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Iron Maiden
by Glenn CurrierWhat joy playing in this meadow
soft and moist with fresh grass
inviting me to tumble into its green bliss
where words creep up
like gray wolves
to a snowy crest
expecting something delicious
on the other side.
I love being devoured by them
as they seep through the hard thatch
of the routine normal,
pregnant with new life
tickle and tingle inside
like a runner’s high.
How long will it take
for the iron maiden of time
to steal the opiate moment
from this tender cloud
drag it notch by notch
with her second hand
robbing these firsts?
How long will it take
to stop blaming my muse
and make the moment
of my escape
from the iron maiden
to find me? 02/24/2010 Posted on 02/24/2010
Copyright © 2025 Glenn Currier
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by George Hoerner on 02/24/10 at 09:07 PM Tis the problem Glenn, it takes so little time we hardly know it's gone until it is. So grab the pen and don't let go. Keep these comeing. |
| Posted by V. Blake on 02/24/10 at 10:09 PM I love the play on "second hand" there. Very clever. Though, of course, I'd expect nothing less. |
| Posted by Charlie Morgan on 02/24/10 at 11:52 PM ...yeah, jus like that...an undulation of emotions spread over time--a constant of erosion of our temporary state...words will last longer than iron and tag along behind our souls, alas, our viscera is long gone...a mournful, yet spot-one of 'one' hill in our lives...and i didn't miss 'pregnant'...i smiled. |
| Posted by Gregory O'Neill on 02/25/10 at 08:33 PM You are a man of many wiles, adn your muse knows it. Excellent read, another poem worth the write. Thanks. |
| Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 02/25/10 at 11:48 PM I love the wolves expecting something delicious on the other side, these words that devour you. Fascinating last stanza and question. Thank you. |
| Posted by Quentin S Clingerman on 02/28/10 at 09:14 PM Always a refreshing look both at what inspires and what hinders us in poetic expression (or most of what makes up life). |
| Posted by JD Clay on 03/06/10 at 03:56 AM This illusive poem begs the question; who’s in control, my muse or is my self? To be eaten by the wolf is an intriguing thought but to be consumed by your own words is a major leap into the depths of true poetry. Good stuff, Glenn! |
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