Rainstorms in my head,
thunder crashing against my eyes,
blizzards of primal sounds, a boundless chaos
under each closed eyelid.
Between death and life, peace and strife,
I will sleep upon a cliff edge of self -
as a curled kitten in the palm of a caretaker,
or a dreaming child within an iron skull
of extinction or survival,
I shall wait upon oblivion
as patient as any whittled stone
carved by every ancient wave of time.
There, shorn of identity,
surrender to one last apocalyptic tempest,
resting now as a silent voice
within its tumultuous cradle.
Formula Fe2 O3
Iron is just awesome – let’s see!
First it was prehistoric man
Who was always an iron fan
Iron is a third of the earth
Industry is iron by birth
Pritchard designed and Darby made
Iconic Iron Bridge won’t fade
Smelt pig iron from iron ore
Produces cast iron galore
Backbone of skyscrapers, bridges
Organs of cars, washers, fridges
Clever Bessemer carbon gone
Heralded steel for everyone
Mankind’s most ingenious feat
Turning raw earth to steel – so neat!
Iron’s compounds are versatile
No wonder it’s used all the while
Inks, fertilisers, pesticides
Paints, enamels and more besides
Many iron phrases pervade
Each as an English language aid
There’s ironclad, iron curtain
Iron grip and more for certain
We need it in a small amount
For on haemoglobin we count
Open your eyes and look around
Everywhere an iron surround
Iron has magnetic appeal
First place must be iron with steel
The quill flows friendly in steady hands
The ink spreads over the page like butter
Thoughts and ideas are conveyed quickly
No verbal setbacks from slur or stutter
Soon brilliance breaks free from the shadows
Fame and accolades are on the menu
Adoring fans throw laurels at your feet
Your name up in lights atop each venue
Then a funny thing happens to your head
All this attention has exiled your gift
Your quill weeps and sheds lonely tears of ink
Thru the rubble, just broken words to sift
Now, gone are the laurels, gone are your fans
No more accolades, no more fond greeting
Your quill just went limp, like your dying dreams
Words are eternal, but fame is fleeting
The trolling of the iron bell
brought the pair together
in sickness and in health
through all kinds of weather
he a macho manly male
anticipating his marital right
she a timorous maiden frail
awaiting her wedding night
no more lingering at the church
or languishing left in the lurch
no more cake or champagne
someone left it out in the rain
and that which is to come
he acceding to her every plea
she submitting to his every wish
a happy couple for all the world to see
Truth be told, or is it so,
Is strength bronze or tin?
Forever mystery lies so,
In this transcended kin.
Beneath the rust, a fragile heart,
Iron weeps, its strength apart.
A veil of secrets, shadows loom,
Where truth’s enigma finds its tomb.
In fragile echoes, whispers call,
Uncertainty befalls, thoughts of chanciness.
As ready minds begin to fall,
A second thought of unsureness.
Though some say it's peaceful,
A chilling draft, shadows impenetrable.
The touch, cold & luridful,
As if metal guards what’s unfalsifiable.
A muffled sound, a mournful hum,
As secrets whisper, what is keen.
For a darkened blanket casted,
Obscuring truth, a world unseen.
The taste bitter, how obscene,
Obscene in taste, even in earful mean.
Echoes of the holy grace, for this place,
Endless woe of devolution,
Forever entice, your grace,
The moon is your solution.
Confined in this space, of endless grace,
Under the moonlight, it is illusion,
Illusion of woe, forever retrace,
It is all persuasion, or is it union?
Shadows creep, where darkness breeds,
A symphony of sorrows, never-ending,
Lost souls wander, planting crushed seeds,
A tale, forever transcending.
Iron Sharpens Iron
Telling the truth
Something they don’t want to hear
Being a Sharp tool
Just being honest
Building up character
True friendship
Pay careful attention
Iron Sharpens Iron
A sharp metaphor
A black-smith making orange sparks
Amber sparks to grow
Become the new you
Be the best you can be
This is a new day
Be a better man
Through the storm
A new person is born
Shape metal to iron
Become a better equipped man
Stand tall
Sharper than your adversaries
My grandfather worked with metal
until the day he died.
He used to say,
No one has ever seen
the true face of iron.
We cannot truly know
its form of yesterday,
nor its shape of tomorrow.
For iron,
of which 25 million tons
of scrap are reborn each year,
the electric furnace
is both a cemetery
and a cradle.
Iron’s death
does not remain in one place.
After death,
birth awaits.
Grandfather said,
People enter the cemetery only once,
but are rocked in the cradle
many times,
not knowing how to live—
without realizing
that today’s airplane
will become tomorrow’s can,
without knowing
that iron stands
next to them.
Today,
at the intersection,
we pass by
iron,
again.
People ask
as they wonder,
what holds
you? Is it
fear? Is it
doubt? Is it
distrust? or is it
all or
neither?
A flower is brought
into this world amidst
chaos
unknowingly
what it may
encounter yet
it remains
pure.
Confined by
discourtesy
trickled by
irregularities
lured by
fallacies yet
stands still as
nature's
gift
as it
shimmers
brightly.
The wind doesn’t howl here--
it warns.
Each breath drawn
is borrowed
from the bones beneath.
They told me to fear the shadow,
but never the silence that follows.
I walk where others knelt,
blade dulled,
spirit frayed,
still searching for the summit
that keeps shifting skyward.
I do not ask for light--
only the strength
to keep walking
where ghosts refuse to rest.
iron on linen
an old fashioned smell I loved
whiff of memory
The name of every soul
is written line by line,
without highlights or underlining
in the leaves of pages
of the book of souls.
The stone temples built
by kings that rise to the heavens,
fall as empires fade and crumble,
when the ledger must be made.
No human god can barter with the end,
no king can forever
outrun the roll-call
for their entry in the book of souls.
Praying to the gods of nature
building towers of stone
reaching skywards to the heavens
is all to no avail.
For the same die
is cast, one for all.
With the passing of old ways
truth comes to all and sundry soon.
Etched in ink, bled from every soul,
each blot and stain
is recorded alike, one and all,
in the book of souls.
Of Iron Maiden’s ‘Hallowed Be Thy Name,’ reveals more than fame.
When life days are a light at the end of the tunnel,
and their brightness dimmed.
At some point, each with mortality faces the same,
whether someone plays a short or a long game.
That journey ended; the torch passed, yet short-lived proved the path.
Locked in a cage, we wait out our days.
Unsure how we arrived and not sure how long we will stay.
Is there a purpose, a plan?
Will every man get to meet his maker at the end of their days?
Afterward, the ends of our clothes fray and the hairs on our heads turn gray.
High stakes don’t pay, and they make us lose our way.
When walking the gauntlet alone, never finding our way home.
But to a saving source unseen.
Is there a Creator to whom we will say, ‘Hallowed be thy name?’
Sadly, as before
we support the Terrorist State
not the oppressed
not the child on roller skates
we support the Zionist hate
snipers shooting freedom
daily
every fatality
a testament
to the crime
Let me stumble,
I promise you I’ll stand up;
Let me stumble,
wretched knees gain a callus;
Let me stumble,
I’ll win, I like to scuffle;
Let me stumble,
my base will become iron;
Let me stumble,
and just love me when I do.
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