Quotes about steely, page 5
Masticated By Ignorance
There is an eye fashioned from iron
A steely cold cellar for a famished soul
Iron eyes feigning to macadamize
The dark circlets around the orbits
A wreath of cinder from the toppled
Empire, a shriveled recollection
Of lacerations and ecstatic slurs
A stringing harp of the devil
There was a man with iron eyes
Reeking of a valuable possession
Exhumed from a constant oppression
A gilded and ciphered fanaticism
A lopsided ribbon of disposition
A fortified super imposition
That devoured the man's vision
And cloyed the nausea into gagging
With a cigarette rolled on his hand
And panic knotting on the other
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poem by Norman Santos
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You, the Dark
Dark, She is the mind of yours.
Icy chill of thought becomes
A steely shimmer.
Behold a glimmer in the black -
A flash of grey, that even glows
In show against the hallowed dark of you.
And that is why you scream in jarring tones
'I have no heart for joy!
My white and brittle bones have died'
You cried in dark and fractured moans.
So now the Queen of Black you writhe,
Whence from dark of shade
That honed an evil form afar;
In curse of me you bade:
'I, the wave shall rape the shore!
Violence will there be in glares I'll throw
At all who prey, and more:
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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The Snake
Like sable coils of twisted cord that glisten in the light,
Scales round with tiger stripes are scored, death spoiling for a fight.
Draped on a stump - a tree long dead, bone dry in heat of day;
A flickering fork from poisoned head that smells the air for prey.
Mulberry bow; Black fletched with crow: an arrow, notched, half drawn.
The boy, the hunter, stealing slow, makes not a sound to warn.
The serpent looks with steely eyes, that see no danger yet.
Though close below its burrow lies, the hunter's trap is set.
A powerful arc, a full drawn bow; The snake in mortal fear,
It dashes for its den below, an arrow thudding near.
A blur of sleek uncoiling rings, swift down the hole it glides;
The bow string twangs, the arrow sings, through flesh and bone it slides.
The threshing tail flies side to side, a writhing lashing whip;
Escape from certain death denied, held in the arrow's grip.
The hunter draws it from its lair, lays on the ground his prize;
The vanquished of a contest fair, like bloodied rope it lies.
And so plays out the ancient duel ‘twixt snake and son of man;
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poem by Dennis N. O'Brien
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Memory Traces Causal Links
Without the rules and prompt free written
this screed read would never be beaded,
restrictions may be smitten promptly
by self-same [s]words, seed's kneeded glee.
Memory traces causal links
though contest holder writes no rhyme!
restrictions petty - down sinks pours all
inspiration, poor time know.
Rap's wrapping - 'tis not fiction - fact
was by John Skelton's self invented,
should slam's traditions, intact diction,
base held baseless presented pelf?
Who, cold, holds prose as poetry,
for face book status bound edition,
has self sold short, all agree has
rules for rules' sake sedition found.
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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The Weeping Earth
I am the upside down man,
when in a hole I dig deeper
thinking it is up;
I use my satin blindfold
if I need to see.
All my memories
are fragmented media remnants
and I call it living for the moment.
I am the inside out man
I plot to never admit or take the blame,
I kiss evil on the mouth
enjoy turmoil,
and chaos
because they make my inside out,
and that makes me feel whole.
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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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A May Night on the Mountains
’Tis a wonderful time when these hours begin,
These long ‘small hours’ of night,
When grass is crisp, and the air is thin,
And the stars come close and bright.
The moon hangs caught in a silvery veil,
From clouds of a steely grey,
And the hard, cold blue of the sky grows pale
In the wonderful Milky Way.
There is something wrong with this star of ours,
A mortal plank unsound,
That cannot be charged to the mighty powers
Who guide the stars around.
Though man is higher than bird or beast,
Though wisdom is still his boast,
He surely resembles Nature least,
And the things that vex her most.
Oh, say, some muse of a larger star,
Some muse of the Universe,
If they who people those planets far
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poem by Henry Lawson
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Cubicle World
The day ejected me like bad Taco
and I tumbled out onto my mattress
prepared to stare up at my mobile all night.
Sleep would not come to me in that darkness.
only the induced coma
of obsessive thoughts
of counting my mistakes that day.
Sheep counting would not work this time.
I take a deep breath
hoping to expel those critical voices in my head
to even out my breathing
so as to avoid that panting pace
I knew might signal a panic attack.
'Great.' I thought ' I have them just where they want me.'
All my morning resolve for the day had dissolved like water going through a sieve.
No War worse than an Office War;
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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Todgrin Tooled Up
Todgrin tooled up.
Had the names of the perps,
Their whereabouts,
Who they were and why
They shot his brother.
He stared at his reflection
In the mirror, took in
The hard eyes, the steely features.
He rehearsed his routine,
How he was going to get
The perps, get them alone,
See the shit scaredness
In their eyes, take his time,
Stretch out the anxiety
In them, see them squirm.
He recalled his brother’s
Last words, mumbled through
Blood and pain, saw the bullet holes,
The mess of body. He looked
At the mirror one last time,
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poem by Terry Collett
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The Prairie
I see the grass shake in the sun for leagues on either hand,
I see a river loop and run about a treeless land --
An empty plain, a steely pond, a distance diamond-clear,
And low blue naked hills beyond. And what is that to fear?"
"Go softly by that river-side or, when you would depart,
You'll find its every winding tied and knotted round your heart.
Be wary as the seasons pass, or you may ne'er outrun
The wind that sets that yellowed grass a-shiver 'neath the Sun."
I hear the summer storm outblown -- the drip of the grateful wheat.
I hear the hard trail telephone a far-off horse's feet.
I hear the horns of Autumn blow to the wild-fowl overhead;
And I hear the hush before the snow. And what is that to dread?"
"Take heed what spell the lightning weaves -- what charm the echoes shape --
Or, bound among a million sheaves, your soul shall not escape.
Bar home the door of summer nights lest those high planets drown
The memory of near delights in all the longed-for town."
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poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Bagging Kid Charlemagne
You cannot see the upper reaches of Everest
from the base camp, where you acclimatize
with attitude and finger exercises.
In starting your embrace of the peak,
You must move with an almost monotonous precision,
perfecting each phrase, bend, hammer, and lift-off,
owning each measure before moving
across hours to Camp Two,
then Camp Three,
each section with its hurdles and mazes,
your mind bobbing like a pigeon’s head
searching for the path
After Camp Four
and across the Hillary Step
with the Kid’s summit in sight
your fingers fluid and rippling,
repeating impossible runs
until they can be sold as easy,
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poem by Michael Philips
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