Best Sculptors Poems
E Pluribus Unum ~ Out Of Many, One
[Author's note: E Pluribus Unum is a traditional motto of the United
States, but the scope of this poem is intended to be of a more global scale.]
We are farmhands, postal workers, we are rich industrialists
We are pilots, sailors, warriors, mathematicians, scientists
We are doctors, nurses, dentists; taking care of those in need
We are teachers, flight attendants, moms and dads with mouths to feed
We post blogs, develop websites, we are software engineers
We are athletes, video gamers, we're retired volunteers
We are dancers, painters, sculptors, we are actors on the stage
We are clerks, construction workers, pay for night school with our wage
We are high school educated, college maybe, or hard knocks
We are barbers and beauticians, drive a truck or work on docks
We are clergy, civic leaders, wardens at the county jail
Roll in wheelchairs, use sign language, wear prosthetics, read by Braille
We are bankers, tax accountants, proud grandparents, husbands, wives,
We are activists who strive to give our children better lives
We are widows, orphans, childless; we feel sorrow to the core
We are social workers, advocates of justice for the poor
We make music or just listen, sing out loud or softly hum
We are common, we are special, we are those who overcome
We are poets and songwriters, we write letters to our kin
Sharing stories of our life, of where we're going, where we've been
We are those with beating hearts, with flexing muscles, red blood cells
Kidney donors, missionaries, we help dig fresh water wells
We praise God in mosque or church, in synagogue or kingdom hall,
In a temple, or in nature, maybe have no God at all
We are from around the planet, we have skin of every tone
We have short hair, long hair, no hair, kinky hair; we're not alone
We esteem diversity; you value me, I value you
Always with respect for those who hold a different point of view
This, my dream: to be united when it all is said and done
Though we may not be there yet, we share this journey -
We are one.
Written 1 Feb 2022
she is an exquisite dinner
awakens taste with beguiling smiles
a platter of kindness
wrapped in delicate crepes
lips that promise
a selection of wines
set for any course you so desire
a delicate glass never empty
a macedoine salad
stolen from the garden
of some goddess
a bewitching soup
dipped from a cauldron
enchantment in every spoon
that reaches the palate
fruits that have come from far
and forbidden shores
an intoxicating sweetness that consumes
all of the senses
and finally the piece de resistance
what drove Greek sculptors to stone
she is sitting across the table
OKC 06/22
Cancer, you are an artist
A prolific one at that,
For several dear ones
Have encountered your work.
Your wretched fingers as sculptors
Design imprints of faces unknown.
You smudge white, pain-ridden clay
A little here, a little there,
Till your subject becomes amorphous.
But oh you are not finished!
A red cross encrusted kiln
Invariably cements your doings.
A surgery of crackling and burning,
Until the shape is spit out,
A hard shell lost of all dignity.
Satisfied with your creation,
You give it one last look
Before it rests on an earthly shelf
And another project is begun.
I am sad to say,
You are quite skilled at your craft.
Exuding purity, while honour bestowing
“Sampaguita” I am, my country’s national flower
Jasminum sambac --- such is my scientific name
beautifully functional with my fragrance
oozing through a branded perfume.
With my God-endowed economic potential
I’m sought to provide livelihood opportunities
since leis and garlands produced out of my being
help build-up entrepreneurs in our community
as well as growers, showing resilience and patience.
Modesty aside, I’m an inspiration to many artists:
poets exalt my sublime scent and accolade-granting petals
sculptors have me accentuated, like in my ceremonial torch feature
singers express serenade-lyrics, comparing me to a virgin
painters exhibit my adornment impact.
Symbolizing graceful simplicity and sacredness
my optimization is offered to the Almighty
Who blesses fully my sweet existence beyond survival bliss
as I yield to Him my all, while worshipping Him
with my biblical fellow flowers, rose of Sharon, and lily of the valleys.*
*Song of Solomon 2:1 I am the rose of Sharon, and the lily of the valleys.
February 2, 2021
Chosen image: "If I were a flower..."
1st place, "If I Were A (Flower)? Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Mystic Rose Rose; judged on 2/4/2021.
A monument to precious arts, a masterpiece you are
With imposing high Baroque columns regally looking down
Upon the dream of sculptors and vision of the Roman era
Evoking ancient memoirs from grandeur of renaissance.
Tickling your marble stature, foaming water giggles down
As you empower Oceanus on a chariot lead by Tritons
Beaming your glamorous sight on authentic ornate art
Dazzling decorative architecture for enchanted crowds.
When street winds bellow in, shimmering bright light-beams
In your stare you hold strangers, as they sing your praises.
Enhancing theme, Trevi Fountain, you arouse playful gleams
Flaunting your smiles upon glittering green water streams.
Splendor of Neptune emanates from your renown beauty
Granting wishes of the sensuous amorous sensibilities--
Seeking sea-God's blessings, they toss in two lucky coins
And in reply you echo their vibes: the wish was you and I.
June 15, 2019
Placed 2nd: Your choice (10) personification contest by Brian Strand
NOTE:
The Trevi Fountain is a tourist attraction located in Rome, Italy. The fountain is famous for its Baroque architecture and decorative ornate art. The center piece is the Greek sea God Oceanus (representing the sea God Neptune), riding his chariot pulled by two sea horses and accompanied by two Tritons. Throwing two coins in the fountain symbolizes romance. One coin assures return trip to Rome. Three coins symbolize wedding bells.
We were born with the gift of healing in our blood, we did not become healers along life's winding path,
We came as springs of solace, carrying the essence of healing like an ancient and sacred song,
Some of us are still searching for our deep roots in the soil of our being, discovering ourselves in the silence of time,
We came as storytellers, not by chance, but because we carried stories in our hearts always,
We are the songs of our ancestors, alive in every whisper of the wind passing through the vines of memories,
Some of us are still seeking our voice among the echoes of the past, weaving threads of gold and silver from history,
We were born artists, we did not become painters or sculptors under the weight of the world,
We came with art in our souls, we are rainbows woven into the fabric of life, vibrating with every color,
Some of us are still drawing our outlines on the canvas of destiny, seeking our own shades,
We did not become writers, dancers, musicians, peacemakers, but arrived as such spirits,
We are the symphony of creation, some still discovering their rhythm in the vast orchestra of existence,
We did not learn love along the journey, but came as love, we are the heart that beats eternally,
Some of us are still following the call, seeking to reveal love in every gesture, in every word,
We are explorers of the soul, sculpting reality with our bold and silent dreams,
As we seek meaning in the delicate weave of existence, we lose and find ourselves in the cosmic dance,
Like stars burning with pure passion, guiding seekers of truth along the paths of light and shadows.
Shish, don’t wake the dead!
The sculpted angel holds
Her finger to her lips and
Whispers..............
Lichens on her limbs attest
To the time she has spent
Tender breathing silence.
About the gravestone
Graver still, little trinkets
Rest; gifts that stay
Tranquil .
The silent scene is set
But in my mind I hear
The sods of earth upturned
By the diggers spade.
I hear the sculptors
Chisel chip marble
Away to reveal the
Angel’s skin .
I hear taught ropes
Slide beneath the casket and
I hear the sobs of loved
Ones in the breeze.
.........................Shish!
Lovers have each other so they,
will never have to be alone.
A king has his tall stone castle,
where he can sit upon his throne.
Musicians have their instruments,
and a singer will have a song.
Religions will have holy books,
to teach them about right and wrong.
The poets have their words to give,
the baker has a cherry pie.
The dreamers have their dreams to dream,
pilots fly their planes through the sky.
The artists have their paint brushes,
and sculptors have their marbled rocks.
Teachers have their eager students,
tinkers have their toasters and clocks.
People come in many colors,
and in every shape and size.
But I can’t help but wonder when,
we’ll ever come to realize.
It’s time we stop seeing the world,
in black, white, yellow, brown or red.
Each one has a different way,
of how their book of life gets read.
What makes us think that we are right,
while others will always be wrong.
Or that we will know the best way,
to tell people where they belong.
What makes me think that I can tell,
anyone how it should be done.
When I have so many battles,
with myself that I have not won.
We must learn to love and let love,
before we’ll ever really live.
We must stop taking a bit more,
than we’re ever willing to give.
Every person should be free,
to just let their lives go around.
But all I can see are people,
just putting other people down.
Sketchy Lovers
The only time we get to meet,
is when the artist renders on this sheet…
What a joyful event of a stroking sweet,
in black and white where our hearts do beat.
A creative moment has brought us here,
with embracing arms in this atmosphere…
While erasing of lead is all we hear,
perhaps in a thought, we may easily disappear.
For now, we stand in a lover’s stance,
feeling each other with a gallant glance…
They have us lost in a timeless trance,
will they sketch on further, is there a chance?
If only I could kiss you within this dyer dream,
in a masters painting making love near a stream…
Sensuous strokes brushing of a silent scream,
drowning in watercolors as passions steam.
Calling on sculptors to bring us alive,
to give our love life and not deprive…
Like Michelangelo's David in a sexual drive,
or be held captive within this rendering reside.
Oct.20.2018
Tell me a story Poetry
Sponsored by: Brenda Chiri
Placed 1'st [2'nd of 2]
Caerphilly is a small town
Famous for its cheese
Has a castle looks like its falling down
With a Moat around with geese
Outside now stands a large Statue,
It needed to be big he would boast.
Thats what the nature of this man
Big, but stupid loved by most
Its a statue of Tommy Cooper
Comedian a magician that fails
Wore a Fez as his trademark
Born here in Wales
The sculptors name is James Done
A great friend of mine
Has a wicked sense of humour
Smiling all the time
Jim isnt Welsh boohoo
Though he's lived here a long time
Regards himself as proxy Welsh
Though his accent sounds like Tyne
The day Tommy's statue was presented
Was done by Sir Anthony Hopkins no less
Who mentioned he would have loved
To have met Tommy in the flesh
Now it stands there for all to see
The larger than life comedian
Well done Jim your Bronze is f.c.
Can even be seen in *Torfaen"
The link goes directly to the Tommy Cooper site showing pictures of the statues. Mentioning James Done the sculptor.
Torfaen (torfine) is an area next to Caerphilly
f.c. First class
http://www.thetommycoopersociety.org/statue.aspx
Dated 23 January 2013
Seductively symetrical in form and presence
She calls it Eve, I call it sepia political
Aroused motherhood of nation, a glamorous sense
Of identity, modern and yet mystical
Naked as a morning, smooth as silk dreams
She looks back, not histantly, nor curiously
Profiled the hidden breast, in streams
Of provocativeness, the right hand assertively
Shouldered on the fallen curtain of hair
Lefting hand coming down where the stare
Of vulgar eyes would fall, stripped of history
But not of dignity, the umbilical memory
Cradlles a lascivious eye against the dark skin
Woman bounteous with beginnings, sister, kin.
Edna Manley
Eve (Ceremonial Dance)
Edna Manley (1900 – 1987) studied art at Central St. Martins School of Art in London
alongside fellow sculptors Henry Moore and Barbara Hepworth. Her artistic career began by
sculpting clay models of animals but she made her reputation as a wood carver. During her
life she became known as the Mother of Jamaican Art, and claimed that it was in Jamaica
where she found both her subjects and materials. The sculpture 'Eve' (1929) was presented
to the Graves Art Gallery in Sheffield by the artist herself in 1937. .
alone inside with me, less than inspirational
so look out for the more interesting folk
momentary excitement, the fiery motivational
beyond the familiar, to stoke and provoke
daydream departure from mundane conversational
adventures cocooned in my warm cosy cloak
cool charismatic characters, charming skills to admire
the wily wheelers, the dubious dealers
the mighty movers, the shuffling shakers, to these I aspire
delvers of science, the body-mind healers
frisky purveyors of seduction spray fuel to the fire
risky game chancers, the common sense stealers
suspenders of disbelief, poetic weavers of word
jovial jugglers of juxtaposition
addicted acquisitors, spinners shifting the absurd
fabulous fakers, deceptive magician
image presenters, dark or backlit, focused or blurred
sculptors of form, instrumental musician
composers of melody, glorious singers of song
whatever the stage, great performers of art
athletic achievers stretching stubbornly strong
rhythmic dynamo dancers moving close or apart
food-feeding salivators, their tasty pleasures prolong
delightful set dishes or delicious a la carte
whether imbibed on its own or in good company enjoyed
the brewer, the vintner, the masters of malt
innovative designers, architects of structure and void
the philosopher's stone, comfort-zone assault
insightful free thinkers, long-held paradigms destroyed
tall storytelling teachers without fear of fault
mathematical manipulators of numbers and code
quantum diving or high-flying to the stars
engineering fabricators, tunnel, bridge, rail and road
crazy drivers and loop-turning avatars
tinkering technicians, ecologists with wisdom bestowed
planners of protest, the remover of scars
inspirational givers, those with just the skill of their bent
empathy crossing over to be by your side
the meek, the afflicted, those who can ill-afford the rent
the refugee fleer from our wars worldwide
safety seekers, brave rational people with lives to augment
as we build indifferent walls... hope denied!
There are many things that make me happy in life,
but a day when I can go to the art gallery is the best;
I walk the many rooms totally lost and delighted with the art,
from room to room I view, Gothic, Renaissance, and Baroque;
how, I love the religious paintings, the gothic, and the mythical painting.
I adore art for it is like a beautiful story painted,
then I rest, have a bit of lunch, and after I begin again;
oh, the 19th Century, 20th Century, and a visit to Impressionism,
a peek at Abstract and Modern Art, and all the sculptors along the way;
and the amazing Canadian artists, always so very interesting and so colorful.
I linger with the Aboriginal Art and the Inuit Art,
for this art touches my heart the most and I dwell with it;
I take another rest at a lovely, tranquil water court and garden,
and in the very heart of the gallery there is a reconstructed church;
oh, there is a whole story about how it got there, but I am blissful tired now.
______________________________
April 14, 2016 (Edit)
Poetry/Verse/Narrative/Lost in Art
Copyright Protected, ID 16-1104-769-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Inspiration - The National Gallery of Canada
A pageant of seasonal beauty
Unfurls amongst deciduous trees.
Tawny leaves are edged in reds and golds,
Unique to Autumn's color palette.
Muse to poets, sculptors, and artists,
Nature inspires Jack Frost's masterpiece.
Color plays out like a rhapsody,
Of subtle notes in a melody.
Lacquered leaves, orange and cerise, fall
On the ground, below oaks and maples.
Raining down like wind-blown confetti;
Scarlet and tangerine commingle.
Autumn is like a magical sprite,
Riding atop colored canopies,
Elvishly inking the changing leaves.
Almond and magenta, interlace:
Magnifying their intensity.
And groves of birchbark trees resemble
Zebra, left exposed to Winter winds.
Intrinsically ostentatious,
Nothing, short of Spring, can rival the
Glorious spectacle, we call Fall.
*Image of Tennyson Cross, Isle of Wight provided by Pixabay.
Forlorn Hope
Poetic Form: Sonnet
Divined amassed, thinly advance their scope
bloodlines warrant one soul's intended quest
persuades enhanced history, constants hope
pastoral guides sculptors essence is blessed
Readiness spurs insights, smoothing passion
unforeseen tests that fool-hearted, not them
their unbidden stare on death's face, cash in
pushed e'er determined, tensing a rose stem
Unchecked horses, intrepid horsemen burst
barrage relents as foe feared those affirmed
lurked rears castle shadows most accursed
chance lights an afront darken all confirmed
Bold few opinions charged submits warlords
fruition won swords gained Heaven rewards
2021 May 08
*1st Place*
ALL YOURS (May 18): Judged 2021 May 18
~~Brian Strand
*2nd Place*
This or That, Vol 2
~~Edward Ibeh: Judged 2021 May 13
*HMS checked 10 syllables x 14 lines.