more than
a word game, a disgusting prank.
Are they mad? Though they cannot even jump
nor have wings, they try to fly,
ah, poor generation, ill, crooked, lost,
who were not even touched by a drop of Medusa’s
poisonous blood, flap wings imitating Pegasus about to fly.
Categories:
smithy, freedom, lost, rude, self,
Form:
Free verse
The “Smithy”
Written: By Tom Wright
4/28/04
The anvil’s peal breaches the mid day air,
and his four pound hammer fettles the shoe.
At the forge’s cinders in thought I stare,
and listen to the wheezing bellows spew.
The portrait of a bygone period in time,
when the aproned “Smithy” was still king.
Massive arms, covered with carbon grime,
powering out tunes with a hammers ring.
The livery and spreading chestnut tree,
like the buggy whip, their time is past.
If solely for the sentimental like me,
“Smithy’s” memory will for evermore last.
Categories:
smithy, nostalgia,
Form:
Rhyme
We ain't lived the blues yet
How the hell would we know
We ain't been there dying
How the hell would any of us
Ever hope to know
We never even felt it
The hunger and the crying
The orphans and the widows
We only heard the lying
How the hell would we know
Shelter from the storm
Shelter for the dog
Shelter for the garbage
How the hell would any of us
Ever hope to know
Does your greed take control
Is your heart on the wall
Is it always on your mind
Is your mercy hiding out
Is your memory hard to find
Take it to the finder
You'll need it for the test
Take it to the maker
He's apt to bar the door
Take it to your momma
Take it to the smithy
You know what he does
He sharpens all the iron
He knows what to use
You know what he uses
Your story's out
You're on the run
You think you got the blues
You think you got a reason
You think you know the news
You ain’t really got a reason
You ain't really got the blues
Seven pairs of shoes
You ain't got the news
You ain't heard it yet
Your momma got the blues
She raised you better than that
You'd rather frolic
A feather in your hat
How the hell would you know
Jimmy Brown would tell you
And the little shoe shine boy
The little dark haired boy
They all want something better
They can taste the blues
They got a reason
They know where it's at
They can hear the blues
Might walk another path
If they had some shoes
Heaven knows there are two
And yes, there's still time
Rosemary and Sage
And yesterday's wine
Tomorrow is a long time
Sell the news in heaven
Shining in the shade
Or on the hit parade
They'll always have the blues
They'll always have it made
You can take a ball and chain
And tie it to your blues
You'll never slow it down
You'll never see it drag
It won’t even know
You can't shake the blues
It's like a big oak tree
Not a bird would feel it
Not a leaf would fall
No acorns at all
What makes you think
You got the blues
Not a thorn in sight
Seven pairs of shoes
You think you got the blues
No shadows anywhere
Not a cross to bear
Life more than fair
Not a soul to save
Why should you care
Categories:
smithy, blue, fishing, philosophy,
Form:
Ballad
smithies come and go
all legacies and legends
there's iron everywhere
waiting to be made
all longing to be crafted
wanting to be used
piercing hammer ring
so brilliant and resounding
finest cutting edge
curves of precision
never yielding to any
save the wielding hand
said the lyric man
only iron sharpens iron
now i understand
never wonder why
said the smithy in return
now i understand
Categories:
smithy, philosophy, poetess, poets,
Form:
Haiku
Scapes and Tales
Hearts and Fences
Tales of Joe Louie McMar
Book 1 - Canadian Bacon
Of Belle and Beaux
When I See You I Miss You
Marjorie and Isabella
The Jester and DeLilah
Peaches and Cream
The Struggle
Laura Can You Hear Me
Laura
Laura Mean
Canadian Bacon
DeMilah
Stephanie
Blaze Pascal
August
Love is Like a Melody
Cavan Lake, Alberta
L is for Love
Ain’t Life Grand
The Gift
The Ride
Mom
The Folks
The Rock
Blue Eyes
Joe Louie
Book 2 - The Dark Years
Saint Anthony
Thirteen Wasn't Lucky
Don't forget to breathe
The Legend or DeMar
Hunny Do
Hezekiah Munny
The Dream
Diligence
The Smithy
Broken
Death of a Legend
Bless eo Momma
The Rodeo
Cardiac Distress
The Fake Ticket - a sequel
The Halls of Hell
The Girls
The Fake Ticket
I saw Mary
The devil went over
Uncanny
Thoughts
Let It Go
The meaning of demar *
The Dark Years *
The sins of Stephen Duncan *
The Sons of Eeny Meanie*
Issaquena County *
Book 3 - Redemption
Heaven's Hall
The Birthday
Glowing
The Trainman
The Poet
Divided Indeed
Ode to Bob
Prairie Prayer
My Heart is Empty
B.B. On a Mountain Top
P.J. and the Leprechaun
An Erago
Half an Erago *
Fifteen Faces a Sequel *
Sixteen Approaches to Teach *
The meaning of gleaning *
Redemption *
Categories:
smithy, books, poems, poetry,
Form:
ABC
New moon
New leaf
New sorrow
New grief
New pain and suffering
Never ending, never dying
Not a soul, not a sinner
Never wishing, never crying
Now a time, then a place
First a heart, then a spade
Next of kin, next in line
Never being, never made
Not to be mistaken for
Not to be forgiven from
Never to be damaged for
Banished to or driven from
Take my hand, take it now
Take it while you can
Take your time forever
Help me understand
Take it to the smithy
He'll bash it out for you
Take your heart to Hylda
She'll bare it on the wall
Take it to the jester
He'll figure out the gist
Who can see your mind
Who can hear your fist
Take it home to Linah
She'll box it up for you
Serve it to you backwards
Send you to the zoo
New moon never rising
New leaf never dying
New sorrow never sown
New grief never known
Take your mother by the hand
Touch her soft and gentle soul
Touch your brother, take his hand
Take his burden, feel him stand
Dear Linah, sweet goddess
Please tell me, is it you?
Catch the breeze, catch the wave
Feel your heart drift away
Categories:
smithy, brother, loneliness, mother, philosophy,
Form:
Ballad
A smithy peers into a white hot
Ingot formed square
Seeing the idea of a meaning
Form there
How many turns at the anvil
How many soakings
In the heat
Long sweating hours hammering
Out her beat
The shape of the curve
Coaxed, twisted
Unnerve
Rough forged
Dimpled and scaled
The infant soul struggles
To be released
Feverishly filing
Sanding
Blasting
Pausing...
Was that too much
Sleep on it
Dream of it
Put her on the table
Wait for her to speak
To cry out for your care
Grow into your dream
Polish until her sparkling
Truth is revealed
The word smith
Gazes in awe
She has been the midwife
Servant and guide through the
Strife
Chaos
Of meanings life
Categories:
smithy, creation, poets, writing,
Form:
Free verse
It was Old Man Smith’s farm this story begins, begins, gets told and ends,
And will never be anything more than a local story that’s told between friends.
You see, the cold night sky kept filling with lightning lighting up the ground,
And after each thunder, there was silence, there was nothing, not even a sound.
The birds, the dogs, the cattle and sheep hid, hushed away in the shed,
All night they slept together, warm in their communal, dry, straw bale bed.
And in the pine house, with the corrugated iron roof amplifying the rain
Sat Old Smithy, in the dark, listening to the lightning, hearing the thundering train.
With his pipe and his friendly can of grog, he sat with his thoughts in his soul
When he heard the thunder call for him, calling for him to go for a stroll.
Now his farm wasn’t flat and easy to walk, it was hilly, crisscrossed with streams.
And if anyone ventured too far in, there would be no one to hear the screams.
What happened is a mystery, there’s no explaining what was sitting by the ridge.
Only his pipe, and a can of beer, by the destroyed, flood broken rubble bridge,
Now, if you listen carefully you can hear the wind sing his voice down the creek by dark,
And animals hear when the sheep walk their path and all the local dogs all bark.
Categories:
smithy, age, beautiful, farm, storm,
Form:
Rhyme
To take a stand and to defend it
A broken vow and try to mend it
A learning line and try to curve it
To beef it up and try to serve it
To fashion out of nothing
So gracefully and grand
Ever surging stream of lire
Flowing from the hand
Appealing thoughts
As one can find
Take two or three
To somehow bind
Cunning ploys
Made to deceive
Compelling tales
To spin and weave
Holding back
Confusion neither
Here nor there
Nor cabin fever
A penny for your roaming thoughts
A dime for all the time that you spend
A dollar for your fortitude
A fortune for your attitude
Have you all sorts of plexing woes?
.. and vindication grand?
Just take it to the Smithy
SHe’ll help you understand
Categories:
smithy, philosophy, poems, poetess, poetry,
Form:
Ode
The wordsmith toils over hot metal fonts in wellsprings
Struggling like a blacksmith to hone and shape
thoughts and images into typeface words and poems.
To conjure up meanings from thoughts twisted, prodded,
cajoled and prised to render mindful hot gems of expression.
Squeezing letters from tubes onto a pallet,
the smithy shovels the alphabet mix into blobs of words and
babbles with peaks, on bench.
Words of many colors gleaned and arrayed for careful collation.
Shuffling through the verbal menagerie,
words are carefully selected
for their sound, voice, look and meaning.
Memorable and meaningful words,
that prompt feelings way beyond what the words just say,
Words that bind the fabric of emotional phrases in layer on layer,
and in the honey, binding the words together,
Words provoking deep blue feeling
when words read between the lines,
Words that reach out well beyond the intended,
to the unintended feelings and emotions in readers.
Word plays, games and devices crafted
to perfection by wordsmith magicians.
For the wordsmith loves words
with sheer, utter and blatant devotion.
The words themselves,
not just their power, magic and what they mean.
Like charms and spells,
such bewitched words only work
if the readers and hearers believe in them.
Such evocative words inspire
feelings and emotions in readers
primed to be receptive to their charms.
Musical evocative words,
that resonate and echo deep within.
Poets are wordsmiths, artists, musicians,
performers, sages and soothsayers,
driven by the love of words, to create masterpieces
in artful word craft:
It is the color of saying.
Categories:
smithy, poems, poetry, word play,
Form:
Free verse
YOU ARE IN A CAR WITH CHARCOAL BLAZING IN THE BOOT....DID IT EXPLODE :)
Bernie Kinnear was a blacksmith who needed charcoal
so they brought some by car to the smithy...trouble was it came to life and set fire to
the boot of the car
Bernie Kinnear
Dirranbandi Blacksmith 1900 +
Mark said it was smoking and Harold laughed with glee (Harold was a bit slow)
Bernies charcoal was a blazing so much smoke you couldn't see
Bernie Kinnear wanted charcoal for his forge at the smithy shop
So he burnt a tree and waited for the fire and smoke to stop
Harolds flivver it was loaded Harold drove and Bernie talked
Poor Mark was worried, he'd really wished he'd walked
The spare tyre was a blazing and the paint was burning too
So they baled out at Bernie's from this fire ball ooh..
Some time later...
Bernie went to meet a client at the café Pippos...(local Greek cafe)
Bern tapped him on the shoulder and said Ill see you out side boss
Nervous habit of Bernie's was a rolling up his sleeves
Stevens thought a fight was on, Bernie buckled at the knees
When the fight was over Bernie said to Stevens gees!
Here's the part I made you and only ten quid if you please.....(quid Aussie pound )
Mark Johnson at about 17 worked with these 2 characters
In Dirranbandi bridge building.
People who went outside to fight rolled their sleeves up and tapped you on the shoulder
first .fisticuffs imminent ....back in the 50s
These old Blacksmiths kept things going and were good value in the bush country towns
Don Johnson
Categories:
smithy, epicfire, car, fire,
Form:
Ballad
smithies come and go
all legacies and legends
there's iron everywhere
waiting to be made
all longing to be crafted
wanting to be used
piercing hammer ring
so brilliant and resounding
finest cutting edge
curves of precision
never yielding to any
save the wielding hand
said the lyric man
only iron sharpens iron
now i understand
never wonder why
said the smithy in return
now i understand
http://mike-martin.net/Now I Understand
Categories:
smithy, philosophy, poems, poetess, poetry,
Form:
Lyric
Take it to the jester
He'll figure out the gist
Take it to the smithy
He'll bash it out for you
Take it to the juke
Hope they play it loud
Take it home to Liza
She'll send you to the zoo
Take it to the finder
He'll likely charge a fee
Take it to the maker
Written guarantee
Take it to the piper
He'll take it for a start
Take it out to Hylda
Cover up your your heart
Take it to the union
Hope you paid your dues
Take it to eo momma
See shes got the blues
Take it up with Karma
What looks good on you
Take it home to Louie
Tell him that it's true
Categories:
smithy, blue, nonsense, sad, sad
Form:
Verse
EVENING
Evening falls and wings are folded
Darkness clothes the weary sky
Birdsong awaits the daybreak
And rest descends on all
The battering hammer of the smithy
The barking blade of the lumberyard
Have led their surefooted dance
Of sparks and spelks in ugly reel
Silent, and uncertain now, the night creeps
Chilling the ardent blade and ember.
Distant dawn intones a dirge to the far
Tumbling circles cold around each remote star
.................................................
Other poems of mine, similar to this, are available at
https://www.fictionmagazines.com/magazines/five/
Categories:
smithy, eve, metaphor,
Form:
Imagism
The smithy’s feelings ran amuck
His work began to show it
He did the best he could
To realize the storm
He’d bash each piece one extra time
And revel in the steam
His hammer swift as lightning
Like falling in a dream
He stoked the fire twice as fast
And jabbed at all the embers
His bucket and his anvil
Much lighter, he remembers
No use of any apron
No need of any glove
No shield upon his face
No shelter from his love
A blade of finest iron
Delivered straight and true
Couldn’t pierce his anger
Or sever something blue
Copyright © Mike Martin 2015
Categories:
smithy, analogy, anger, blue, deep,
Form:
Ode