Best Welds Poems
He welds and melts, pours and molds
In his "Conversations with My Soul"
He smooths the rough steel of syllables
Into a "Portrait" graced by his "Play on Words"
Unrolling "Scenes from a Countryside" to "That Starry Night"
Whether "October Skies" or "In November" "Moonlight"
So, "If Ever I Don't Know"
which way my adjectives should go
when wandering "A Starry Galaxy"
I follow the "Sinuous Melody"
To cross the river and climb the boulder
While tapping "Gently on the Shoulder"
He finds summer in "A Piece of Winter"
As a friend, brother and mentor
He is welcoming, and when reading your poem
His comments are "To You Alone"
And if you come to say
"I Needed Wings Today"
He will weave lines in a "Distinct Ballet"
As if "It Came Upon a Prophecy"
And not from some stifled "Academy"
Dear John, please continue to "Compose"
Even when "Getting Old is Getting Old"
Without your gift
We are "Too Soon Bereft"
The "Verbal Miracles" you perform
Show how "All of Life is a Poem"
You have been my friend
my artistry sibling,
"And I Am Grateful".
12/20/23
We read each other so perfectly
two minds with a single thought,
when we combine, baby it's explosive
chemistry like ours cannot be taught.
The electricity gets me jumping
and attacks the heart's beat,
this experiment you concocted
has revived the frog's feet.
Like a volcanic lava lamp
an eruption of emotion flows,
the heat welds me to you
our bond that nobody knows.
We met inside this classroom
where my opposite attracted to yours,
like magnetized paperclips
we were linked right from our cores.
We're closer than Dr. Jekyll was
to his hidden self, Mr. Hyde,
but, I can take you by the hand
as we go along for the ride.
Along the baseboard in a small kitchen
there is a tiny hole, the perfect size to go
unnoticed, perfect for a secret hideaway.
Little twin girls imprisoned at the table
not allowed to leave unless those cold
olive green peas are completely gone!
Canned peas, that had a bit of the flavor
of the tin can infused into them, pushed
around the plate in a marble shoot.
When is she going to leave the kitchen,
quit watching, stop repeating, "eat every one!"
Salty tears dropping on the plate, incapable
of adding any flavor as an hour passes and
little heads are laying on the table beside
the plate with those cursed tiny vegetables
staring back with their small green eyes.
She has to take a trip to the toilet, this must
be timed just right...half the peas leave the plates
and are scooted into the tiny hole in the wall.
She returns, unaware of the subterfuge.
Admonishment causes more tears and little
voices pleading, "they're almost gone". "Not good
enough, finish them or you stay here all night!"
A guardian angel makes the phone ring and she
leaves to answer it. Two little girl's plates quickly
converge upon the tiny hole that gobbles up the
last of those dreaded cold green peas.
She returns and the ordeal is finally over, with
her none the wiser, until a few weeks pass and
she keeps trying to find the smelly odor coming
from the kitchen. She follows her nose to the
secret hideaway exposing the rotted peas.
Infuriation welds up within and then out comes
the razor strap and a painful dance ensues.
© Connie Marcum Wong
She strains to find her footing in orthopedic shoes
my grandmother's clop-clop walk to me
unbalanced
steadied by a backbone of faith
She bears a tattered, red carpet bag,
solid wooden handles, worn like her marbled hands
Grandma removes jam tarts and her Bible (smell enticing)
to tutor me for my Sunday School verses,
Psalm 23, that welds to memory
Her diligence that I adhere to the lines
despite my craven pull to tarts (a riveting obsession)
Unfussy delight when I learn the verses
Her glow, free floating,
a small harp ovation
Grandmother's carpet bag, stitched by history
brimming with the sweet lure of baking
upheld by her faith, like a pulse that hums devotion
in a drawn body softly folding into itself
Nothing can be swept aside
when a grandma voices validation
when generosity extends itself
when her walk thaws the ground
when words embroider love
ensuring preservation
Poem revised: April 25, 2021
To build these giants
It took many men
Various trades
Manufacturing gems
Scaffolders, Platers
Drawing room to sea
But one trade
Makes it happen for me
Whatever they made
No matter what they joined
My choice is not made
On the flick of a coin
These are the guys
That make metals talk
Settle their differences
With the strike of a rod
Oil Rigs like the T.L.P.
These are the creations
That do it for me
Pride in their eyes
As their efforts are towed
As smooth on the sea
Just as their welds flowed
The line above tells who they are
The Welders
The Dragonfly
I saw this monstrosity of a dragonfly
Swiftly take flight from a grassy field
By its wings, the wind was quite high
Trees and tall grasses bowed in yield
Strangely it flew with such a loud roar
Even the lions, if nearby would scurry
It could hover and in some winds soar
Leaving loose dirt and leaves in a flurry
Of sheets, plates, tubulars and struts
Coupled into a sturdy, rigid frame
By welds, rivets and bolts and nuts
Into the unusual insect it became
The skin, well beaten and burnished
At times painted in hues dull or bright
With flapping wings, it wasn’t furnished
But with opaque, rotary wings for flight
Curiously, not some insect you can swat
With a newspaper, and of it make a smear
Its creation, a leap in conveyance brought
Easing our crossing of every frontier
May 27, 2017
A warship she is, this ship of gray,
Underway, underway, making way.
The decks vibrate, the tone, the sound,
Un-der-way-un-der-way, the pistons pound.
On the horizon stands a singular mast,
Un-der-way-un-der-way, make her fast.
Increase her speed, begin the turn,
Un-der-way-UN-DER-WAY, prop and churn!
Balanced and deadly the guns do slew,
UN-DER-WAY-UN-DER-WAY, the radars too.
Fire first one, then pour on the rounds,
UN-DER-WAY-UN-DER-WAY, competing sounds!
Blast and shards upon the bow,
Into the waves strike and plow,
UN-DER-WAY-UN-DER-WAY, welds and steel.
UN-DER-WAY-UN-DER-WAY, man on keel.
UN-DER-WAY-UN-DER-WAY, oil n’ fire.
UN-DER-WAY-UN-DER-WAY, smoke n’ ire.
On the horizon the mast a tilting,
Over the side the splashes wilting.
Now all alone is this warship’s sound.
Un-der-way-un-der-way, the pistons pound.
Turn hard then steady, away from home.
Underway, underway, my ocean to roam.
Now that love's hands have lifted from my searching eyes, I have begun to see. I look at the faces of those who love has captured, and my misanthropic vision clouds their joy. Don't they know what love will do to them? It will consume them, body and soul. It will control their minds and make them do things they swore they would never do. And once love's soft touch wraps around your finger, you can never let it go. Like a child, it grows. It then holds your hand, and demands to be carried, even when it has grown too big. Love wraps its legs around your waist and its arms tightly around your neck. You can still breathe, but only when love lets you.
My love has become hopefully vulnerable. It sees those that it has loved before, and those who have loved me and it tugs me along as it tries to pursue them. I trip over my own feet, I feel awkward and unwanted. But love doesn't understand that. It is blissfully ignorant, and it does not realize the destruction it causes within my heart and soul. It welds, twists, and mangles the metal of my strong heart. It entices my soul, then disappoints with flawed morale.
But through all this, I hold on.
look Out your window.
By Ian Van D. Chandler
We all look for infinities,
In this artichoke world.
Above mistaken me.
There are pleasant humming bees.
settled to watch so far up,
yet, I’m here. Just away.
we had walked between the gardens,
finding a following foot print,
to where we’d been.
Though here I go.
At the waves, I looked both ways,
these nowheres, leave everyone alone.
Look and see, as I stand here with my chisel.
I swim for the largest tide, floating to the deepest hole.
But reminded of all the scars,
every itch,
all the splinters,
etched on all driftwood.
in the walls, I know they’re always there.
Losing what I’d known, stepping on every flower.
It’s losing the child in the rustic play ground,
to the crying for the bark. When you run away,
when the grass welds to the shaking hand,
for a moment every bugs’ awake,
think for the tree branch, that sheltered you in the rain.
Utter to scratches on the glass. Smudging over my only clouds.
between the forth, so passed gone, together I’ll be,
so follow me gone.
The letters where, no matter what I’d be:
A sketched boy,
the erasing man,
together apart, left for more.
There oh’ there.
Beyond the sill,
is
Whispering echoes magic dust
soul's mate breathless wonder aired
peace within an eternal halo promise sings
Until time itself ends inside forever loved
circling trust colours salt of the sands
running out pure golden time captured
Holding precious memories sparked together
warmly lighting gems behind a veil
pink blushing fire spells cast enchanting
One shooting star that always welds kisses
unto your diamond treasured heart's lip's
dining under the candlelight of night
unrhymed tercets
Lips are just a touch
But a touch in every way
It's this touch that touches most
That entices this touch to say
This touch even makes our eyes
Magnetic touch, though no metal shows
For it welds this magnetic touch
From this touch, life can grow
*~*
http://www.lorenatorrescaceres.com/lorena-5.php
Enthusiasm is a sharp blade in our toolbox of genuine stories.
The box embroidered with desire and filled with emotions you learned before thinking
to raise your right hand
and give your answer an
honest try.
A want
to be willing
to be worth it.
That’s what enthusiasm brings.
A hammering heart next to
the beating one you have
no control over.
It beats the blood upward like piano keys
hammering your brain to
make a decision for your body to act upon.
A decision that breaks
mantic-metallic peace and concrete brick chaos
into two opaque pieces
and welds a glass mirror of love
in between
to remind you that the
happiest time of life prescribed
to you was when you saw
your reflection
and could see through any
circumstance
clearly.
We call ourselves blacksmiths.
Take bits and pieces of moments
and memories
lay them across the
old wooden table
and try to piece together
a sword shiny enough to
smile at your problems in the steel.
But there is sword so spotless
No, there is no sword
strong enough to keep the
table from splintering your fingers.
Foundation is everything.
A deaf man screaming at
a blind girl’s watch dog
to direct her out of green light traffic
will do nothing more but
make the mutt angry
and he will bite at your hand
for feeding his master murderous
mumbles.
If there is one thing
that my life stories have
taught me
it’s that you can’t wield an excalibur of peace
with a wood-splintered vision
of the future
And that you can be
the cause of chaos
if no one understands
what you’re saying.
‘Grabbing for breath has now broken my fingers.’
No matter what your
intentions are
actions will always speak louder than traffic-signal speech.
So forge enthusiasm inside
of a burning desire
to love other
people
without being so judgmental.
The toolbox of genuine,
embroidered with desire
grins at me
every time I see my reflection
and see you standing
by my side.
My enthusiast.
Later in life, as much a mess
As a disorderly garage
Each tool truant to its place
Lured away
by carelessness:
Oily rags of memory slouching
Slack over the edge of a name,
Sockets of knowledge
Rolling beneath a table,
An engine of wit rust-caked, grass smothered,
Lying idle in its crusted cleverness,
And how the son aspires to ratchet the machine:
Welds those reminisces, cranks
Down the loose logic’s bolt,
Solders the tangles of wiry
Moods that once strayed thanks
To the freedom of weeds, the jolt
Now sewn together ordinary,
Deposited in banks.
He smiles at the repaired dolt
His form newly throttled, gear-y,
Shelves him next to an ancient
Cog that’s been painted
The color of a lost sun
That sputters and coughs through a gray horizon.
pact fusion hath brewed
welds cauldron spewed spit fiery
sparse talents biformed renowned
oddity affair
ardent youth pose statuesque
fragile innards touch grotesque
bursts end aggression
severs espousal rapport
guilt aspires realist soars
it must be near the forest beds -
near! oh, near the forbidden beds
of ancient pigeons and sacred doves
that flock’d along the lofty niger beds -
and came she – sudden and sullen
came she with throat song-swollen
like some sands of fast and fluty men
singing like some sword-beak'd hen
that flock’d along some weird river beds -
and well-wrap’d were her strange signals!
and came she – a sinister creature wild
of baboons and monkeys - a like-mind
who must twist-blew in the wild songs!
who must sing and dance baboon songs!
and father thot a monkey could sing
drumming on the native ancestral drums
and mother thot a baboon could sing
dancing to the native ancestral drums
and death came, oh! young death came
wearing a cloak of fiery ferry of primates
oh, the stretch of lands under this tame
plung’d into the great wisdom of primates
and this death welds a sledge hammer
each son and each father along this niger!
some harsh bombs in a hand-shake
with my forests chas’d rest out of town
and in turn the baboon’s good estate
took such a lifeless state of a leaf-brown
where baboons and monkeys drench’d
in soft-humour of bloody strife
where whole villages lie fully sack'd
from ancestral lands by a new lord of strife!
and father a-jok’d of such a lifeless figure
and mother smil’d at such a lifeless figure
but the harsh bombs of lifeless bombardments
brought a silent vacuum in the forests!
oh, stubborn lords of my cut-throat gentr’y
my niger beds a-crop the sly seedlings of beauty
tho’ baboons and monkeys a-swim like the swine
in blood of self-immolation, a-crying … crime!