A strangely solitary child
Allowed to wander around
The working Forge and
The foundry ground
Unaware then
That it couldn’t last
And I was quietly recording
A fast approaching past.
It darted here,
It danced there,
Applying force with
Precision and care.
Here a tap,
There a thump,
Turning that once
Near molten iron lump
Into a shape
Of near precision
Each blow landed
With skill and decision.
Each piece judged
Solely by eye
Before quenching water’s
Acrid hiss bubble and sigh.
Uncle’s old hammer
Would peal and ring
Making his old anvil
Vibrate and sing.
Shires and Hunters shod,
Machinery cleaned and mended
A myriad of essential tasks
To be organised and tended.
When that Old Forge was
Full of movement and creation
With a craft that thrived then died
In a single changing generation.
Preserved for posterity it now stands
There in the old Smithy ground
I wonder if Uncle’s old hammer
Has still been kept around.
The Smithy works the tools until he's finished what is made
By sapients and fools and all purveyors of the trade
Hammering what's been heated until it's finally wrought
Into what has been crafted into finely finished thought
The sweat that gathers on the brow of crafty and of clueless
Will only come to light somehow when posted for the viewless
In hope someone will stumble into this thoughtful snare
Arresting thoughtful moments from all who wander there
the smithy was empty
and the tree near it had fallen
and no one had expected it
the sunken sun had made a stand
with desperate gaiety
swept through sleep
to break the night
The Autumn children
like caged birds
counted the crocus stalks
and for footfalls of a misbegotten
soothsayer
Love forged in the anvil of a sheltered heart
Where the wind gusts to cast its vivid blow
The baneful storm could not cause its verve to part
For the ember warms to rouse its even flow
Heart that's pounded with the hammer of affection
Shapes to harden with a deep sense of devotion
The Lady Smithy
By: Miracle Man
6/4’2023
The words she used were sharp and pithy,
she had huge arms, her being a smithy.
She didn’t stammer,
and she had glamour,
She eloped with a man surnamed Withy.
AFRICA IS NOT YOUR LAB
Monumental carcasses impended: Africa is not a lab,
A pinch of your pin is worse than knife stab -
Reducing a people you didn't create,
Solution is your cunning bait
But your weapon is merciless hate.
The stains on your lab coat is deceit,
Your agenda and past records you can't delete.
Ply your experiments in this evil's - smithy,
Poisoned-chalice to heal sounds pretty?
Not fitting. Your vaccine is the assassin;
Medicine from Tennessee tested on the Edisons
Might not be antidote in Benin for the Bensons.
Alfred Tennyson's Ulysses too surmount enemies
And so will we cos Africa is not a lab place.
Grind away! Moistenly mash up your paste,
Abort the mission to lay Africa waste.
We'll chew kola at your tricks - we're not in haste!
Not in haste to dine with ancestors & kings,
We'll dance to batá, gongon, base guitar & strings
While our liberty & redemption comes in a collabo.
Africa is definitely not your labo!
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Copyright © December, 2020.
He's a stable smithy
Thinks his genius words are pithy
As he pounds, pounds, pounds
Into the night
Swings his big word-hammer
Never minding lies and grammar
Cuz he's gotta, gotta, gotta
Fuel the fight
With his bellowslike ire
He stokes the fire
As it burns, burns, burns
To his delight
On his huge word-anvil
Pounds rumor and scandal
As they sizzle, sizzle, sizzle
Burning bright
Hones his words untoward
Like a two-edged sword
As they stab, stab, stab
Like a knife
As his words extrude
They can get really rude
As he pushes, pushes, pushes
Wrong as right
He's a stable smithy
Thinks his genius words are pithy
As he pounds, pounds, pounds
With all his might
***
November 30, 2019
F G I series 19 satire
Brian Strand, sponsor
***
Poetry notes:
05/26/2019
In the context of this poem, "Wordsmith" refers to any who attempt to mislead by using fake news or disinformation.
***
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
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/
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
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
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
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
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
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
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