“For he shatters the doors of bronze and cuts in two the bars of iron.” — Psalm 107:16
The foundry's quiet as a catacomb as I open up doors alone,
the furnace quiet in the back, molding cars still on their tracks.
Products of our previous toil, blood sweat, tears, and maybe oil.
Walking through a habit learned, do not touch lest one get burned.
Footsteps echo on the grates; I pass behind the tank of hate.
The lake of fire all contained, bound by steel and God's domain.
The water runs both day and night, keeping hell inside its shell,
for if the raging beast escapes, the iron bends. And the concrete breaks.
Stifling heat caress my lungs, within the path of grit,
it takes my breath and begs my soul—submit.
As I make my way into the yard, stumble on some steely shards,
skids and forklifts standing by; they look at me and ask me why?
The heavy doors announce a groan, the peace of man who walks alone.
The lights ignite the blackened pits, of auto cast and rust and grit.
And in the back, the beast awaits, the men of iron beyond the gates.
BARRY
A young man was called Barry Kirk
On our farm for a while he did work
taught me how to catch fish
for the big one I'd wish
He indicated where trout liked to lurk
GEORGE
George financially now on the skids
Has fathered way too many kids
many girlfriends and wives
kid twenty nine now arrives
States no more with a blink of both of his eyelids
SURNAME MAGUIRE
A man with surname Maguire
Some children he wanted to sire
took a woman to bed
let's do it she said
Satisfied his burning desire
ANOREXIC
Anorexic she's poorly and thin
No muscle strength found from within
bent in the middle
whilst playing the fiddle
Her sister an identical twin
TATTOO
This man a tattoo on his tummy
Looked like the face of his Mummy
he never grew up
remains a young pup
Age thirty eight still sucks on a dummy
MILLIE
An unfortunate madam called Millie
Stood on the end of Tom's willy
he cried out in pain
don't do that again
It'll shrink even more when it's chilly
When i love you is said , happy tears may be shed .
In a whisper in bedtime ears , calm and ease break all fears .
From long distance or face to face , the i love you fills the empty space.
I love you is said and heard with kind eyes , deep in the heart are the joyous cries .
It may be said with a concerning frown , love is still implied like a hidden treasure for it to be found .
Love is needed when one feels the hurt , a gentle kiss when one skids the knee in the dirt .
The warmth feel of a hug just because , bring smiles and laughter is what it does .
Those sincere and always caring words , i love you , in the mind , body , and soul , forever it will be heard .
Moms say this no matter what , in disguise or right upfront , to embrace it as you will , for god or bad moms will love you still .
I LOVE YOU MOM
Dorothy Lee dresses like a street urchin from London town
She is not a frilly frothy girl, you’ll never see her in a gown
Her brother’s oversized boots are good enough for Dorothy Lee
Does she wear socks inside them? No this you’ll never see.
She is the youngest daughter of a family with eighteen kids.
Seventeen older brothers, one of them on the skids.
She dresses like she’s homeless, though they have lots of money.
Her mama left a long time ago, which truly was not funny.
She wanted to take Dorothy Lee, but she refused to go.
She loves her older brothers Terry, Tom, Timmy, Dick and Danny so.
Her daddy never had a girl, so is raising her like a boy.
This, says Dorothy Lee, is my biggest joy.
A queue for the toilets at Sid's:
she left it all smelly with skids,
and busted the flush;
with hardly a blush,
she shifted the blame to her kids!
To the tune of My Favorite Things by Rodgers and Hammerstein...
Pop-ups and wheelies and brodies and skids,
A hand-me-down junker to play with the big kids -
We'd play Red Baron, though I was a tyke -
Now I remember my favorite bikes.
While good transportation, it was, for me,
I wanted a Schwinn Stingray under the tree.
Candy apple-red - what kid wouldn't like!?
Now, I remember my favorite bikes.
Freedom and speed, and the feel of the wind -
My ten-speed became this boy's best friend,
No offense to Jeff, or Alan or Mike -
but I remember my favorite bikes.
When old age brings
Things I dislike
and I'm feeling sad,
I simply remember my favorite bikes,
and then I don't feel so bad.
the real batman is more frightening than anything on TV
I met him on my way to a rally in a town called Liberty
He was riding on the back of a giant ugly toothy bat.
Together we screamed – me and my terrified cousin Matt.
A photo would not do these feelings justice, I told the other kids.
This bat was humungous, he could have put mammoths on the skids.
They laughed at me, thought I was lying, until the bat flew into sight
The real batman’s laughing voice was the last thing I heard that night.
Engines snarl the quiet open. Our street forgets its name and becomes a dare. Headlights stitch the midnight dark too fast to hold, mailboxes flinch, trees lean back.
Tires scream first, then the sirens, blue red prayers bouncing off porches, windows waking like startled eyes. Someone laughs. Someone swears. Time skids sideways.
The cars vanish, but the echo keeps racing, heart still pinned to the redline, long after the law and the boys are gone.
Afterward, the street exhales. Oil hangs in the air like a secret. Dogs bark at nothing. A loose can rolls, applause with no hands. Tomorrow, chalk lines, rumors, scorch marks, proof that for seconds, speed owned us, and we let it.
© daniel miltz
I met her
on the boardwalk ramp
and said ...
“You Have Nice Eyes”
The Gypsy Lady
fixed her gaze
my hand in hers
replied ...
“White hates black
and black hates white
their fear right now
forbids
“Division preys
to rule the land
fate drifting
on the skids
“But just remember
this one thing
if we are
to survive
“Coffee colored kids
will reign
to save our souls
— demise”
(Haverford College: February, 2026)
Could this scheming and opportunist king,
whose subjects, it seems, were not his concern,
be persuaded to stop at anything?
The answer was "negative", they would learn.
T'were many in his ruthless plots, ensnared.
Did loyalty guarantee survival?
Some trusting supporters were left unspared,
like any vile enemy or rival.
But stopping, not, he then killed his brother,
and proceeded to the innocent kids,
then killed his wife, not much of a bother.
Morally speaking, he sure hit the skids.
Had England then had a democracy,
could they ever have had a Richard Three?
Free from cooking dinner and bathing kids
we've exchanged lipstick, off to jazzy jigs tried different costumes, with plaited wigs
let's wear false lashes attached to blue lids
we'll go for raw oysters, no-one forbids
then hurry to club where cool drummer skids
girls will sing in deep voices startling digs
nonchalant will we be, dismantling grids
Black Magic Women, nobody's spare ribs !
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The courthouse doors exhale cold stone.
A boy waits—his father’s bail unpaid—
counting cracks in the sidewalk.
Inside, a judge taps scales gone rusty
with compromise. Outside, rain
skids off bronze statues.
Justice isn’t radicated in lawbooks;
it blooms where the sidewalk ends.
If I die, please do not tell the kids
I don’t’ want their lives “on the skids”
Money for a funeral I cannot see
I want my ashes spread on yonder tree
When I stop posting poems every day
the ones who like me might pause and say
I wonder what happened to her? Like my friend Chad.
I do not want them to know. I don’t want them sad.
I plan to go in my sleep, during the night.
Not in a wresting meet, for I do not like a fight.
If I die, do not tell the neighbors, let them guess.
Sorry honey, but you will be stuck with my mess.
Butter Fly
the butter
~* *~
* *
* *
fly
that flied away
that broke
the heart
that put to skids
the board on skates
the kid o
\ /
p q
\o o/
~ ~ ~ ~
his head in the clouds
~ ~ ~ \ * / * \ * /~ ~ ~
he
skates
away
…
he
forgets
…
for his grandmother
this butter fly’s under lock and key
Poor Mrs. Newton had two kids.
One found gravity. He was bright -
while little Fig hit the skids
and was eaten in one bite -
different as black and white.
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