Best Kiln Poems

Red, orange, yellow, white
 licking at the wood so bright,
Burns the flesh,
 charred bone colapes
 gone, melted in to the flames,
 As I burn to the last cell.

(After)

Bones of the dead, 
Diffrent by looks,
 but all hold the same story 
of the flames consuming them.
Body,...

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I can see the potter's hand when looking at your face.
Each gentle feature not by man could such a thing create.
I watch in awe as you sleep, this cherub from my flesh.
A most precious gift he gave to me he knew 'fore she drew breath.
I...

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here, nestled among jungled trees
vines, leaves, ferns
antiquated ceramics and miscellany pottery
the monstrously massive
the grotesquely hilarious
the intriguingly quirky
the familiar and the surprising

dusty congregation in somnolence
indigo, cornflower yellow, bone white
a delight, a mystery
a forgotten anomaly
a skip and a hop from the nearest shopping-insipid-mall

navigate the silent corners
up the...

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here, nestled among jungled trees
vines, leaves, ferns
antiquated ceramics and miscellany pottery
the monstrously massive
the grotesquely hilarious
the intriguingly quirky
the familiar and the surprising

dusty congregation in somnolence
indigo, cornflower yellow, bone white
a delight, a mystery
a forgotten anomaly
a skip and a hop from the nearest shopping-insipid-mall

navigate the silent corners
up the...

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Potter loves the uncertainty of process.
The way the fire-ash binds to glaze.
The irregularity of flame's touch.
He carefully stacks the dried spun pieces 
in a pile in the kiln, each piece touching,
separated by broken pieces of shell and wadding.
So that the pieces touching don't stick together.
Potter...

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Fragile
and tender pots
molded in the furnace-
mistakes erased,their beauty will
endure...

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Fragile,as a tender pot
He moulds us in the furnace
The fire makes our beauty last
Clean,glazed mistakes erased-
A new creation cast....

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Summon your demons, devils, and wraiths,
visit moments of hurt and loss.
Replay what might have been, wrestle with regrets,
Do “if only” scenes haunt your past?

I follow the faint ribbon of sand on Mackinac Island,
lined with sugar maple tree, aspen and lilac.
Wild lilly of the valley, its...

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I beheld them on the hottest summer of May,                     Are they bonded labours who lived in shanties?,       Yes,they were...

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We stand outside the inn
Arua is a kiln
We crawl back in
But we know no kin

Mungu ni mukee!
Bawls Pastor Paddy
From the inside of a robot
Mazarau's robot

When we look outside
and can barely view any clouds
We know this is no place
for normal sons of men


...

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