POEM

                                           IRONMAC  Written by Mike Siers

Well what can one say when we stay back to contemplate
Forty wake-ups and many more
Still in the hot seat, still at the med
But still...even then...

Iron is he who faces the long waking days
Watching the lights that creep through the window
Yet, like a master without eyes from old times
Could paint the world right from half-comforts of a ward.

A Picasso in Green some would say?
A Rembrandt --- a Monet --- a Degas?

All three and then some, this recorder says
As like a transparent aurora
Those fingers pluck into formless dreams
And out from the brush comes their perceived visuals
A great strike of colors and pastels
Flowing with that of the flare reality speaks
And that of his mind, scripting the world through his eyes

The masters should sleep well --- this Marine has taken point
From hard set backs, and days of great pain
There was only one thing that came to pass
And that was the ever slow and tedious journey
Back to an up-right march --- back to a newfound glory
A glory that could only be painted
By life's precious and most sacred of creations --- Humanity.

This is the painting that all must see
The ever fight against nature
The plight of the human, his hands and feet ---
An iron suit armed only with that
Of his seemly sneaky jokes and astute pronouncements
Glazed by the all-too humorous dignity
That is heir to men that have seen the steep mountains
And could only laugh when they finally tread to their peeks
Because once that glory is obtained --- ( he will tell you)

The rest --- down below --- is a winding, educating memory

So prop up your chair and take a seat
Flip through the pages of that he paints
Idle thoughts and cob webbed --- he is not
But somehow a mystery worker
Able to bring that of Paris and the Far East
In one empty canvas upon his easel.