Best Potters Poems
In the beginning it was dust
being tossed around in the wind with no direction
wandering for a home that could not be found alone
laid out on hot pavement dried out and seeking
then the rain fell upon, mending together to form clay
bringing forth a new life form
from which by itself was alone and dead
water shall be made available to all
which shall give the texture to work with
few will absorb into a ready substance
seeking to be like the lamp stand which set the example
washing away the stones which caused it to separate
the Potter shall embrace with guidance
pouring the perfect mixture on a solid foundation
for this new creation to be molded
for all has been brought forth to press on
Just as clay while being formed into his creation
will fall and try to go on its own
for it has no support within itself
and has to be known it can not do it alone
but he watches closely and with his hands
he continues to mold and patch all things right
for he knows its path and direction
for only by staying in the center of his hands
shall it be raised up into a finished product
set up to be baked by the fire to purify
which then can be filled with overflowing water
The Potter’s House
“1The word which came to Jeremiah from the LORD saying, 2"Arise and go down to the potter's house, and there I will announce My words to you." 3Then I went down to the potter's house, and there he was, making something on the wheel. 4But the vessel that he was making of clay was spoiled in the hand of the potter; so he remade it into another vessel, as it pleased the potter to make.” Jer 18:1-4 NASB
I refuse to allow my circumstances
To ever get me down.
My hope is in the Lord—
In the Potter’s House and his renown.
I put my hope in his word—
None of his promises will fail.
All His promises are mine—
Each one in all its detail.
I persevere in eager expectation—
For what I cannot see;
Believing God will deliver—
What is His will for me.
God is my Potter and my Creator—
His molding is sometimes difficult to take,
But I trust in His skilful hands—
A vessel of beauty to create.
Because I’m in the Potter’s House,
I should never be discouraged.
Even when the clay’s distorted—
I must heed his words that encourage.
He is the mighty Potter,
And He’s molding me each day;
Making a beautiful vessel—
From what was spoiled clay.
In eager expectation—
I look to the finished vessel;
God’s redeeming presence,
And the paint dried on his easel.
I submit to his daily molding—
Am prepared to cooperate.
His plans are so superior—
This perfect vessel to create.
Prayer: Father, I surrender my life to you. Show me your plans and purposes. Make me and mold me into the person you want me to be. I trust in You. In Jesus’ name. Amen
Copyright © 2009-2012 Maureen LeFanue
www.maureenlefanue.com
Like an intricate mosaic with just one missing tile.
You know something is wrong and has been for a while.
Surreptitiously working its way into your mind.
Not wanting to admit an illness, saying things will be fine.
The nightmares come first, wake up dripping in sweat.
Maybe see a doctor about it, but doesn't want to just yet.
Panic attacks, immobilise, their talons grip deep into your soul.
Forced to submit to the wretchedness of its filthy black hole.
Like many before, temporary solace is found in the bottle.
Swilling down the demon drink until over they topple.
When the foggy haze of drunkenes clears and the innards burn.
To be immersed in liquor once again they would yearn.
The pills, well they work to keep you sane.
Not to make you better but just to numb the brain.
Emotion is gone, neither feeling happy or sad.
I think I'd rather feel something, even if it's bad.
PTSD, reduced to an acronym all of its own.
R.Y.O.K, is the message to call someone over the phone.
A campaign of advertising, that will do the trick.
But the sufferer still feels no one cares one little bit.
Like the potters field from times of old.
Where broken vessels are tossed, that don't quite fit the mould.
It's a difficult task to bend down and pick up each shard.
Try to put a pot back together, it just seems way too hard.
From earth I came to his home
to be made into something from love
have his hands mold and shape me.
Ohh his love for the art he make
as the wheel spins around to shape.
Soon I will be admired by someone
but first I withstand the fire.
Oh what beautiful art of love
he makes with his hands as the guide.
Someday to adorne a table
for the people to see
or maybe a bowl for one.
My luster shall be brite
as the sun for all to see.
Ohh I can't wait to have my shape
made by his love
a masterpiece that's unique .
Wheels of fire burn at the potters hands and feet.
Sweet passion of mortared clay;
fashioned on a potters wheel to be carried away.
Lamps holden in wheels created as before you see.
Sweet passion of mortared clay;
fashioned on a potters wheel to be carried away.
Between the two a lamp moved promising today.
Sweet passion of mortared clay;
fashioned on a potters wheel to be carried away.
The potters eyes who hold mine created me for you.
Sweet passion of mortared clay;
fashioned on a potters wheel to be carried away.
In the hands of the Potter we are formed
Molded and shaped by his skilled hands
We are turned into vessels he can use
Some are ornate some are plain
But God uses each one to achieve his plan
To God each one is radiant
Beautiful and special
Strategically placed throughout
Creation to fulfill God's purpose
To complete his plan for us
As God's hand made vessels
We fill a need
Whether it's sharing the gospel
Or helping the poor
Encouraging the downhearted
Or just planting seeds
In the hands of the potter
We are molded and shaped
Not to set on the shelf
Or in some grand showcase
But to go into the world
And share with others
his love and his grace
Form:
Potters knead clay like a poet needs rhyme
trimmed to form, to be honored by fire
to much air weakens the clay
honing of the word is strength
with a heartfelt touch art garnishes time
A potter went down to the edge of the water
To ask of an otter a gift for his daughter.
Go ask the weasel; he paints at his easel.
His fees will be low; his currency’s diesel.
He didn’t have diesel; he took him some gas.
The weasel: offended; the convo was fast.
You’d best see the heron, but take him a fork;
He’s worn out his beak from eating pulled pork.
He found heron singing, but way out of tune.
Old heron laughed, “Pork? Not anytime soon!
I’m trying to spoon with my lady the stork,
But she says my croon needs a G tuning fork.”
You might see the beaver: a bit of a weaver.
Builds dams with sticks; that’s if you believe her.
So off trod the potter and down to the dam.
He knocked on the door; she called, “Here I am!”
He explained what he needed; she shook her head, “Nay,
For I fear that the dam’s sprung a big leak today,
Unless, by some chance, you have got some spare clay?”
Well, they rolled up their sleeves, and they both went to work;
That potter threw clay, beaver’s tail went berserk.
They tidied all up, and they sat down for tea,
And the potter said, “Why are you laughing at me?”
Cuz you’ve got mad skills, throw your daughter a pot.
Put on a nice glaze and she’ll love it a lot.
So the potter went home, and well, you know the rest:
With style and panache, he threw her his best.
And then he surprised her at dinner that night;
She squealed, and she kissed him and hugged him real tight.
I didn’t know what to get, if you’d like it or not.
After all, it’s just clay fashioned into a pot.
Oh, daddy, you’re silly; it’s not about the clay,
But the love you poured in when you made it today.
—————
H/T to Terry Flood’s Zoo-nado; sometimes, nonsense makes the most sense
In this world, we think we rule
that we're in charge of everything
ours is the control button we press
so for our own success, we cling
But this is not the true reality
for there is one in total control
the creator of all things the Lord God
he is king supreme over every soul
God is the master potter complete
taking us and moulding us for his fit
for being created in his holy image
this his purpose to clear us of our grit
This great God who is the Lord
is the potter that makes our mould
shaping and bruising us as he will
in his perfect will to shine as gold
So bow in worship to the potter
who perfectly knows what he's doing
for he uses all of our experiences
to mould us on work of renewing
(But now, O Lord, you are our Father;
we are the clay, and you are our potter;
we are all the work of your hand.)
Isaiah 64: 8 (ESV)
From the potters wheel to the kiln, hot
All for form, function and ugly not
A work of art must involve some pain
The work itself must vanity, not feign
The creator lives in his creation, good
The creation at times is proud and rude
Creator and creation joined at the wrist
Dare not, to the former, raise your fist
YOU and ME We---
Born-again Believers
We are the Potters Clay...
We are in working Process
to be made in the Image-of God's Likeness
As we are made
Born-again Believer = YOU and Me
You and me Live in Body
You and I have Personality tis your Soul= Mind--Will--Emotion
You and I became Born-again obtained Eternal Spirit within
= Process in the Works in makings of YOU and Me
We are in Process
when Time comes Eternity
Then That is when
We are made Whole
Praise Be to God Almighty
Forming us daily...
Cleansing us Free...
From all our Sins...
As God Planned us to be
With Him in Eternity
Come to Jesus
Form:
Thanks to the potters of chop city
for kneading us a keyhole peek
into a new green world dis-order.
Where all colors of the rainbow are represented
except for blue and the color of common sense.
A six block funhouse of
intolerance-
intimidation
rape-
assault-
extortion
murder.
A murder of dregs
descending on the naïve
and ideologues
where perverts and virgins
bump and grind like
dust devils and windchimes
until their weeping cherries popoff the vine..
A Mad land where the grown-ups feed their
feral children to opportunists.
A never-ending fools food fight
where rainbows collapse into
sidewalk crappers.
Many thanks to the potters of chop city
for showing us how to knead a flower
into skunk weed in less than a month.
From Potter’s Field torches glow
Reflecting names of poor lost souls.
Hapless, hopeless, poor and tired,
Stacked on each other in silent piles.
Searching for a pathway home
To find their loved ones all alone.
The torches follow long trodden paths
Lines of people finding themselves.
An island listed on no ones map
A place in time we can’t take back.
Out history lies crying here
Alone, together, in Potter’s Field.
A potter kneaded galaxies into shape
slapped on a thin layer of gravitational glaze
baked them in star ovens of varying degrees
lay sparkle to planet skin so all could see
lay sheen on the dream so dreamers could dream.
The potter's wheel eternally spinning.