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Sword Of Mine
The Sword that I carry
Though made not of iron or steel,
It is a mighty sword
That I proudly do so wield.
Though it wont break the skin
Or combat the weapons of a foe
But this is a mighty sword of mine
More precious than silver or gold.
This sword that I carry
I proudly display it in my hand,
For I know this sword of mine
Is greater, than any other mans.
It comforts me when I am tired
It will warm me when I am cold
It will lie down beside of me
To protect, and strengthen my soul.
The sword that I hold
Is tattered, and so very worn
It has been a friend along side of me,
In the sunshine and many storms.
It has shown me a path to follow
And has lit the road that I walk,
And those nights when I was alone and scared
Then to me, I could hear it talk.
The sword that I wield
Though may be different, in shape or size,
But it is the same sword
Which for years has cushioned the souls cry.
It has been here since the dawn of time
And will be here when the great walls fall,
And then when all men of war and hate reflect,
My sword, will be the mightiest sword of all.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In my house
You enter a room to see a park
You close a door only to be led to another stairway
Leading you to another room with nothing but windows
You close a window the rest remains open
You close the windows and another door
In that park in the room where you just entered
Opens
Then you are confused about the roof that opens
To a river to the rocks where another door opens
To a wall with trees and birds and butterflies
This is weird you say, this is really weird
Then from the garage comes a wind that blows
Its horn like a car
I have just arrived offering you an explanation
For all these mess, these uncertainties, these self-made
confusions.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Cold Iron
Gold is for the mistress -- silver for the maid --
Copper for the craftsman cunning at his trade.
"Good!" said the Baron, sitting in his hall,
"But Iron -- Cold Iron -- is master of them all."
So he made rebellion 'gainst the King his liege,
Camped before his citadel and summoned it to siege.
"Nay!" said the cannoneer on the castle wall,
"But Iron -- Cold Iron -- shall be master of you all!"
Woe for the Baron and his knights so strong,
When the cruel cannon-balls laid 'em all along;
He was taken prisoner, he was cast in thrall,
And Iron -- Cold Iron -- was master of it all!
Yet his King spake kindly (ah, how kind a Lord!)
"What if I release thee now and give thee back thy sword?"
"Nay!" said the Baron, "mock not at my fall,
For Iron -- Cold Iron -- is master of men all."
Tears are for the craven, prayers are for the clown --
Halters for the silly neck that cannot keep a crown.
"As my loss is grievous, so my hope is small,
For Iron -- Cold Iron -- must be master of men all!"
Yet his King made answer (few such Kings there be!)
"Here is Bread and here is Wine -- sit and sup with me.
Eat and drink in Mary's Name, the whiles I do recall
How Iron -- Cold Iron -- can be master of men all!"
He took the Wine and blessed it. He blessed and brake the Bread,
With His own Hands He served Them, and presently He said:
"See! These Hands they pierced with nails, outside My city wall,
Show Iron -- Cold Iron -- to be master of men all."
"Wounds are for the desperate, blows are for the strong.
Balm and oil for weary hearts all cut and bruised with wrong.
I forgive thy treason -- I redeem thy fall --
For Iron -- Cold Iron -- must be master of men all!"
Crowns are for the valiant -- sceptres for the bold!
Thrones and powers for mighty men who dare to take and hold.
"Nay!" said the Baron, kneeling in his hall,
"But Iron -- Cold Iron -- is master of men all!
Iron out of Calvary is master of men all!"
poem by Rudyard Kipling
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Rags & Old Iron
Norman curtis, oscar brown jr
Rags old iron rags old iron
All he was buying was just rags and old iron
I heard that old rag man now making his rounds
He came right to my alley lord with sorrowful sounds
Crying rags old iron and pulling his cart
Ask him how much hed give me for my broken heart
Rags old iron rags old iron
All he was buying was just rags and old iron
So I asked that old rag man how much he would pay
For a heart that was broken baby when you went away
For a burnt out old love light that no longer beams
And a couple of slightly used second hand dreams
Rags old iron rags old iron
All he was buying was just rags and old iron
For those big empty promises you used to make
For those memories of you that are no longer sweet
I wish he could haul them off down the street
Rags old iron rags old iron
All he was buying was just rags and old iron
When love doesnt last tell me what is it worth
It was once mamas most precious possession on earth
When I asked that old rag man if hed like to buy
He just shook his head and continued to cry
Rags old iron rags old iron
All he was buying was just rags and old iron
Rags old iron rags old iron
Rags old iron rags old iron rags old iron
song performed by by Nina Simone
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The eyes of the ikon
The door creaks as she opens it
and the fall of the heavy iron latch
echoes through the empty church.
The atmosphere inside, this cold day,
is heavy, as such holy places are,
locked now at night; heavy,
with what? Anticipation? Memory,
of all the human emotions
that have passed through them?
There’s still the clinging promise,
the fragrance of yesterday’s incense;
it could almost be a midnight forest
in its wood-scented mystery.
She lights a candle, drops a coin
slowly, as those do to whom
each coin has a meaning.
She is small, shrunken as the aged are,
wrapped into roundness against the cold,
yet neatly; today there’s an extra sense of purpose
about her walk towards the glittering
gold ikonostasis –
is it the anniversary of the day
her husband perished in the labour camp?
Or the day her son died fighting
so that such as she might live,
to mourn him, proudly, all her life?
Or was she, is she, that unmarried, famous
junior lecturer who lost her job
for speaking truth, whose students
carried her shoulder-high and placed her
on the tank outside the university,
challenging its gun?
She kneels in front of the ancient ikon,
framed in gold; the ikon that tourists
note with a glance, as ‘Christ’…though when painted,
it was known as ‘Son of God’; now they call it
‘Son of Man’ – that seems to suit it.
She looks intently into its eyes
as she has so many times; each time,
a new day, asking what He has in store for her.
As intently as its painter, praying as he worked,
that He might come and fill the painted form
with His eyes, His heart, His soul; all that He brought to earth
from That which sent Him…
She looks into the eyes of the ikon –
or does the ikon look at her?
In some other world, there is mighty sound,
perhaps a word; the air is filled with soundlessness;
there’s fire that burns forever; great waters flow
like grace itself; new earth is watered.
She sees, in some great where between
herself and all things, love that cannot be measured;
mercy that can only explain itself with itself;
grace that’s only known; her life
opens itself to her clearly, soundlessly;
all is revealed to the seeking heart.
The candles flicker; the door creaks,
and the heavy iron latch echoes
once, in the empty church. The Son of Man
in the form of an old woman wrapped against the cold,
steps out into His kingdom. A few snowflakes;
a pale winter sun. Look into her eyes.
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ikon
The door creaks, as she opens it
and the fall of the heavy iron latch
echoes through the empty church.
The atmosphere inside, this cold day,
is heavy, as such holy places are,
locked now at night; heavy,
with what? Anticipation? Memory,
of all the human emotions
that have passed through them?
There’s still the clinging promise,
the fragrance of yesterday’s incense;
it could almost be a midnight forest
in its wood-scented mystery.
She lights a candle, drops a coin
slowly, as those do to whom
each coin has a meaning.
She is small, shrunken as the aged are,
wrapped into roundness against the cold,
yet neatly; today there’s an extra sense of purpose
about her walk towards the glittering
gold ikonostasis –
is it the anniversary of the day
her husband perished in the labour camp?
Or the day her son died fighting
so that such as she might live,
to mourn him, proudly, all her life?
Or was she, is she, that unmarried, famous
junior lecturer who lost her job
for speaking truth, whose students
carried her shoulder-high and placed her
on the tank outside the university,
challenging its gun?
She kneels in front of the ancient ikon,
framed in gold; the ikon that tourists
note with a glance, as ‘Christ’…though when painted,
it was known as ‘Son of God’; now they call it
‘Son of Man’ – that seems to suit it.
She looks intently into its eyes
as she has so many times; each time,
a new day, asking what He has in store for her.
As intently as its painter, praying as he worked,
that He might come and fill the painted form
with His eyes, His heart, His soul; all that He brought to earth
from That which sent Him…
She looks into the eyes of the ikon –
or does the ikon look at her?
In some other world, there is mighty sound,
perhaps a word; the air is filled with soundlessness;
there’s fire that burns forever; great waters flow
like grace itself; new earth is watered.
She sees, in some great where between
herself and all things, love that cannot be measured;
mercy that can only explain itself with itself;
grace that’s only known; her life
opens itself to her clearly, soundlessly;
all is revealed to the seeking heart.
The candles flicker; the door creaks,
and the heavy iron latch echoes
once, in the empty church; the Son of Man,
in the form of an old woman wrapped against the cold,
steps out into His kingdom. A few snowflakes;
a pale winter sun. But look into her eyes.
[revised]
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Need For Redemption
the world opens a door
lets you in
makes you feel at home
and gives you love
and you give it children
it wants itself
populated and that is
what it only
wants from you and once
the progeny are
there the reality comes
in batches of
sorrows and
regrets and then the world
having taken what it
wants from you, soon,
excludes you
it closes the door
takes away air, chokes you
and then
you are gone for good
the world opens its doors
again
to populate itself with
innocent people
fooled into desire and lust
and then
finally expurgated into
the depths of
hell.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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When The Lord Closes The Door
(kinky friedman & jeff shelby)
When i find myself alone in my house and in my head
And i blow the candles out and i take myself to bed
And i'm old enough to realize, ah, young enough to know
When the lord closes the door, he opens a little window.
When sleep closes my eyes and sends me searching for you
And i'm feelin' blue as the sky without your love to carry me through
And i'm weak enough to be afraid but strong enough to let it show.
When the lord closes the door, he opens a little window.
Baby i'm a gypsy boy, i'll ride the night until
I come to you like moonlight through your raggle-taggle window sill.
When you find yourself alone in your house and in your head
And you blow the candles out and you take yourself to bed
And you're old enough to realize, ah, young enough to know
When the lord closes the door, he opens a little window.
song performed by by Kinky Friedman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When The Lord Closes The Door (He Opens A Little Window)
(kinky friedman & jeff shelby)
When I find myself alone in my house and in my head
And I blow the candles out and I take myself to bed
And Im old enough to realize, ah, young enough to know
When the lord closes the door, he opens a little window.
When sleep closes my eyes and sends me searching for you
And Im feelin blue as the sky without your love to carry me through
And Im weak enough to be afraid but strong enough to let it show.
When the lord closes the door, he opens a little window.
Baby Im a gypsy boy, Ill ride the night until
I come to you like moonlight through your raggle-taggle window sill.
When you find yourself alone in your house and in your head
And you blow the candles out and you take yourself to bed
And youre old enough to realize, ah, young enough to know
When the lord closes the door, he opens a little window.
song performed by by Kinky Friedman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When I Sleep
When I sleep
Where do I go
I go where
The Blue bird
Is red
Where
Red
Is
Blue
In the head
And the door
Opens on
A red sky
When I sleep
Where do I go
I go where
There is no where there
And the door
Have eyes
To see
Its opening
When I open
My sleep
I am there
Where I am not
And blue drops
Into a red pool
When I sleep
All my theres
Open in the head
And the door
Is blue
And new
And opens nightly
To a where
When I loose
Myself
To all my
Blues and reds
You may think
That I am dead
In my head
But I am much
Alive
When I sleep
Where do I go
I fain not to know.
poem by David E. Patton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To Holy Russia
The door creaks, as she opens it
and the fall of the heavy iron latch
echoes through the empty church.
The atmosphere inside, this cold cold day,
is heavy, as such holy places are;
locked now at night; heavy,
with what? Anticipation; presence; memory
of all the human emotions
that have passed through them?
There’s still the clinging promise,
the fragrance of yesterday’s incense;
it could be a midnight cedar forest
in its dark wood-scented mystery.
She lights a candle, drops a coin
slowly, as those do to whom
each coin has a meaning.
She is small, shrunken as the aged are,
wrapped into roundness against the cold,
yet neatly; today there’s an extra sense of purpose
about her walk towards the glittering
gold ikonostasis –
is it the anniversary of the day
her husband perished in the labour camp?
Or the day her son died fighting
so that such as she might live,
to mourn him, proudly, all her life?
Or was she, is she, that unmarried, once famous
junior lecturer who lost her job
for speaking truth, whose students
carried her shoulder-high and placed her
on the tank outside the university,
challenging its gun?
She kneels in front of the ancient ikon,
thick with gold; the ikon that tourists
note with brief glance as ‘Christ’…though when painted,
it was known as ‘Son of God’; now they call it
‘Son of Man’ – that seems to suit it.
She looks intently into His eyes
as she has so many times; each time,
a new day, asking what He has in store for her;
asks as intently as its painter: praying as he worked,
that He might come and fill the painted form
with His eyes, His heart, His soul; all that He brought to earth
from That which sent Him…
She looks into the eyes of the ikon –
or does the ikon look at her?
In some other world, there is mighty sound,
perhaps a word; the air is filled with soundlessness;
there’s fire that burns forever; great waters flow
like grace itself; new earth is watered.
She sees, in some great where between
herself and all things, love that cannot be measured;
mercy that can only explain itself with itself;
grace that’s only to be known; her heart
opens itself to her soundlessly;
all is revealed to the seeking heart.
The candles flicker in the draught; the door creaks,
and the heavy iron latch echoes
once, in the empty church; the Son of Man,
as an old woman, wrapped against the cold,
steps out into His kingdom. A few snowflakes;
a pale winter sun. But look into His eyes.
*
(revised)
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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August 1914
What in our lives is burnt
In the fire of this?
The heart’s dear granary?
The much we shall miss?
Three lives hath one life –
Iron, honey, gold.
The gold, the honey gone –
Left is the hard and cold.
Iron are our lives
Molten right through our youth.
A burnt space through ripe fields
A fair mouth’s broken tooth
poem by Isaac Rosenberg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Silent Hardworker
he arrives
one hour before the desired time
opens the door himself
without his aide
opens his computer
and tunes in for
some jazzy music
then to something
classical
he goes to the sofa
takes the pillow
and lays his head and
then he closes his eyes
this he does
privately inside
his office.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Black Bird Winging Its Way Inward
that early morning
the door opens and you
hear the rush of steps
going out of the house
the gate opens and
closes once again
and you
find yourself enclosed
in your freedom
of thought again
transforms into a black
bird
stretching its wings
to the breasts of dawn
and then
without so much hesitation
fly away again.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Behind the Iron Gate
Behind the Iron Gate, we saw so many different things.
I saw the crazy-paving path, you saw the wrought-iron wings
stretched out across the lintle, o'er the blackened double door
a welcoming of angel's warmth, a refuge for the poor.
I saw the march of tattered dandelions of neglect
the next door neighbour's foliage, Leilandia, I suspect.
You saw yourself some years ago, a paint brush in your hand
Nothing boring in restoring distant memories, so grand.
A few decades, a few decayed and teetering on the rim
last vestages of childhood and the days we spent with him.
A stranger with a thousand tales who swore that none were true
Behind the Iron Gate I peer, and wish I saw the same as you.
poem by Hola Mentirosa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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One stop shopping; A Nightmare
A man simply waiting outside for the right moment till the electronic door opens.
But it's a public holiday and he knows nothing about holidays
As he's nearly senile.
He holds a chit prescribed by a famous doctor who practices in a lunatic asylum.
He waited there until tomorrow
And when the door opens he rushed inside.
He gave the prescription to the counter.
'I am sorry the capsules named 'Happiness' is out of date Grandpa!
But I can provide you a substitute named 'Sadness' a sugar coated pill.' A young salesgirl said.
* ' The time for bickering is over' The President insists.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears by voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and eat with him, and he with me.
quote by Jesus Christ
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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