Best Craftsmanship Poems
THE DOLL
With Mona Lisa wiles, unfurled.
Her porcelain lips with tight grip.
A button dress antique and pearled.
Her glass eyed threat.
Unnerving doll — she’s quite a trip.
A poignant face, pompadour curls.
Her long stem rose replaces whip?
Alien smile out of this world —
impenetrable craftsmanship.
I broke in pieces as she hurled
her glass eyed threat.
6/30/2019
When reading poetry, I like to see
clear imagery! I don’t like things obscure,
for if a poem lacks lucidity,
it’s like I take my glasses off; words blur!
I’m no good at puzzles; I want to know
the poet’s message! Oh, my mind will drift
if all I see are words like whirling snow!
My spirit does not often need a lift.
Good poetry can be both dark or light.
But most of all, I like it when it’s smart!
The use of metaphors and words not trite -
poetic craftsmanship. . . now that is art!
Smooth-flowing – whether it’s free verse or rhyme -
is poetry to which I’ll give my time!
Dec. 13, 2019 for Line Gauthier's 'Fave' Contest
“The broken pieces of our heart like shards of glass are difficult to be glued up. It needs great care and craftsmanship to mend it.” ~ By Poet
The night stood,
veiled like an assassin.
Leaving aside the unfinished works,
she curled into bed, tired.
Thoughts once dead,
like spirits, from another world
came to haunt.
They threatened to lacerate her,
in the stillness of the night.
Gagged by those ferocious demons
she choked for breath.
Chained and handcuffed,
she couldn't move.
Should she drink to the lees
the dregs of the bitter potion?
She couldn't wink an eye!
She heard someone asking
'Why should you keep alive
the past in an album
and turn its pages every now and then'?
But...she couldn't help......
Like serpents uncoiling,
memories came.
If she slept, they would strike.
So she kept staring
into the awful darkness broken and wide eyed!
O’ Jealousy
SORRY FOR THE BROKEN
LINES- EACH SINGLE
LINE ENDS WITH A
COMMA.
O’ Jealousy how
wonderful You are,
You sow the seeds of
hatred,
So deep,
Often even,
In an innocent
heart,
That friendship,
love and sympathy,
Began to seize
slowly,
By the charm of your
tempting arts.
You create doubts,
To watering the
plants of hatred,
Which slowly grows,
On the fertile land
of mind,
But soon,
Its roots began to
find,
Their pores,
In the soft corner
of hearts,
And then one day,
It takes into its
clutches,
Even the most
liberal part of our
hearts.
I salute thee, O’
Jealousy,
As you live in every
heart,
And began to show
your colors,
Irrespective of age,
regions and bars,
In every land of
this Earth,
Even high in the sky
and the heaven,
You live and bloom
in every season,
You move from one
end to another,
So swiftly and so
fast,
Without the
formalities,
Of any permission,
And without the need
of any pass,
No sky can limit
your boundaries,
No heart can torn
you apart.
No one in the entire
universe,
Has the power to
make you stop,
Sooner or later we
all succumbs,
In the traps of your
alluring arts,
How beautiful and
catching,
You weave a story,
To trap the poor
hearts,
How magnificently
you wait,
For the prey to play
in your hands,
And to see its great
fall,
While singing the
same tune and songs,
Which you have
weaved,
Through your master
craftsmanship,
For the poor soul
and hearts.
For this reason,
I salute you,
O’ most beautiful
jealously,
As you are a
beloved,
Of everyone’s heart.
Please be merciful
on me,
And leave me without
your shines,
In my heart,
In lieu of this,
I promise to praise
thee in my arts,
O’ jealousy, how
wonderful you are.
Ravindra K Kapoor
Kanpur India 30th
Aug. 2014
Note: "THE BROKEN
LINES MAY DEFORM THE
POEM
WHICH OFTEN HAPPENS
WHILE PLACING THE
POEM
ON POETRY SOUP" Hope
this technical
problem would
be checked by the
Poetry Soup Team.
Ravindra K Kapoor
31st Aug. 2014
Whatever the offerings of time may bring
Whatever song my heart chooses to sing
On life’s small pursuit I shall meditate
Elysian splendor around me, I appreciate
The simplicities of pastoral living unfurl
I’m graced in your stellar light, a cosmic pearl
Serene contemplation, moments well spent
A transcend of intellect, I pursue contentment
Humbled, a mochila drapes my shoulders
Now weightless, old tomes heavy as boulders
Once laden with Maslow's hierarchy of needs
The cause of sight itself as Plato laid the seeds
Streets of an unclean soulless city no more
Once blemished and ugly as a repellant eyesore
Until this vacant shell had found release,
acceptance paralleled an inner peace
A new perspective can only see the beauty
of the craftsmanship and the ingenuity
On this celestial hike I embrace “carpe diem”
A lesson learned in this hour spans a millennium
The power and value of each moment
however brief, I walk along as an exponent
Unfurling love that rids me of my emptiness
Colloquially speaking I have found happiness
Mom has always loved antiques
I have never asked her why
Perhaps it's the connection to the past
Maybe the craftsmanship
The smell of ancient wood
The curves
The fact that they were built to last
She turned a passion into a business
A few small pieces in her living room
A sign on a door
Interesting how businesses are born
Bob there by her side
Together building on her dream
There once was an old sawmill
Where men had worked with their hands
Hard work had its demands
Each one did what he could
Their strength remains
Locked within the wood
Those same hands had built mom's home
Over one hundred years ago
Time dripped on it didn't slow
Mom's home became the perfect place
To celebrate the past
Her home and business
Built from things that were made to last
The business grew
Taking over the home
Visits from patrons
Calls on the phone
Busy all the time
No space for them to be alone
It became time
For them to expand
They looked to the future
The life they planned
Built on their historic land
A new addition built from old wood
Soaring ceiling
Above them stood
I remember the beams
Spectacular
From an old barn hewn from fir
Lifted on Bob's wide strong back
Formerly they had been just a stack
A one of a kind home
Filled with love
With bedrooms and landing up above
The kitchen was the centre piece
A place to gather
Filled with love and peace
Love of the past
Hope for the future
Has alway been a part of her
Together melded and celebrated
As a result I appreciate
The solid
The values
The ingenuity
Forever engrained in my blood
My respect for the old
My admiration of antiques
Remnants of the business still remain
The building sold
Mom loves going to auctions
She still sells at local Antique Markets
Sadly Bob has passed on
Thankfully mom has moved on from her sad
She too is made of stronger stuff
Not unlike
Her beloved
Antiques
An old poem and this one is about old things.
For Broken Wings' contest. Written April 13 2013
From once lush green, vibrantly alive
This dorsiventrally flattened leaf never dies
It's fragility, nursed to allow ~
Such patience from the artist abounds
By blade and pin such creativity thralls
Again, it's decaying membranes reach out and touch
From the tree of life, this leaf lives on
.
Written about the craftsmanship of Omid Asadi
whom creates amazing Art from leaves.
Boundless Blue
Born in a misty rainbow,
Blue slips out from her place
between her sisters Green and Violet,
painting the heavens azure,
covering the earth like the robe of Virgin Mary.
She floats into the ocean in a navy dress,
then waltzes on waves of the Danube.
Sailing the teal waters of alpine lakes,
she journeys to glaciers,
leaving her daiquiri-colored footprints on glacial ice,
taking some with her to cool the fires of Robert Frost.
She treads into meadows and gardens,
planting delphiniums, lupines, hydrangeas,
bluebells, and cornflowers to sprout in her wake,
with morning glories to climb fences.
People copy her free spirit,
painting their china in Delft and willow patterns,
sing “Blue Suede Shoes,” “Blue Velvet,”
“Blue Moon,” “Blue Hawaii,”
even play “Rhapsody in Blue” on their pianos,
blow their cobalt glass, dye their denims,
even their ice cream and candy.
They try to capture her lapis, turquoise, and royal sapphires,
pressing them into frames of silver and gold,
hanging them on chains.
She smiles at their craftsmanship,
then saunters down the path to the forest,
seeming to sway to her own swingy music.
With only her blue tick hound trotting beside her,
she picks wild blueberries, savoring the tart fruit
as its indigo juice runs down her fingers.
This poem was inspired by Meenakshi Raina's "Optimistic Orange". That poem is a great example of how fun it is to write about and personify a color. I encourage the rest of you to try it!
Contest: All Yours (May 5)
Sponsor: Brian Strand
5-5-21
~ Frost
by
design
~ delicate,
crafted in the night,
dainty — like lacy handiwork
~ inspirational, like twisted wire, a story told —
details meted out behind heaven’s door, with peculiarities that we adore
~ O
please
inspect
windowpane
crystalline effects ~
~ seraphic white silver and gold —
the finest craftsmanship, twisted with Eden’s treasure ~
filigree beads of angelic hoary-breath, reminders of the invisible God
~ Rime
clings
to soil,
inspired world —
embraced by cold hands ~
fragile tendrils spread like ivy,
intricate cherubic smithing — like spider webbing,
subtleties sensational, O how it sparkles ~ seasonal diamondiferous earth
1/24/2018
The Magic Of Three
Sponsored by: Broken Wings
Fibonacci (8 lines) x 3 = 24 lines(pattern- 1 1 2 3 5 8 13 21 syllables)
a hand swooped down to
firmly hold the ancient building
to root the architecture
to preserve the craftsmanship.
an artistic marvel
human and angel
earth and heaven
merged as one.
Poetry time
Every line chimes
Stop on a dime
A buck for a rhyme
What’s a meta for
Similes are, like, a bore
A terzanelle’s attractive
Tho a villanelle’s more proactive
Witches vex trochaic pentameter
Curse iambic HEXameter
Traditionalists eschew free verse
Blank verse is that much worse…
Romance, a hackneyed chore
While humor is adored
Satire rates high too
Tear-jerkers ~ boo-hoo
Poetry time
Elbow grease and grime
Lines sparkle and shine
Craftsmanship sublime
Originating in the ‘Iron-Age’, they stand
as living history; a testament
to the craftsmanship of men of yore
built by hand, each stone
strategically placed one upon another
no mortar holds them, and yet
as our lands circulatory system
of boundaries
they’ve stood for centuries
arteries and veins of dry stone wall
flowing across the fields and hills
of the countryside
that is synonymous of rural England.
This is my dedication
I am legend, so just push the start
I will save your family, so just call me Noah's ark
A pause on time as they show gratitude to the craftsmanship
1970 they created me, randomly introduced companionship
I transported the elite, by the way I still do
Range Rover was the name they gave me, so I said I do
It's been 44 years, V-6 or V-8, it maintains the same philosophy
I personify admiration; we read while it's in motion your Autobiography
Oh I forgot, HSE and Supercharged are other alternatives to what you can call me
Each with its legendary design and trim, okay enough about me
I send this invitation to honour me by occupying the rear seats
Yes, the Executive-class individual rear seating, those seats
Offering grand motoring while you show off your wealth
Those who pursue me grasp my worth
My capabilities engraved and stamped off-road
I reign supreme as they make way for me on the road
Take a bet; you can't go wrong with the horse power I possess
6 or 8 speed with pedal shifters, I ask you to regress
Allow me to grace your eardrums with the Meridian sound system
View what lacks around you with a surround camera system
I represent the fourth generation but my history remains intact
I had a conversation with my sister earlier, Evoque, she's compact
We agreed that we are timeless, absolutely classical
Should we pass on, our images are imprinted, just absolutely magical
Form:
Old Watches
by Edmund Siejka
Of all the watches at the mall
It’s the old watches I like best
Antiques hidden in the back
Away from the brash newcomers
Rolex and Tag Heuer.
When I was a kid I watched grownups
On early mornings
Carefully turn the watch’s small button
Winding up its tiny moving springs
Bringing the watch back to life.
In those days there were no quartz parts
The old watches
Were marvels of human ingenuity
And old fashioned craftsmanship
Encased in brass
Tiny springs and miniature wheels
Moving together in synchronized harmony.
My old watch still works
Moving effortlessly 360 degrees
Past the 12
Down to the lowly 6
Marveling at its resiliency
That this thing,
This very old watch
Handed down to me a long, long time ago
Still keeps time.
Every so often I bring the watch
Back to the jeweler
Holding the old timepiece in his hand
He would solemnly say
“They don’t make watches like these anymore
The young prefer I-phones
To tell time
That’s technology for you.”
Each day
More and more of the old timepieces
Are lost or forgotten
In bedrooms where Grandparents
Kept family documents
In dark dresser drawers
And faded photos
Graced night tables.
Where are the old watches now?
Why just this morning
A practiced hand
Was needed to tenderly turn a watch’s small button
And gently nudge the old timepiece back to life.
‘Tis a wondrous bit of structure,
Literature is indeed
And from this, an insightful glimpse of culture
Truly marvelous to read
Lest we negate such writings, these we overlook
Nay, treasure these works of fine penmanship
These that have been structured by true finesse
Every page of every book
Is truly something of craftsmanship
Certainly more, but never less
Oh literature, how you’ve stood the test of time
And many trials you have faced
You have no preference, be it free verse or rhyme
Every work is something of beauty, and not merely haste
Ay, ‘tis exquisite writing I do sincerely cherish
Writing that shall never decay
For mankind is bound to cessation, this, not known to writing
Man will see finality, but ideas shall never perish
Truly, a notion to live by each day
Words that are surely inciting
Language lends inspiration to the mind
This we transfer to paper by pen
Such moving words one labors to find
And this process, we repeat again
But what is in literature that which we seek?
Is it the sophisticated nature of such diction,
That of probable bombast?
Truly we have intentions both mild and meek
For such articulated words are surely not that of dereliction
Thus we discover a divine afflatus from edifying writings of the past