Best Sculptor Poems

The wood was perfect.
Hammer in hand, he toiled.
Sweat trickled down his neck.
Her face was chiselled,
A perfect portrait:
The hawk-like nose, 
The high cheekbones,
The wide brow.
But not her flaring eyes.
They defied him.
In exasperation, he threw the lamp,
His only source of light,
And watched the wood burn.

In the deserted...

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molding
every word
with bare 
hands

putting
pressure
on every
letter with

thumbs
that have
their own
minds

shaping
vowels of
verbs from
action to

possessive
and never
using periods
to keep

the
viewer
always
looking...

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Glacier! Icy, cold,
hard. Diamond-like, it chisels
the frosty landscape....

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I feel Him chip away at my flesh.
The vibrations shake to my bones.
Pieces that were once part of me now fall helplessly to the floor.

Every scrape of the chisel,
Every pound of the hammer,
Every piece that is broken from me stings with immense pain.

Why doesn't He...

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the artist stills it's muse –pristine hands

                  19 Feb 2016
                  ...

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You have the hands of a sculptor
I am malleable clay ~
Shape me, body and soul
Mold my senses ~ sculpt my heart 
  Where your fingers touch me ~
  I am a candle, melted by your flame
...

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O
                  natives
                    who
      ...

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they 
say
that
life 
is 
but
a
shadow-
play,
and
we
mere
lines,
picked
out
by
the
light
of
day...

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Midday sun burns. 
An iron chisel plays
sad tunes on a stone.
He enjoys prolonged
                   chiseling.
The granite conceives
from his tool-point, 
giving birth to a god, 
who will be plagued...

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Chisel in my hand
searching out life in your curves -
A die hard spirit
reshaping the uneven
to unfold the Saga

(C) Anindya Mohan Tagore (Bobby)

...

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Sculptor, shape my heart

Carve some meaning in my life

Etch your name on me.

 

(January 14, 2011 Wausau, Wisconsin)

(c) Copyright 2011 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved...

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A sculptor sees in stone
What beauty’s not yet known.


April 8, 2014
for Nette Onclaud's "Just Ten Words" contest...

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I can build a new personality, like a sculptor shaping the clay of life,
But I feel the gaze of who I once was, watching me from the shadow of memories,
I try to bury her, but my hands weaken when digging deep into the past,
And I...

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Time and events chisel and shape our lives,
an unknown sculptor blue prints your life plan,
a knock here, a cut there, we think ‘not fair’
we journey along through ridges and lairs,
rewards flow in that we relish and cheer,
count our gains in terms of money we earn,
real...

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the angel on the mantel 
comes from an old wagon road 
that cuts from desert brush
into the burnished hills
where creosote breaks up and scatters 
at the base of the Chiricahuas
where Fort Bowie Calvary slaughtered 
Apache braves
where an old cancerous man treks
miles of primitive trail
into the...

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