I am crushed by the shape of what is missing.
I remember being here before in the quiet—
carrying the weight of rust and neglect—
encased in the void of a vanished world,
bleak as unturned steel.
The house I served is lost to the grounds,
demolished, bitter, left to its own decay,
reduced to a whisper of distant awe.
The beams that once carried warmth within
can no longer support their mangled frame.
Yet this brass still drags my resolve to belong,
heavy as a foundation of bricks and stones,
insisting that survival is something to endure.
We believe life’s splendor must be clear of stain,
but absence is a shadow you cannot ignore.
You are gone—you have been gone for years—
still your presence lingers, a voice in the woods;
louder than the machines that tore you apart.
Through the lingering stench of diesel and turned earth,
Memory is an artisan, bringing forth from shadow to light,
crafting its art from discarded planks.
I turn the key one more time in the dark—
And the phantom door opens.
ARTISAN Ah SEH!
Gone wah Passed, Light Clean wah come,
Awake wah Seen, Open Inside wah Feeling,
Time wah move, Fear wah beat,
Won wah cune , Joke wah curse!!!
Artisan ah seh,
God wah good,
Blessings’ Golden, Glitters nah shiny,
Nah nuf wah seen, Pasted daily wah learn,
Obstacles nah Lucky, Angels wah fight
Moments wah wash, Devil wah run,
Artisan ah seh,
Light, Dark be shifts,
Amazing God, Living wah Go ,
Memories back wah unpack,
Defeated wah bad air, Currency wah Peace,
Mind wah Wise, God word, wah chapters,
Artisan ah seh,
Undug, hidden Gold wah strong, God wah Made,
Artisan ah seh, Spoke ah short, See wah Long,
Day ah new, Chaser wah Go,
Life wah flipping hill, artisan ah seh!!
Being a good artisan takes learning years:
Cum exposure to strange but desired art-
By which experience builds up what fault clears...
Different from rote learning which is by heart.
Here, learning is at will; at your own pace-
Where no one dares compel you to learning,
Unless you see the need to be in race...
With yourself to hasten time cum earning.
Being a great artisan takes sacrifice:
To detect ability of rare skills,
And make it functionally suffice...
Enough to standout; quality fulfills.
There, learning is by quests; tough to handle,
Unless mistakes light its guarding candle...
Having learnt the art from her mom,
Using hair rollers, the little girl
Wants to enhance her everyday look!
Holding a mirror in one hand,
And a mascara wand in the other,
She wants to give final touch-ups
To her makeup with utmost attention!
Her seriousness in her work,
And satisfaction in her face,
Tell us what she’s all about -
A perfect artisan at work!
Image Prompt # 3
3rd Place
Hands softened by diesel oil
Strengthened by daily toil
Scarred by physical work
Lie helpless while they talk
Softly of time and age and
The shifting of life's sand
The artisan listens sadly
Sixty years so badly wanted
Fifty nine years are granted
His life ends that terrible day
He has no reason to stay.
Artist creates
Handmade craft art
Great precision.
Strung along, I am a fool
Always working for others
Once branded a handy tool
Foot on my neck
Boot lodged for good
I barter and sweat
A soul without identity
I work and work
Free food and amenities
However no ambition for more
The days stretch together
A day's work leaves me sore
Trapped by a leash hand-sewn
Never in search for better
I could have done well all alone
A life of nothing, wasted among time
Perhaps I could've done more
If you ask, I'm doing just fine
Artisan from Kenya worked hard on my locket.
I thought I had lost it, but it was in my pocket.
Have had many compliments on this one-of-a-kind treasure.
It has gemstones of ivory, opal, and it shines beyond measure.
I doubt that I will ever meet the craftsman in this world.
But this locket is valued, the gemstones are swirled.
Artisan from Kenya, know that I love it ever so much.
I wish I could see all of your work, you have a magic touch.
Bits of what we had
Became unstrung, life then spun
Out of my control.
Then saw goodness of your soul...
Sadly cannot find them all.
primal atavism
northeastern artificer
climb coconut tree
Memory-the artisan
pasting collage to the mind
a slideshow of
highlights
lowlights
blistered frames with no lights...
lives in speed-of-light review.
A foxtrot of realist- impressionist
the mad-mad artisan
kneading frantic distortions
horrors
marbled
with
slivers of bliss
funhouse deceptions
a lavender and piss checkered mix.
Good memories are nothing but escape
on a leaky life raft
bad memories are dorsal fins stripping
the last fleck of light from waves of black.
Nothing really matters but the moment
that cold kelp tide that grips the chest
until it's hammered back into a relief of memory.
silhouette of touch
beloved-
lover's tender trace
MagiCicaga 13 Contest
howmanysyllables.com
August 14, 2018
she was an artisan masterpiece-
delicately full of mystery,
yet colorful and magnetic.
she drove me crazy,
like a charcoal etching in heat.
she was a silhouette of my existence-
craving to be one with...
no one else except me.
I knew nothing of love before her-
I only sought things that made me imperfect.
but-
she is perfection and amplitude all in
one piece of work of art...
and I am undeserving.
she was an hourglass,
longing for each grain to pass through her thirsty soul.
she was flawless yet messy,
mature and abundant in beauty.
I never knew why she chose me-
I may never realize my significance.
there is one thing I know for sure,
she brings light to my darkness and
sanity to my confusion.
her artistic creation has spoken... my soul awoken.
October 5, 2017
Lacy nights with tender touches, oh, how I crave your embrace,
for I’ve never known something so beautiful as you, my sweet-
I use my charcoal to sketch your silhouette as the light dims your face,
for my parchment has thirsted for the curves of your waist.
Tracing each crescent of your soul entices my longing taste,
for since the first glance you swept me off my bare naked feet-
I use my pastels to add hues of pink to rosy cheeks, so chaste,
for my canvas is but a distant memory I never wish to erase.
October 19, 2016
Across the table from an empty chair,
I sat and tried to sound interesting,
She stood so close and we discussed ice cream,
And Cornflakes, and bourbon, and the art scene,
The fact we both have lived in bungalows,
We had seen each other twice before this,
The second time was in a crowded hall,
In a house with a Latin band playing,
I never asked her about a fourth time,
Because wouldn’t that just be so cliché,
She smiled at me again and left me there,
Outside of the artisan ice cream shop,
Across the table from an empty chair.
Michael F. Lewis
02/03/2013
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