Iron Poet #6

penweapon

Iron Poet #6

Style / Meter: Any
Theme / Keyword: from the point of view of a warriors weapon

In honor of upcoming American Independence Day celebrations (July 4th), Iron Poet contemplates what it takes to become, and stay, free.

Freedom, most often, is won by the sword. Iron Poet would like to free the writer and allow any style of poem. Challengers are asked to create something from the point of view of a warrior or soldiers weapon. What would the sword think of its employment? How might a cannonball feel as it flies through the air to its doom? What is the report of the M-4 in Afghanistan really saying? Iron Poet asks that challengers be reasonable in the length of their chosen style / meter.


Johnna Murphy

“Lexington Report”

I didn’t want to start a war
Being shot from a musket is what I am for

My report rang loud as chaos unfurled
Some said it was heard around the world

Alone and forgotten in the grass
Wondering what will come to pass

As I listen to cries of “liberty!
But how can I help to set men free?

When being shot from a musket is what I am for
And I think I was used to start a war.

—–

Jacob O’Neal

“On A Blade”

Cleave now to me, O sons of mortal men!
And cleaved to thus I’ll cleave thy foes in twain
For hearts shall quail when limb from limb I rend
So thirsting dance I ‘midst the carmine rain.

To Mars then let us sing the sweet refrain
Of death and dying, victory and song;
And what importest it, if –in the main–
Thou slayest thine own innocence with the throng?

O ne’er forsake the cause! There is no wrong
In brightest steel, in patriot dreams beguiled;
Though cost be made uncountable, march on
Unseeing that thou hast thyself thee killed.

So sheathed between thy shoulders, let me rust
Thy cleaving done, now lay thee in the dust.

—–

D Lee Cox

“I am a pointed piece of steel”

I am a pointed piece of steel
I have no function but death
I am cold and cannot feel
lest its the warmth of blood
and a dying breath

10 thousand years
mankind refines and finds ways to kill one another
of that I am a result
the vengeance of a brother against brother

I am no judge
Yet I am the sentence for the guilty and innocents
No guilt at my hilt for the blood I’ve spilt

I have no allegiance
I carry no prejudice
For your manifest destiny
your particular mission
your duty or suspicion

No innocence deference
No justice preference
Your intent gives me no pause
Your cause, your constitutional clause

Beat me into plowshares
Bend me into alms boxes
I can wait
Mankind will always hate
Its in your nature
You are that creature

——

Matt Henderson

#6

I was there by his side when he entered
and knelt in the shrine.
Bowing low, I could see that his master’s eyes
dined on my shine.

He was led to a table and
given a task,
What it entailed?
I could not ask.

I watched him for a long time and he was good
with his hands.
He was given a sword, and in a flash
he advanced

He made his cuts quickly, with
conviction and precision.
A natural swordsman, with instincts
for incisive decisions.

When he moved through the training and was done for the day
It started raining as he bowed and I heard his master say,
“There is one more thing more, that I need to see.”
And then again, I noticed he was looking at me.

He was led to a table, again for a task.
This time, I knew…there was no need to ask
Every movement of those hands I knew so well–
He was tired, but was he ready? I couldn’t tell.

No wasted motion, he grabbed me with skill…
The look in his eyes, was fixed firm like steel.
He glanced at me–shook me down and held me for the kill.
I wasn’t sure if he would do it, but I thought, “he probably will.”

He lifted me quickly, almost over his head,
Dropped me in an arc, and the canvas turned red
He smiled slightly…”Oh, that will leave a mark,” he said.
He took me in a circle and then he twisted his wrist,
I felt nothing but pressure and then it tailed off like a kiss…

He started moving me so quickly, I felt like the wind.
First I thought I was breaking, and then I felt myself bend.
He jutted and darted and slowly circled to an end.
He would raise me up again and lay me down easy–
He was spilling me with skill, and I started to grow queasy.

He was slashing in circles and boxing in squares
Every move that he made was quick, fine, and fair
Canvas taking on beauty, at least he would know I’d been there.
Then with a quick cursive movement, he turned me around,
He wiped me where I was bleeding and then he quietly put me down.

Then he smiled and he kneeled and he bowed once again.
His teacher chuckled lowly, and then broke into a grin, and said
“Same time next week, I want you to do this again.”
Then he added, “You must continue to write–for not to, would be a sin.
The sword was very good today…but you are better with that pen.”