Best Ceramics Poems
They made mammon somethng measurable, mighty, & magnificent,
everywhere that labor, exchange, & entertainment exist monuments
to money, large and small,
the genesis was excess manufacture
such as grain, gold, textiles & ceramics,
animals & people,
purveyors were born like corn on the cobb,
like mist in morning,
buearruacracies of religion & government emerged from the basic business
of buy & sell, structure was supplied by law & covetuousness,
the greed of need,
people enticed to sell their Spirit in the form of toil for products,
eventually for fiat currencies, profit took the place of contribution,
slavery evolved into serfdom,
from the plantation to the factory unproductive owners needed managers,
individuals with minimal compassion & maximum ambition, essence extractors,
the whip replaced by the 'write up' and tacit threat of poverty,
the iron chain supplanted by hopelessness of ignorance in limited training,dependency,
management believed in synergy,the kind that rewarded the few
at the expense of the many,
the river of Life tore into the irrigation of wealth for selected heredity,
bussinessmen want employees & citizens with low self esteem, shallow interests & passions,
economy as cosmos, profits as pieties, workers as sinners,
edicts of 'minimum wage' and requirements for age are simply Market stabilizers
implemented to ensure profit,
taxes a financial plan of slave paid for regulation,
the management caste, the sociological strata designed to keep laborors feeling underachieving,
crows squawking against crows so that dragons fly free -
J.A.B.
Among broken ceramics, old doll clothes, and books
Was a tiny trinket of the past no bigger than a half dollar
Bringing a rush of long kept memories into my heart
I held in my hand the dog tag he wore hooked on his collar
I can still see the little girl’s joy the first time she saw him
Black and white mutt, a shelter dog rescued
He quickly became the most coveted family member
Needing a new home, lots of love, and some food
I can feel the warm summer grass under my feet
As we used to run around the yard every day
Snapshots in my mind of his ball, bone, and bark
How he would curl up behind my mom’s legs where she lay
We saved him from a most unfortunate fate
All those very many years ago
He taught us patience, caring, and total devotion
It was hard for us when we had to let him go
His tag I held dear in my fingers once again
It was something my parents had long ago tossed
I recovered it, as they had one day saved him
For this moment in time to find what could’ve been lost
Sweet memories of a cherished family pet
Brought alive again for my heart’s pleasure
A tiny item of such unknown significance
I’ll hold dear forever, my secret treasure
Making Breakfast
by Edmund Siejka
We live
Where trees
Reach out
To shade
A quite place.
Saturday morning
Chores
Kids still asleep
She moves effortlessly
Cracking an egg
Then another
Adding seasoning
Stirring
A blur of movements
A flick of the wrist
And breakfast is ready.
She is the Mistress
Of the house
The kitchen
Is where
We have dinner
A chance for us to
Share and
Talk
Listen to our kids
Ask questions
And grow.
“Where is the salt?” I ask
Morning sun
Gleaming
On my wife’s
Soft brown hair
Just brushed back
Warm sleep
Clinging to
Every corner of her dress.
The woman
Who says she loves me
Puts up with me
Stands
Arms folded
Leaning against the counter
She is the only one
Who can say
“It’s right in front of your nose
Where it always is”
I look sheepishly
The ceramics twins
Smile back at me
In shiny silence
Knowing that without her
I wouldn’t have breakfast.
They’re out there
in their walkers
timeless stalkers
shuffling along
uncharted seas,
smiling at the
commonplace,
frowning
at the wind.
Grey clouds
of drifting age
content to meet
old shadows
holding court
on park bench seat,
practicing
the principles of peace.
gazing at a future
now in reach.
Do a little
shuffle dance,
kick a stone,
blow a kiss
to memory
and walk alone,
know the joy
of aging’s antics
because
it’s either
this
or
ceramics.
John G. Lawless
11/17/2015
…from as far back as I can remember I have made, “things”. I remember before I began school, at my grandmother’s home in Detroit and working at her kitchen table, where we would spend hours together drawing, coloring, cutting and gluing shapes, making things. Once I began school, Catholic nuns complained to my mother that I was always drawing. My books were always covered with my drawings. Friends would ask me to draw this or that and they would watch me. My father had skills as a draftsman and he passed his training on to me. My mother developed an interest in ceramics and I remember watching her paint the pieces before they were fired. My older cousin, Ron, had skills in painting and drawing. I loved visiting with him to see his latest psychedelic paintings that covered the walls of his basement where he worked, as the MC5 blasted on a record player. A particular memory from the fourth grade stands out in my mind. A teacher invited her artist daughter to visit our class and during her visit she gave us an assignment that consisted of a sheet of newsprint paper that had a single green mark on it and instructed us to draw something that began with this mark. Each student’s sheet had a different green mark. I recall being excited by the challenge of the assignment and dove into it without hesitation! My finished drawing consisted of three one-eyed clowns surrounded by balloons. She gave my work much praise for its composition and color and I was thrilled that a “real” artist acknowledged my ability. Her recognition determined my life course. I would be inspired by other teacher/artists throughout my education, but none so affecting as from this chance encounter from the fourth grade. Art has been a constant in my life ever since.
(a love poem for my son)
Dreams spill out of sleep
sift across the hardwood floor
covers the window
in colors of May
slamming me back towards childhood
or perhaps just to the ashtray.
One forged with labor
in elementary school ceramics;
patient fingers size up,
roll the earthen clay,
pinch it to perfection,
this unusable object
is made with skill,
crafted uniquely for my father.
A tribute greater than mountain carved faces
monuments of life’s reward.
Baseball camps, tee-ball games,
selfless Sunday morning catch,
sitting in question
understanding Auguste Rodin,
your etched piece of history
proclaimed in this ashtray.
The long afternoons,
bedtime stories,
day dreams of musketeers
tree-forts and bandaged knees,
wisdom contained in a receding hair-line
without the restriction of bookends.
This is your medal
placed with vigilance
impatient in time
yes, a five pound ashtray.
Reflections of your accomplishments
schematics of fatherhood, fired
painted with magnificence
useless to anyone but you.
Standing at the door, a lone sentry
hands outstretched boastfully,
here is your prize
an ashtray!
The reception of kings, grins of rum soaked pirates,
you calmly seat me down with the tale of tradition,
rite of passage
generation to generation,
the tribulation of the ash tray
passed from father to son.
Thirty-something
as I lay in bed
the warm morning symphony
shines bright upon my medal
like a polished chrome hood ornament,
I too have taken my place
among the tradition of the ashtrays.
Mosaic beauty upon a canvased mind -
Abstracts' thought of two;
Spiritually carving an essence defined -
Sculpture's alluring view.
Model charisma, transcendent panoramics -
Chiseled utopia, kissed;
Shapes sexing and molding, sealing ceramics -
Tracing mystiques', blissed.
Embossed lines erect, curves aligning -
Signature beings, weld;
Engraving couplet, trademark entwining -
Crowning bijou, held.
Marbled terra cotta knows statues' Arcadia -
Concrete and clay conceive;
Porcelain angel now lives in Fantasia -
All set in stone make believe.
© March 2013
By profession I’m an artist
In ceramics and in paint
Where with talent, flair, devotion
I create modern and quaint.
Some time back I was invited
To exhibit in Milan
So I worked in clay and managed
A good abstract, with elàn.
Finished touches to perfection
Could not be more right than this
[that’s unless it needs comparing
With pronounced marital bliss!]
My ‘Blue Nude’ was done and ready
Fast approached the special day
When my work of art would proudly
Be presented on display.
On the eve my phone starts ringing
It’s an urgent call for me
So with haste and trepidation
To the “Arte d’Italy”*
I go straight in yellow taxi
And rush in to see what’s wrong:
There, more abstract than true abstract
[to cut short a story long]
Lay my masterpiece in ruins
Many pieces, broken parts
On the floor deprived of beauty
A disgrace to all the arts.
I let out a cry of anguish
And my friend curator came
With big smile of satisfaction
Said: “You’re welcome to the game!
Just a little joke, amico,
Now at last we’ll call it quits
I’ve been waiting to get even
Pay-back time:) I’m thrilled to bits!
I planned this to every detail
And then got you to come round;
Your ‘Blue Nude’ is in that corner
As you see, it’s safe and sound.”
[* to be pronounced: ar-te-dee-ta-lee]
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Author: Paul Callus ~ 29th March 2014
Contest: I Was Right
Sponsor: Verlena S. Walker
Placing: 1st
It was the last room, that she laid in;
Warm to the touch, in that instant;
In within the blink of an eye;
she did flown, fled flied flown;
unto the bosom of Our Lord;
Room full of ceramics, porcelain;
Colored dry walled olden wood laminated floor;
laying down rested, blessed look like she was sleeping;
Like in a family reunion house full of children;
Yet non breath, vessel full of stillness;
It was the last room, that she laid in;
Spirit has left her she has flown;
Cool to the touch now she's been gone;
In within the blink of an eye;
she did flown, fled flied flown;
unto the bosom of Our Lord;
It was the last room, that she laid in;
vessel body flesh dead, body laid still on the floor;
Yet her truest self gone on to be with the Lord;
Cool to the touch now she's been gone;
In within the blink of an eye;
she did flown, fled flied flown;
fly soul fly spirited freed to the sweet by N by;
In within the blink of an eye;
dead to the world, yet alive in spirit;
It was the last room, that she laid in;
laid on the hard wooden vinyl floor body dead;
It was the last room, that she laid in;
It was the last room, that she laid in;
5/1/23
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2023©
Kaolin ceramics shelved for display
A framed mirror suggests a window into time
Fortifications in a continuum surround this fortress
Inside a Southwestern style is secured
Bulldozing nature for architectural delight
Rich in warm tones and textures of stucco
Baroque oval portals lead into substructures
Endearing pine stripped.....stained to perfection
Strategically placed beamed ceilings finesse
Whitewashed antlers hang above a fireplace
Not a hunters home but a setting of one once known
A water well stands with an antique pump
As an unyeilding sun drenches the broken claylike ground
Genuinely revealing a life long past
In Beautiful New Mexico a Southwestern home is found
~This was inspired by Brian….and his Cameo piece~I hadn't used or seen the
word KAOLIN in some time...and it reminded me of the west....hence, I used the
word first and went from there~
3/21/17
A stagnant
Fragment
Beside a magnet
Found placed in an outdated
Basement
Sitting adjacent
To something ancient
And makeshift
An area with stuffy air
Was here then there
Going up the stairs
Some of which needed repairs
Went past several chairs
And a kitchen table with a bowl full of pears
Then was put into a box with wares
Left there with little thought or care
In a box that was square
Was out, and now inside the house
In a room directly across from a couch
There was no company, not even a mouse
Just sat there collecting dust, in large amounts
Years later, was cleaned with disinfectant
And inspected
Passed the test, and was still kept with other treasures and relics
Anything else that was defective
Went where the trash was to be collected
As the light rays shone, other objects became silhouetted
Then got carried up toward the attic
Surrounded by other items, some of which were ceramics
The rest was mostly fabrics and plastic
Here life was less than climactic
Eventually broke through the roof
Faster than a dog breaking loose
Near and far from any spruce and newts
Intended to always stay in touch with ancestors and roots
While in pursuit of the absolute truth
By looking for more than proof
By: Dalton Ogletree
It's a final sale, no exchanges, no refund; grab anything that you like...
all items sell for a dollar or less, even grandfather's four-wheel bike.
Over forty two years I have collected transistor radios, vinyl records, ceramics dolls
and plates with famous faces on them...oh, Debbie from The Wizard of Oz enthralls!
I am making room for new furniture, and must get rid of them...
it's sad to give them away when they offered much excitement!
In those boxes and crates, you'll find many commodities...
soap bars, bathing towels, curtains shower and perfumes.
Take a look at some funny clothes that I wore in my teens: tight blue jeans,
wool sweaters, cowboy's shirts, boots and hats, trying to look like sexy Elvis!
Browse and find that item you couldn't afford...is it Marylin Monroe's furry shawl?
If the final sale is not complete by early evening, I will draw a winner to take it all!
My thumb crushes the soft clay, pushing a single fingerprint into the malleable surface.
I take the clay into my hands, rolling it into a ball, methodically wiping the surface with water.
I jam my thumb down the center, and I increase the crater, using the tips of my fingers
To create a bowl.
I wipe away the cracks with water, strengthen the surface with well-placed slivers of clay,
Connecting the pieces.
The surface becomes as smooth as a glass mirror,
And I wonder,
As I wash my hands clean,
How many of my problems could be fixed with water?
In a loose constrict
In what I am doing here
It occurs to me
A commonality
Between a Cat Lassie
And a Potter sometimes in a Frock.
It must be understood
The different characteristics
Of admire, aspire and inspire.
The inventor of the lavatory
The wheel, the motor engine
The meteorite mother of us all.
All I admire.
I exist, my feet are not sore
And it’s not too shitty anymore.
Ghandi, Mandela.
Wilde and Woolf.
Bowie, Simon but sorry Garfunkel not you.
The list goes on
I admire them all
To their brilliance I aspire
In listed order
In pairs -
Their selflessness set an example.
Their words are my education.
Their tunes are exhilarating.
But maybe because I am lazy
Only twice I have been roused to action -
Inspired (In the loose constrict of what I am doing here).
A Cat Lassie singing her heart out
Past the shallow
Acceptance of age and aesthetics
Being key to a dream.
A Potter sometimes in a Frock
On topic – shark in a tank
Cracking the consensus
With champion ceramics.
There is the commonality
Of the Cat Lassie
And the Potter sometimes in a Frock
Both inspired me
One to make a start
T’other to keep going with my art.
© 2016 Margo Cami [www.margocami.com]
Let me tell you what had happened
When two children's day had darkened
Home alone, fed up with Communism
They decided on some Spiritism.
Naughty brother and his sister
Started chanting a tongue twister
Shaking, dancing,twirling a spatula
Air head kids called evil Dracula
Goose bumps and a lot of laughter
Ended session... Guess What after ?...
As night descended on the "counting sheep"
Fate decided to take a strange, big Leap:
Radio and TV turned on
Sleep, peace and quiet all but gone
Colorful ceramics smashed into sand
Only my brother and I knew that's Grand.
Sunshine erased the real nightmare
But next night I lived in despair
A man stopped in front of my balcony
Raised his hat, saluted me politely
Do you wonder what's so creepy
And why I became so weepy?
I am a poet and I'm not a bore
But all of us lived on the thirteenth floor...
A lot of years have passed since then
Thank God for this contest and pen
If questions would arise please don't be shy
I'm willing to respond ...and laugh... and cry.
Written for the contest on Paranormal