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Maple Mc Glinchey Poem
Being alive to see the next day
Allows for people to look my way
They see a soul with gall and sway
But there are a few things I'd like to say
My viewpoint on life is somewhat unusual
I look to the ground for an explanation of the usual
A wish to understand the growing of the land
And lend my very own naively led hand
I tend to the growing white orchids, still young
I marvel as they use the Sun as their lung
To witness it long before it withers
It gives me a gratitude that perpetually quivers.
Copyright © Maple Mc Glinchey | Year Posted 2024
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Maple Mc Glinchey Poem
Fire's Cot ebbs and flows a flame
Kept right by a massive bellows' aim
To forever burn the very same
Until our Smith laid a claim
Squirming sections growing in clumps
The digits laced with another's lumps
And now their mystery is laid bare for all
As all clumps shatter, reforge and stall
Stationary, stuck in stagnant time
Internally, crimson constricts into lime
Two Forged make a single Stray
Becoming two with one DNA
Muck Mashed Maniacal Man
Stands Strong Suffering Scan
For Friendly Faces Flamed
Trying To Thrive Tamed
smith Shaped smith So
boss Blows Bowels Broke
Life Lives Long Late
stars Shine Short
"FaTe."
*CRASH*
Copyright © Maple Mc Glinchey | Year Posted 2026
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Maple Mc Glinchey Poem
Upwards is his destination
Lost is his designation
No call from Stars above
No message of half-hearted love
Green reconnects with Red to combine
As our Smith relaxes his invisible spine
His journey so far has been to hone and refine
It is all he can muster, so far out of line
No matter his blindness, he saunters past
The Fire's Cot, mid-molten blast
Making Names wander, til' the Bellows blow
Up stairways, they travel, where our Smith now goes
Steep and coarse, the walkway is cobbled
Thrown together, stone and metal were knobbled
Though our Smith travels slowly with a slippery crawl
He soon gains some confidence, and takes steps, small
Almost like a snail with it's juice left behind
Our Smith leaves a trail a hunter could find
Green and Red splotches on a watery rind
Moving unbothered by secrets enshrined
He shivers and coils to the top of this 'case
Wriggling his body to scream from his face
"CaN i PlEaSe ReTuRn To ThE BoSs' GrAcE?!
i KnOw I'm NoT aLoNe In ThIs SpAcE!"
The steps begin to brightly glow
A clear departure from ash and shadow
The metal grey shifts to a sharpened Pink
"A fallen Smith is a missing Link."
Copyright © Maple Mc Glinchey | Year Posted 2026
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Maple Mc Glinchey Poem
One, two, three, angled
Toes, fingers, teeth, mangled
"We WiLl bE fReE tO FiNaLlY sEe!"
The stomach's foot wriggles with glee
Amalgamation is the only way
Our Smith knows and begins to pray
No warning mouthed before the clasp
Gluttonous gloop scoops the foot in a grasp
Triple digits move swiftly and quick
The Stars lucky they are not here to see sick
Lashings, fingerings, scars and rot
Devoured by a trap the other sought
"HoW cOuLd YoU? wE WeRe pRoMiSed fuel...?"
The question dwindles, quiet and cruel
As our Smith digests, then takes a rest
And soon hears, newly, a crackling crest
Further over into the dark
We who have eyes see it stark
A fierce Furnace, the Fire's Cot
Where many Names are burned and forgot.
Copyright © Maple Mc Glinchey | Year Posted 2026
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Maple Mc Glinchey Poem
Into the Hatch, drop by drop
The metal melted like the crop
Sizzling ooze falls onto a floor
And begins to feel a little sore
Still no eyes, no lungs, no aim
Digits pull and push its frame
Outward sounds, crashes, pounds
Begin to be heard, as fear surrounds
Ears, but not quite shaped like ours
Are the next to form in these early hours
Yet just as green and red get comfy
A grating shrill comes from newfound company
Their location is hard to properly state
This starless cavern below the Fate
Forgers don't dare stoop this low
Whatever is here won't approach slow
The sounds in the silence, let words free
"WrIgGlE aBoUt, WiThOuT We?"
Tumbling turns to playful pursuit
When from a stomach protrudes a foot
It winds its ankle, without a crack
And stamps down harsh, with an attack
The Smith is pinned, spreading his patch
While five more digits manage to snatch.
Copyright © Maple Mc Glinchey | Year Posted 2026
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Maple Mc Glinchey Poem
No slits watching, the lumps draw near
Reforming slowly, the Peak becomes clear
Forming fingers, then twitchy toes
Returning quickly, from Smith's Repose
Streaky strips of pus aligned
On a cage organically mined
Stars above a starless glove
Where fingers coil to give a shove
Lumps leap down from the Seat
Toes and fingers, strike and meet
Wilting flowers with every catch
Further, further, 'til it feels a latch
Writhing round the handle's shape
It has no strength as a mangled cape
Searching inwards, with no eyes
"A SiNgLe pRoBlEm HoLdS mAnY LiEs"
Like how the plant changed temperaments
The carcass embraces the elements
Hugging the hatch, its metal form
A searing goo begins to swarm.
Copyright © Maple Mc Glinchey | Year Posted 2026
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Maple Mc Glinchey Poem
Barmy blacksmiths, forging Fate
Smack-dab, smashed and working late
Stuck deep in and wrenching wrists
Tattered skin on itchy fists
Spewing salty starless space
Into eyes and all over face
The wall and put your best foot on
A boxy board housing Spawn
Groggy gauges, clicking close
To the time the Boss had chose
Feeling funny, one Smith exits
Others watch him through their slits
Lined looking, between blades
Hanging hazards, shovels and spades
Their brother's bowel blows and boils
As life's liquid bursts and soils
Clothes clamped, stammered sound
Shrieking lumps, lurching around
Weapons washed, in red and green
The first, and last, blacksmith seen.
Copyright © Maple Mc Glinchey | Year Posted 2026
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Maple Mc Glinchey Poem
Our Smith's dorsal in violent recline
Begins to rise from a great decline
A shoulder sets right, up into the socket
A hip sends shivers, boiling up like a rocket
Shapely and stoic, taking up a stronger stance
Webbed feet emerge, formed from the manic dance
Along with the teeth, the fingers and the toes
The digits are now sharing a body with their foe's
Still, without eyes, the journey will be trouble
Still, our Smith, pushes on through the rubble
Still, the Cot, seperates warmth from the cold
Now, the Names, travel through ashes to behold
Our Smith has reached the edge of the Cot
Now a little further from green and red rot
The temperature rises and rises and never peaks
And along with it...small, quiet, swelling squeaks
"ShInEr, BrIdGe, TrIdEnT, JiA, KoLe, NoUgAt, PoRtEnt, QuIlLa....."
Our Smith is shuddering in rigorous motions
The bellows bend, and blow away notions
"MiLnEr, GeRiL, SuIkOpIna, BlItHe, NuMbEr 6, SeEya-"
Our Smith turns their ear to the now silent flame
And finds his current situation a shame
With no way to see, his trek will be tough
So tries to recall what made his meal have enough
The teeth in his face, still gooey and gross
Twist in and out, in absence of a nose
And replaced in the centre of his malforming mug
They line, all but one, in a mouth all snug
Taking the deepest breath he can muster
His chest glows red, without a green luster
And blasts out a shout, into the Cot's cluster
"DiD aNyOnE nOtIcE a MiSsInG Smith?
Up On ThE SeAt? NeAr ThE ZeNith?
WeLl I'm DoWn bY tHe Cot, Stuck AlL oN mY oWn!
PlEaSe, cOuLd SoMeOne wIth eYes Guide tHe UnKnOwn?"
.....................
Bellows bend and blow away ash
Our Smith stands alone, among the trash.
Copyright © Maple Mc Glinchey | Year Posted 2026
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Maple Mc Glinchey Poem
The hands let go with a cracking sound
Whipping our Smith to the glowing ground
Bouncing and wobbling his jiggly joints
Green swirls into Red, boiling patches into points
The Machine retracts and swallows its hands
Coiling deep inside its rickety glands
No gagging, no cough, just a calm ritual
To pull out a key, almost entirely habitual
It holds its key in between fingers
And looks at our Smith that unwillingly lingers
"We are going up, no matter what you want
The door to the Vineyard, my current haunt"
Our Smith rises, and slithers up the path
Not wishing to incur the Machine's promised wrath
"It HaS BeEn A wHiLe SiNcE i'Ve BeEn GuIdEd
.....I'vE nEvEr ReCalLeD, oNlY aBiDeD?"
The Machine catches up and scans without warn
Our Smith jumps and wriggles with scorn
"No Smith should be able to think without Star
You are able for now, but stop acting bizarre"
Blotches burn his burns, twice smouldered
Our Smith knows his place and continues, bolstered
He upwardly stumbles, until he smacks into a mesh
A crosshatch door, laced with flickers of flesh
"Now, stand aside, fallen Smith of mine
I must open the way, so stand by that sign"
The Machine takes its key and finds a lock
No time wasted, it removes the block
The door unfastens itself from the clasp
Creaking open, with a gut-wrenching gasp
The flesh on the mesh fall in lumpy piles
Casting rainbow hues on the muddied Pink tiles
"WhAt HaPpEnEd To My FrIeNdS, MaChInE?
WhY cAn'T tHeY fOrM, eNgAgE iN rOuTiNe?"
The hands come again, instantaneous and fierce
Planting our Smith beside the Elevator's smears
The hands hold our Smith's stomach, gurgling
Pressing, tightly, bending inwards, hurting
Crunching bubbling boils in his body
Crushing thoughts of anything godly
........................................
Our Smith loses the energy to stay alert
As the crosshatch contraption ascends overt.
Copyright © Maple Mc Glinchey | Year Posted 2026
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Maple Mc Glinchey Poem
While the Pink stays unknown to our Smith without sight
He can easily tell that this voice holds might
The steps flash twisting, metal shapes into view
Wires coil, tipped with wriggling hands two
The hands grab a hold of our Smith's flubby frame
Multiple attempts before a successful claim
The hands spurt fluid from each shiny palm
Causing all our Smith's muscles to simultaneously calm
Unable to move, his digits attempt to gain freedom
As a response, his teeth begin to travel in tandem
Up one shoulder and up the opposite
To try to see if the hands can be bit
Nibbling fierce, bending bolts and screws
But they won't budge, no matter how many chews
Our Smith accepts that he has been physically matched
Then begins to speak, to find a way unattached
"WeLl, I gUeSs YoU hAvE mE iN yOuR sTeElY gRaSp!
WhAt WoUlD pErSuAdE yOu To LeT lOoSe YoUr ClAsp?"
Pink flashes again, this time freeing an entire step
And from underneath, a Machine repeats without pep
"You are a fallen Smith, a missing Link from your Chain
You will now be judged, whether you are able or lame"
A face made up of a visor and puppet like hinges
Begin to shudder and shuffle in starkly Pink flinches
"Hold still, fallen Smith, or you will be thrown away
Regardless of our decisions, there will be no delay"
Radiant rays rate our Smith's quality and potential
Each part it burns on his body is consequential
"AaHhHhH iT hUrTs! It BuRnS! pLeAsE sToP! pLeAsE..."
The Machine doesn't listen to our Smith's crying pleas
It continues its job, disregarding all pain
"Looks like you are worth some extra strain."
Copyright © Maple Mc Glinchey | Year Posted 2026
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