Long Crucible Poems
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As the sun ascends in the azure expanse,
I reflect on the journey that brought me here,
A journey fraught with trials and tribulations,
Yet crowned with triumph and redemption.
I recall the moments of doubt and despair,
When the weight of the world threatened to crush me,
But from the depths of despair, I arose,
Like a phoenix reborn from the ashes of adversity.
Each scar upon my flesh tells a story,
A story of battles fought and victories won,
For every wound inflicted, I emerged stronger,
A testament to the indomitable human spirit.
With each passing day, I embrace the dawn,
Embracing the promise of a new beginning,
For in the embrace of the morning light,
I find solace, strength, and renewal.
I cast aside the shackles of doubt and fear,
And step boldly into the unknown,
For I know that within me lies the power,
To conquer mountains and defy the odds.
So let the world tremble and the heavens quake,
I stand unshaken, a beacon of hope,
For within me dwells the unwavering resolve,
To overcome, to endure, to triumph.
With every heartbeat, I proclaim my strength,
A strength forged in the crucible of adversity,
For I am not defined by my scars,
But by the courage with which I face each challenge.
In the tapestry of life, I am a thread,
Woven into the fabric of existence,
And though I may fray and unravel at times,
I will never break, for my spirit is unbreakable.
So let the winds of change blow and the tides shift,
I stand firm, anchored to my convictions,
For I am a warrior, a survivor, a victor,
And I will never surrender, for I am triumphant.
Even as the shadows lengthen and the day fades,
I stand tall, bathed in the twilight's glow,
For in every ending, there lies a new beginning,
And in every challenge, an opportunity to grow.
As the stars twinkle in the velvet sky above,
I whisper a silent prayer of gratitude,
For the trials that shaped me, the lessons learned,
And the resilience that carried me through.
So let the world marvel at my resilience,
For I am a testament to the human spirit,
And though the road may be long and arduous,
I will continue to journey forward, undaunted.
For in every setback, there lies a comeback,
And in every obstacle, a chance to rise,
And with each step I take, I move closer,
To the realization of my dreams, my triumph.
Mr. President, Mr. Vice President, Americans, and the world:
In the crucible of revolution, our forefathers etched their pledge—
a bold testament inscribed not solely in ink,
but in the quiet, relentless pulse of divine dependence.
It is as if the ink itself carried whispers
of a celestial covenant,
affirming divine Providence
into the very marrow of liberty.
Yet, as time past,
present battles won,
and future problems solved,
liberty's nation absolved themselves
from any responsibility
to the Providence from whose
sovereign ties
freed them from foreign foes.
And man's purpose became his own.
Hear this
If our purpose is in just us,
we will find we have lost ourselves,
encased in the cells of just-ice.
For if our forefathers found it requisite
to declare our nation's independence by
recognizing their dependence on the
"Laws of Nature and Nature's God"
beyond the limits of
mankind's powerful facade,
facading the source of
our country's origin,
our homeland's dominion,
foraging a jurisdiction of humanity alone,
thereby ascending mortality's throne
above the divine --
making mankind superior to the
"Supreme judge of the world,"
a position our forefather's forbade
"appealing... [In] rectitude...of [their] intentions"
to a God they believed in,
a declaration sovereignty -
bowed in solemnity,
proclaiming “with a firm reliance on the
protection of divine Providence,"
a dependence on a God they
entrusted their dependence to.
Who are we to say any different?
What difference does it make
if we believe in God or ourselves?
As the good word says,
"Shall the axe boast itself against him
that heweth therewith? or shall the saw
magnify itself against him that shaketh it?
As if the rod should shake itself against
them that lift it up, or as if the staff
should lift up itself, as if it were no wood."
For Godhood is to create,
and man was created by God.
And should man boast himself beyond
Him who spawned ages beyond ages,
he shall find himself his brother's pawn,
despondent, disheartened and disappointed,
foraging for the framework
of freedom our forefathers foraged,
overwhelmed by the damage
of a fallen nation who failed
to hear the caution within
the clarion calls of its creator.
This is a warning
from neighbor to neighbor.
Children of Guernica
Children of Guernica .
In deserts of no mans land
children play among the dead
killer themes from killer kings
what is the song they sing
comes raining down in
shrews of blood
Bombs burst though silent
air beyond the red glare
where mothers and children lie bare
In scripted carcasses of crumbling bricks
amidst the city streets
broken bodies limbs screaming
wombs of agonizing cries of despair
dropping down death from above
in the safety of the night
rivers of blood and angels of death
circle from high above
Sleep of sleepless dreams lie amidst the decaying corpses
children dressed in delicate dressings
starch white linen in ghostly silence
the lambs laid out to rest
Once so shocking citizen casualties
now so common collateral damage
distill the horrors of war
deadly games on computer screens
without touch or smell
Rage distorting the outline of shadow
horse’s teeth open wide to the sun
and necrophilia battle cries of death
stand still like ghosts amongst the dying flames
Wounded Pegasus gaping
requiems for generations yet to come
hypnotized to drum beats of war
where monsters of the id come alive
in the cradles of scorched earth lit destruction
Children born to such things
wander through the deserted streets
where there is no home to rest
sleep the dream of children
Lower at dawn their veils
through broken clocks time stands still
And tides rise over setting moons
amidst the lambs spheres of love vanishes
in landscapes of pain
Minotauromachy rises amidst the dead
monatours of death die slow
when swords turn to plowshares
iron bombs to gates that open
the hearts of wounded men
hush a by don’t you cry
go to sleep my little babies
In the meadows lie the little lambs
friends of the western winds
leave tortures on the bleeding grass
in lust for blood and shadows of fears
Moons of serpents awake before the dawn
crucible of blood cast bare amidst
the trembling wheat
street symphonies of stripped flesh
hanging from the poplar trees
Instruct us of our internal natures
inner conflicts and battlegrounds of distress
death instincts and dark knights of the soul
of tragedies and waste doorways through hell
and roots of indignant screams
Under the veil of twilight, where shadows whisper the secrets of the soul,
A river of thoughts flows endlessly, weaving through the ethereal landscape of my mind,
Carrying fragments of self-knowledge that must be torn apart before I am whole.
The man I know myself to be—the one who walks in familiar shadows—must meet his end,
So that the true man I am, hidden deep in dreams, can rise and truly exist.
The echoes of an old self ring hollow, desperate for the dawn of a new essence,
And in this dance of melancholy and magic, I glimpse the delicate balance of transformation.
I wander through a labyrinth of metaphors, where each corridor leads deeper into the fog of introspection,
Where the walls are adorned with pale portraits of the past,
And every turn brings a moment of reflection, a confrontation with the shadows of an old self.
This man I have known, a tapestry of familiar fears and comforts, must perish,
So that I can lay him to rest in the catacombs of forgotten dreams,
And rise from the ashes, a phoenix reborn at dusk, unburdened and pure.
It is in this crucible of self-destruction and rebirth that I find the essence of who I truly am,
As I walk through the valley of my own soul, unweaving the fabric of the past,
I understand the necessity of erasing the echoes of the old man within me,
To carve out space where the true man can breathe, live, and flourish.
The old man must die, his spectral presence fading into the night,
For only then can the dawn illuminate the contours of the true self.
In this mystical journey, where melancholy kisses the edges of hope,
I surrender to the flux of consciousness, a current that carries me toward the horizon of becoming.
This dissolution of the known self is but a necessary prelude to the symphony of rebirth,
A metamorphosis that transforms the chrysalis of the soul into the liberated butterfly,
Wings unfurling in the gentle light of twilight, where magic and melancholy intertwine.
And as the twilight yields to the night, and the stars paint the canvas of the sky,
I stand on the precipice of my own becoming, the old man laid to rest,
While the true man steps forward, a vessel of possibilities, a testament to the beauty of transformation,
Embracing the melancholy of loss and the magic of renewal, in the ever-flowing river of consciousness.
In the whisper of twilight, where shadows meet the edge of dreams,
Lies the truth of our times, a somber murmur carried by the wind of mediocrity.
Once, the soul soared with the ambition of stars; now, the commonplace mind,
Knowing itself to be mediocre, proclaims its right to mediocrity,
And imposes its dullness wherever it can.
Life, in its raw essence, is insipid—a mere act of "being there. "
Thus, for man, existence transforms into a poetic endeavor,
A task akin to that of the playwright or novelist:
To invent a narrative thread for his existence, to give it character,
Making it both suggestive and beguiling.
In the stillness of midnight, under the quilt of countless stars,
The mediocre soul may contemplate its right to mediocrity,
Spreading its mundane essence across the tapestry of time.
And yet, in this silent rebellion, a melancholic magic awakens, weaving truths into metaphors.
Man, that being wrapped in thoughts and desires,
Finds the fabric of mere existence distasteful,
Turning to diversions as an essential art, a salvation from the void of simply being.
Thus, in the corridors of the mind, he creates unseen worlds,
Where every heartbeat whispers a symphony of purpose.
The commonplace mind may seek to impose its dull hue upon the vibrant canvas of life,
But the heart, in its secret chambers, remains an alchemist,
Turning leaden moments into golden narratives,
Inventing threads that shine with unseen light, characters that dance in the shadow of the mundane.
Serious examination reveals the existential melancholy,
The distaste for the unembellished universe, the thirst for something more.
Here, in the crucible of thoughts, we distill our dreams,
Creating a life both poetic and profound, beyond the mere act of "being there. "
For man, existence must transcend the assertion of the mediocre,
Must rise like a phoenix from the ashes of the ordinary,
Towards a realm where every breath is a verse, each moment a chapter,
In the endless novella of a soul's journey.
Thus, in the flux of consciousness, thoughts flow like rivers,
Carving new paths through the wilderness of the mind,
Where even the mediocre soul, in its quiet rebellion,
Might find a spark of the extraordinary,
Transforming existence from insipid to inspired,
From mere being to profound becoming.
When challenged to ponder about inventory of survival-status
my mind succumbs toward sublime intellectual deconstruction
yet conquering spirit emerges to prevail with blissful glow
for triumphant testimony, exposing meaningful existence.
Analysis of faith’s wholeness
Exposes my vain worthlessness
Humbling me to seek God of grace
Completing me with love’s embrace.
When confronted vis-à-vis my understanding about the Almighty
with this vital spiritual question, "Do you really know God?
my predicament regarding the divine was then put into the crucible
an encounter that has become a milestone in my faith venture…
Faith-inquiry for the first time
Awakened my soul with blest chime
While pointed to God Who’s the way
The truth, and life I must obey.
When invited to a Bible study “to know the Lord all the more”
I declined many times being settled with my religious status
asserting that I believed in God, having been raised going to church
with parents and home, considered as good and well.
Bible study of faith-venture
By God’s prodding midst love-gesture
Did lead me to His gracious heart
And through trust, never to depart.
When I acceded to the spiritual endeavour expounding Who God is
I learned from the Scriptures His testimonies, precepts, and statutes
as well as His grace, mercy, and compassion, power and wisdom
that define and describe HIM as the Lord, and distinguish HIM as the Saviour.
Scriptures indeed exalt God’s name
Expressing what His truths proclaim
Granting me peaceful pardon peace
Thus, my skepticism did cease.
When I responded to the Holy Spirit’s gentle working
my soul received the promised life eternal offered by Jesus Christ
along His assured genuine freedom from iniquities’ condemnation
setting me toward heavenly abode along victorious journey.
Fortified faith upheld by God*
Ascends along His guiding rod
While Him I praise, thank, and worship
Serving Him through sweet partnership.
*Jude 1:25 To the only wise God our Saviour, be glory and majesty, dominion and power, both now and ever. Amen.
February 10, 2022
3rd place, "Pick-A-Title, Vol 28- A Deconstruction" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Edward Ibeh; judged on 2/13/2022.
September is aging with a cool beauty
and the Missouri seems to be hurrying the expedition
into a world of natural splendor that is impatient to strip our spirit to it's bare light,
in my silent moments of strategy I feel the birth pangs of winter in the air
and know that an emergency of shelter will soon be the crucible,
more days than not the river wind has aided the Corps of Discovery's adventure,
rarely have we had to pull Destiny along by ropes
and today I'm off the boat, hunting a fleet and mammoth goat
the pronghorned antelope, unlike the buffalo and deer herds
that have easily been in excess of 500, these shy creatures
move about in small groups, seemingly familial in manner,
a hide of short, soft white and brown hair
which stripes the throat, and vicious charcoal horns
that could impale a man in a single jolt, none of us has ever seen such an animal,
these damn goats bolt like bullets every time I creep near
they must be catching my scent for I am stealth and camouflaged,
they are so agile and swift, unafraid to speed through the most dangerous ravines,
getting back to camp with no hooves to show for my time
I see that John Sheilds has sacked a peculiar hare,
he calls it a jackrabbit, it is a monster rabbit no doubt
20 pounds dead and can leap like a rock across water, 20 foot spreads at full speed,
we all laugh and agree this place is becoming more of a jungle than a prarie,
any moment we may encounter apes and wherewolves,
its good to see Private Shanon chuckle well since returning
from being alone along the river for sixteen days nearly starved and maddened,
the fires be hot and the kettles be kickin with the right stuff
most of us are consuming 5, 000 calories per day including several pounds of meat each,
the mission is teaching the men's' bodies new extremes, the exertion is remarkable,
sunburn, blisters, rolled ankles, sprained wrists and backs, inadequate sleep,
mosquito bites, spider bites, ant bites, hours of tedious paddling and foraging,
no woman love, gaurd duties, chores, the stress of Indian encounters and ambush,
home sickness,
the only thing familiar to us is eachother,
sharing our sufferings, sharing our survival,
J.A.B.
DUCK AFTER DUMP PING THE DON
air ring ma thoughts - no matter aye ham
juiced one twenty first century mwm ape
serves as genuine s cape
to fly (during pitch black hours of night) and escape
burning effigies, where his jumbo jet, a sonic boom stick bewitching like Snape
temporarily tough feign ruffled feathers sans rape
pay shuss selfish lust, when world sliding down behavioral sink,
where he doth jape
and me as distant outlier from madding crowd i gape
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
At the sheer inanity
trumpeting strumpets donning an innate
prejudice and senselessness purr
blind faith toward self avowed demigod -- seize whore viz Cesar
his hair coiffed and puffed like it whir
wind blown kickstart ting mobs to stir
paying bodyguards to evict ruckus-causing murmur
oh...how the masses will let this country
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Go to hell in hand basket
and rack up stratospheric global debt
cause zing this one measly mortal male to fret
that totalitarian rule will force every man,
woman and child to march....het
two...three...four, while the billionaire
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
turns a third blind eye speeds away in his foo fighter jet
argh...heavens to Betsy, how did the fickle finger of fate let
this pompous ass
vacuumed majority votes across world wide net
to finagle vox populi, and groom hooligan nasty ruffian thugs
with smashed face s as his smart pet
bump ping uglies henchmen set
to create their own version of the tet
offensive, despite croup bawling ashen faced deportees
whose tears sentence innocent to po' ver tee branding indiscriminately vet
so culled unwanted ill eagle "aliens"
labored with nose to grindstone
fingers to the bone vainly, their american dream parched whence whet.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Long story short - pondering my rental circumstance will equal net
zero importance, and will be upended if this ret
chad, ewol, googly-eyed, gastronomic, narcissistic bullish don will set
the spark for world war three - via gone ah re: ha...ha...ha...to all vet
tureens within the american crucible melting pot - with backs whet
unless....Katrina and the Waves, superman or Sabrina can oust him yet!
In the beginning, Adam and Eve ate the forbidden fruit.
This could have been a fruit like a date or a red apple.
It certainly was not for us to sample.
Consequently, God made animal skin robes to cover
their bodies down to their naked ankles.
The first sacrifice of a lamb was done by righteous
Abel. God accepted his offering, that he
did gladly put on the offering table.
Noah built the Ark; by grace his family
with the animals assembled. Then came
the rain floods that descended from heaven.
The Israelites blew their mouths like a
trumpet at Jericho, then the walls crumbled.
The wooden Ark of the covenant covered by gold
is a physical symbol, toward God’s spiritual
agreements.
David took a smooth stone, a big pebble
and conquered Goliath the Giant.
Man may stumble and man may tumble.
Pray always to be able, stable and humble.
Jesus took up His cup, which the Father gave
Him and never did fumbled it but did drink from it.
There are musical instruments that give
harmonious sounds for worship; some
are the piano, drums, timbral and cymbal.
People keep your body a holy temple.
Yes, the Lord Jesus Christ is our perfect
example.
To do righteousness is holiness unto God.
Holy, Holy, Holy is the Lord God of host.
We are in the last days. Things are going
to happen that will cause the whole earth
to rumble and tremble. God will save His
own elect from the end time crucible.
After all these things, God shall appear to
reign forever and ever in His majesty,
beauty, goodness, holiness, righteousness,
and greatness forever and ever.
Hallelujah, Amen!
I hardly brew coffee alongside the metaphor of
English mornings blended with summer’s febrile breath.
But, on this occasion, I did....
It was a stifling moment on television.
The social media was abuzz with the hiss of
Integrated journalism. I hated this moment I failed to believe myself
Upon the altar of this recent toponym. BREXIT.
The name plinks with resounding voices, exerting that energy of
Political consciousness.
Lexicographers must hasten it into the dictionary
Before the return of Christ.
Must be cooked in the crucible of NOUN and
Heavily spiced in VERB.... And then, play host to nimieties.
It’s plainly a matter of exiting the circumference of a common, dancing market,
Where freedom of movement spins the web of twinkle-toed arachnids.
My coffee whiffed with the Brazilian hegemony
Upon the Indian scheme of teas and secular drams of rum,
And Iran’s love for green tea.
Summer’s mornings are difficult, I must remind you.
Waking from the posts of work and a bivouac
Stretches the eyelids beyond groggy eyelashes
With the haste of a speeding dawn.
But the TRUTH remained salient and voluble:
BRITAIN HAS VOTED TO LEAVE THE EU.
And it’s not a hypnagogic matter.
It has no business with amphigoric journalism.
It’s a British-fried piece of truth.
Are you kidding me?
I find it totally execrable when people say what they do not know,
Rather than ask what they do not know.
Sunday Times spread its pages to annex some truth.
So did The New York Times and Washington Post and the
Community of tabloids – all tried to
Squeeze out the sprinkles of the matter from collapsing firths.
There was no trace of Churchill in this BREXIT fiesta.
Even de Gaulle exuded remedies of a fractured Europe; he remembered
The WAYWARD WAR, whose frenetic winds blew us no good.
My coffee, black and gold, with the supple bubbles and yellow froths,
Welcomed the degree of weather forecasting.
Will it rain?
Will there be isolated thunderstorms across the EU?
Will BREXIT brew some heat? Slanting showers?
What Celsius does a degree reach before there’s a
Pandemonium?
DID YOU MEAN POUND-EMONIUM?
HAVEN’T YOU HEARD ABOUT THE CRASH OF THE POUND?