Best Potter Poems
The clay goes round and round, on the Potters wheel
With gentle touches, and pressures he creates what he feels
One is a bowl for eating soup, another a cup for drinking tea
Each one is crafted uniquely special, showing his individuality.
Handled with care by the Potter, while still in a fragile state
The Potter continues to mold, until it reaches a hardened shape.
And then the formed handiwork, is set aside alone to dehumidify
Slowly one by one he is joined in like company, no need to cry.
And then to the kiln to be purified, tested in superheated fire
When they're out they are all polished, to a beauty that inspires
When the Potter's done with the clay, it becomes a useful vessel
We are like clay in God's hands, with our imperfections we wrestle.
Our weaknesses, our wrong desires, at times may overwhelm us
Our lack of faith, and hardened hearts, could scheme and impel us
To be used for ugly purposes, which were not intentionally made
We ruin our fragile selves, putting the haughty ego on display.
We know the Potter does not change his immutable eternal purpose
It is us, who must submit, to doing God's will, because it's worth it.
Let him mold you for an honourable purpose!
John Derek Hamilton November 11, 2015
As the master potter plies his wonderful trade
To mould the clay his design in his head is now laid
He shapes, he feels and he moulds it with care
The finished piece still in his dreams to be fair.
With his skill and inner eye he sees his masterpiece
But before he throws it, he needs to find inner peace.
His skill in knowing and loving and he has the knack
Making sure with any pressure his piece will not crack.
His piece is here, and now it needs to sit and slowly dry
Before it’s placed in the fire in temperatures so high
A worrying time for the potter, in the heat of the fire
Will his masterpiece survive and it’s his fervent desire.
But the potter with his skill has learnt his trade well
And his piece will survive so he needn’t’ dwell
All the love he has lavished on his masterpiece
Will survive all the heat, and will now bring him peace.
© ~GG~ 27/02/2013
The POTTER and I
As I prayed one day - I told my Lord,
You are THE POTTER and I am the clay.
Please change me anyway you want,
just change my life and make me new
again.
He told me - I don't like you - So I'm going
to break you up and in a beautiful new
glass you will be transformed - but in the
process - I am going to make you cry,
because through fire I will have to make
you go.
He said - I want a smile, when everything is
wrong. I want to have your confidence, in the
middle of a STORM. I want to hear a song
instead of your COMPLAINES and you will learn
to FORGIVE the ones that have done you wrong.
The POTTER took my hand and led me on my way.
He started working on me - a little everyday. The
process is not easy, but I am on my way and if
The POTTER stays with me - I'll be beautiful one
day...
02/23/2013
Written By Lucilla M. Carrillo
now there's a man who likes his food
now there's a man who likes his food
now there's a man who likes his food
now there's a man who likes his food
now there's a man who likes his food
now there's a man who likes his food
now there's a man who likes his food
now there's a man who likes his food
now there's a man who likes his food
now there's a man who likes his food
now there's a man who likes his food
now there's a man who likes his food
now there's a man who likes his food
now there's a man who likes his food
now there's a man who likes his food
now there's a man who likes his food
now there's a man who likes his food
now there's a man who likes his food
now there's a man who likes his food
now there's a man who likes his food
My heart is soft like fragile clay
To bend and move within Your hands
Emotions grow, then fade away
As life is changed by Your commands
For You alone, O Potter, can
Make usefulness from my weak clay
From dust and ashes You made man
You made me who I am today
And as You wisely fashion me
And I am changed by what You say
Unchanging truths You show to me
You leave impressions that will stay
And these impressions strengthen me
My clay is hardened–starts to stand
As You continue molding me
How glad am I within Your hand!
So blessed am I to be transformed
Into Your vessel, pure and clean
That all the wonders You preformed
Within me might be clearly seen
Jesus is the Master Potter
By Franklin Price
09/14/2023
Jesus, is the master potter
We, the followers His Clay
He molds us into shining lamps
Reconstructing day by day
He lays His hands upon us
Kneads and shapes us 'til we're done
He is the Master Potter
Who recreates us, He's the one
As cracks appear, remolds us,
Provides our structure with relief
Then fuels us, and lights us
To be His lamps that shine belief
He trims our wicks when needed
To even light the darkest hour
Leading others to salvation
His lamp has given us that power
He adds a globe of glass or crystal
To let the light burn in the wind
To guide lost souls to heaven
For since the garden, all have sinned
He cleans our globes when they have darkened
And our lamps are not as bright
And we doubt that we are able
To shine out believing light
If Jesus had not died for us
On that cross upon the hill
Would be no need to have our lamps
For other's nights, our lights, to fill
Huge hands extracted heavy red clay lumps
gleaned from Edgefield's argil soil,
placing it
upon the whirling wheel.
Fingers roughened,
he formed, shaped, with master skill
vessels fit --
massive stoneware pieces, usable, rare.
Sinuous liquid clay upon black hands
like tortured blood from harsh slave-beating wounds,
dripping down dark skin,
branded,
cursed,
damned.
Unique old man, Dave,
a slave, literate --
in times dangerous for his kind to read,
he proudly displayed more than maker's mark.
In poems, quaint,
with shapely script, his creed
was carved upon the pots' serene shoulders,
then boldly signed with his own name.
Yes, "Dave" was inscribed
for the eyes of all beholders.
Forty years he worked for his white owners,
longing, like all enslaved, for freedom, dear.
He lived to see emancipation's dream --
perhaps never knew an accolade sincere.
Six foot under, unmarked,
no one knows where old Dave the slave
lies buried.
Sure enough,
his perfect pots are still discovered:
both he and they
were diamonds in the rough.
© Faye Lanham Gibson, June 14, 2014
Dave the slave lived near Edgefield, South Carolina, and crafted
some of the largest pottery pieces known. He was literate and signed
many of his pieces with his own name and also included on some his own
short poems. His pieces when sold command very high prices.
Judge not by features ...
Freedom comes in many forms,
Even ... an old sock.
The Potter, drenched in his noon-day sweat,
Sat hunched, cursing his fate;
The Clay which he fiddled with now
And the wheel he made to rotate,
Found him saddedned by a thought--
Saddened by his inward urge:
Should he make two separate
figures?
Or should they be merged?
Straining softly his fingers, first
He carved out a beautiful girl:
She thought how worthy she was made--
On her toes she did twirl..
With another piece of that clay,
The Potter's hands so swift,
Carved-out a man--a handsome Prince,
To be her Worthy gift...
The Sun drenched already the life of him,
And fused it in the clay--
The God-like Potter who played some more,
Thought of it this way.
Now both of them, kept in the Sun--
She'd dance and he'd play...
Soon love came-in at first sight,
But these pieces of clay,
Fell into a trap of envy and
Began the struggle to live--
Both knew of what is their's to take--
None ever learns to give....
Meanwhile the Maker, seeing them crack,
Frowned in great dismay,
Quickly picked up, merged them both
To a single ball of clay:
He thought again, what went wrong
And spun the wheel anew
'Should I make a single figure
Or should I remake the two?'
The Clay, still spinning in itself,
Knew It wanted none;
'Let life of Strife be not mine,
Pray let me stay as one....'
All will pass away
Test of time lay unendured
Potter too is clay
12/19/2014
Contest: East Jesus
Sponsor: Roy Jerden
"Yes, it's in your head ..."
"But why should that not be real?"
We are as we THINK.
Flying on a broomstick, taking the Knight Bus
Arriving on the platform without any fuss
Visiting Warner Brothers for a fan was a must
In the magic and the mystery we all did trust
A Wow! As we entered the magnificent Grand hall
As soon as we saw it, we knew we'd have a ball
Dumbledore's Office, Boys Dormitory
Waiting to unfold in every wonderful story
Wands a waving, spells in the air abound
Excitement growing, a blast as we look around
Special effects, spectacular impressive artwork
Spellbound mesmerised with every little quirk
Swigging pints of butter beer sitting in the cafe
A trip along the cobble streets of Diagon Alley
On to Pivet Drive, letters are a floating
We hear the steam engine puffing and gloating
And finally we leave the trip admiring J.K. Rowling
Recommending to you all, as it lovingly leaves you glowing.
For two dear to me, to have and to hold;
for me, to meet new friends,
new family behaving like old;
for them, a joy I hope never ends.
These two treasured, named without naming,
he ever the Robot and she ever the Potter.
Towards each other on that day, as all, aiming,
with eyes wet and heart's flames burning hotter.
Their love they declare in private as they choose,
but on that day, 'twas for all of us to see -
not the whole world, not on the radio or the news,
but in the eyes of the law, the loved, the lucky we.
For the reprieve and the revelry, honor and hilarity,
for the memories new and old, I thank them greatly.
For the two who've found true love, that romantic rarity;
for the Robot and the Potter - together, innately.
Who is this boy?
Harry Potter.
He is a teen wizard,
From the school Hogwarts.
Harry has two best mates,
Ron and Hermione, each other they hate.
Ron is a wizard, Hermione a muggle-witch.
Its up to Harry,
To keep their friendship,
Smooth without a hitch.
Together with Albus Dumbledore,
They rage a war,
Against the evil forces of,
Dark Lord Voldemort.
Voldemort has a sorry past,
Though was an orphan,
He stood as tall as a ship’s mast.
Voldemort’s real name is
Tom Marvolo Riddle.
No, he’s not just any boy,
Playing his fiddle.
Tom looked for power.
He attained it with forces that were evil.
He tortured an innocent boy’s parents to insanity.
The boy’s name is Neville.
Ginny is Ron’s sister
And a friend of Harry and Hermione.
There are Dean and Seamus,
Best mates they are,
Also jealous of Harry’s scar.
This is a short summary of Harry Potter,
Created by J.K. Rowling- THE WONDER AUTHOR.
"Not my daughter, you ... !"
Never cross a mother bear ...
If her name's "Weasley".