The posings of a poet.


An old rusty anvil, with hammer

His heart

There once lived a smith
   with a simple quirk
With metal and fire
   he could not work
But tempered and tested
  and fitted instead
  that would leap
  to the page from his head
His hammer
  a pen
His anvil
 his heart
He’d meld words together
  Or break them apart
Such intricate items
 Appeared in his mind
And often the page
 Would create them in kind
But sometimes the words
  Just would not mold
Or the passion that softened
  Grew a bit cold
And the smith
  Would keep crafting
Until it became
A work he could proudly
  Engrave with his name
At times he was busy
  Preparing for war
Words honed to razors
  That sliced as they tore
Other times he
  Attempted to woo
As he hammered out feelings
  Frightful and true
At times he just hammered
  To cast out his fears
And often those works
  Seemed wrought in tears
Yet if you’d but polish
  And hold them to light
You might just fathom
  If his meaning was right
Just remember you’re holding
  Some of his wits
And pieces of Anvil
  He pounded to bits

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9 thoughts on “Wordy

  1. Reduced to breathless…this is just crazy amazing Dan. There are no words – but there is a ton of love and admiration for the work you are doing…. Thank you! RL

  2. Beautiful, very well done.

  3. ~Lady Day on said:

    ❤ ahhh, work of word smith…you write in stone and metal with such grace:)

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