Best Crafting Poems
the crafting of clouds ~
blossoms, plumes and mosaics
embellish the sky
8/16/2018
In the wake, in the rubble,
I search for who I am.
After pain’s trouble,
how well can I stand?
I’ve long sat in debris
with no clue for company.
Please, hope, talk to me
so faith might walk with me.
I need out of my head,
away from all not said.
Tired of my feelings,
I search for their ceiling,
but I only bleed ~
nothing ceases my bleed.
In the wake, in the rubble,
I search for a new face.
After so much waste
how should I craft her ???
There’s need to shape
my chipped remains
into designs aligned
to best serve my
remaining lifetime.
Shall I mold pain into wisdom,
focus my eyes truth aware
or
keep this scorched heart form
with eyes colored forlorn?
Her hair flows in long waves of aqua,
she watches as it trips and falls,
splashing across rocky terrain.
Mother Nature breathes upon the waters
and the caress is cool to those
living beneath the falls.
As she touches the rocks,
greenery spills grow from her
fingertips in many hues.
‘Neath skies of periwinkle
and cotton her crafting fills
the land with vibrant life.
ekphrasis
Five glasses filled with brew but only two in kind;
the bread is toasted lightly, portioned just for four.
Although the background’s hazy, something rests behind,
dim splotch of green? a clue we may be out-of-doors.
A meeting of the minds? just what shall we assume?
Simplicity. The toast and drink, an easy fare.
It seems the palate lacks variety, it’s true;
be careful, but move past the concrete things in view.
Which guest will do without the toast or maybe share?
Perhaps this scene’s a prompt not meant to be consumed.
Imagine artists gathered round, with tools all set,
each marking what he sees upon that butcher block.
A not so simple task, the brush and palette used
or words in lines employed so meaning is infused.
The artist/writer spinning thoughts which can unlock
the core of what is seen, our appetites to whet.
written by Reason A. Poteet
written 18 April 2015, for Giorgio's Ekphrasis 01 Contest
http://www.poetrysoup.com/poetry_contests/member_contest_details.aspx?ContestID=6243
On the point of mountain Kilimanjaro with my paints, pencils, rulers and brushes looking at the entire Africa. Many pictures of more than fifteen millions innocent christians Congolese killed in the wars
from 1996 to today
and the World is so silent.
On my first drafting big board, dead bodies of innocent children, men and women who were killed cruelty
in different massacres and genocides.
Painful to see how many girls were raped to death and students burnt in the class rooms in different rebellions
in the East of Drcongo
and the World is so silent.
On my second drawing big board, describing the second World war from 1940 to 1945 which killed less people
than those died in Drcongo.
How some world superpowers fight silently
in Drcongo because of minerals resources
and innocent Congolese continue to die daily
like innocent Ukrainians.
On my third drawing big board, ninety millions christians congolese screaming for peace daily.
some overseas masterminds who continue to finance rebellions through some neighbours
of Drcongo and ( traitors ) few Congolese rebel leaders.
Oh! This cruel world, where millions of innocent folks
killed because money and powers.
Apprehensions in thoughts may form a labyrinth,
and like a cipher open up to become a plinth
but still the belief beholds to achieve what is imagined,
Though in a fog,the wanderer still feels attuned,
Let it be light or the approaching darkness,
but it isn't a mirage showing its absentness...
The people who waded along aren't lost,
As they too were finding a purpose, when their paths had just crossed
So continue the walk to paint the complete picture,
As like the dreams, the clay of life would build a monumental structure.
A superpower some claim it to be.
Turning yarn into a cardigan or doily.
Click clack go the needles in a flurry.
Beginners wonder why the hurry.
“Onto the next project!” we say.
Although we started two more the other day.
Knitting and crocheting plenty of squares
Ready for the Yarnbomb, we’ll put it out there
On the nursery gate right by the road.
So much pride in ourselves we might just explode.
Off to craft club - show and tell.
Looks like that one didn’t come out to well.
Christmas is coming, prepare for the fayre!
A table is booked to sell our ware.
Hours of toil until we fill with glee
Hearing the words “Isn’t that lovely!”
We are crafters,I know,
We do things row by row,
We'll do housework at the end of this row,
We said that several hours ago!
a shanzi
Having a job
does help pay the bills
after hours, writing
brings great release
from stress and strain
of business woes
and parent pressure.
My poetry
gives vital structure
to inspiration's
transient brain.
Rhyme and meter
like lightning rods
stabilize my dreams.
June 24, 2012
Writing organizes my endless thought.
Worth disappears when considered unclear.
The writing lettering is a threat brought.
Writing organizes our endless thought.
I deem that human form is all I've got.
Understand every coin has two sides here.
Writing organizes my endless thought.
Worth disappears when considered unclear.
Written: May 09, 2023
Scored, stained, painted, washing, squeezing.
Profound fingers duly pleasing.
A perfect sign is not one’s goal.
Crafting a masterpiece of soul.
Basic colors, silver and gold,
Sprinkles that touch wet paint, behold.
Cathartic stressing’s console.
Crafting a masterpiece of soul.
A maverick or dependent.
Assured it will be resplendent.
To each his own creed of control.
Crafting a masterpiece of soul.
The group imparts a tenderness,
Rubbing elbows of cleverness;
And pondering time in fishbowl.
Crafting a masterpiece of soul.
All eyes on the “perfect” signage.
Does such have a great advantage?
Peculiar go down rabbit hole.
Crafting a masterpiece of soul.
Still, the simplicity of cream;
And chocolate Easter bunny’s dream,
Won’t be held in one’s cubby hole.
Crafting a masterpiece of soul.
Scored, stained, painted, washing, squeezing.
Profound fingers duly pleasing.
A perfect sign is not one’s goal.
Crafting a masterpiece of soul.
“The flight of butterflies designs in gloomy mind the collage
of ecstasy, framed by the beauty of life” – by Poet
My ebullient emotion replicates the wings of butterflies,
fluttering on the rhapsodic ripples of the blissful breeze,
and before they all float away to the fading obscurity far,
stop designing for me a flying scenic formation of fulfillment,
I take my lonesome journey through the corridor of hope,
across the wasteland of despair, greening in gorgeous imagery,
or along the gloomy garden path, shining with garnet glitter,
splashing on the blooming saplings, swathed by sunburst colors.
I then perceive my mesmerized marooned mind unfurl in a trance
the receptive convivial canvas of superlative sensuality,
painted with colors of sublime beauty, crafting collage of euphoria.
A-uthor
L-ets
I-nspiring
C-omposition
E-mploy
G-reetings
U-nder
E-xcellent
R-apture
I-n
N-ame
C-rafting
R-egards
I-n
S-weet
T-heme
Topic: Birthday of Poetess Alice Guerin Crist (February 06)
Form: Vertical Monocrostic
Soul envisioning
Typing up a few pixels
Crafting tiny art
I
I could copy, imitate and duplicate
The words of heart-and-wordsmiths
O muse, help me rather emulate
The genesis of natal pedigree, truths
And touches of agape-Love
II
To speak of aging, arriving, mature
With shy eyes that blossom respect
Lips that don't intimate lust, adventure
But dependence on another pair yet
For air, their mutual sheltered Cove