Chisel bites, marble yields,
The symphony of grit and steel.
Sweat paints my brow,
A testament to the toil,
The labour that births beauty from the stone.
Yeah, it’s hard work, this crafting,
This sculpting, this… transformation.
But out of the chaos, a form takes flight,
A vision born of pain, a masterpiece in the light.
The world outside
A blur of noise,
A rat race, a frenzy,
But here, in this sacred space,
My heart finds its rhythm,
My soul finds its peace.
Hammer falls, dust flies,
A melody of measured blows.
In my tired eyes, a spark ignites
The joy of creation, the fire that never dies.
This is more than just stone,
This is a story,
A testament to hours spent,
Sweat and tears, and blood that’s been spent.
This is the joy of work!
The purpose that drives us,
The fire that burns within,
And makes our lives worth living!
So get your hands dirty,
Embrace the struggle,
The toil, and the pain,
Because in the midst of it all,
You’ll find the joy that makes life real.
Way north of the mind is where you'll find them.
A million shards of memories
trapped deep inside the blue ice
of a terminal disease called time.
Grab your flaccid chisel, old boy.
Try and rescue them if you must.
Release their lonely orphan cries.
Bore deep into their blue misty eyes...
Until hope turns to pyrite dust.
Bore in deep.
Maybe taste a speck of sea salt-memory.
What was her name?
The one who made you crave her everything.
The one who could knead a jester from a king.
From a quarter century ago...
with half a dozen other ghosts.
She arrives, cascading down
the icy rut of winter's blush.
Where you have no chance
to ever make her cut.
How sweet were the smell of wood and sawdust.
How pleasant were the sounds of,
chisel and saw which are now foreigners to me.
I can now only hear the thud of nail going deep into the wood of my cross.
The wood that I once cherished ,
has become a snare to entangle me to my death.
Yet I'll cherish it more as it will break your shackles.
The pride I once took in making tables and chairs ,
I will take in being nailed to the cross.
The crown of thorns I'll hold dear to my heart as it is your redemption call.
And at last my journey from chisel to the cross will be just a pleasant stroll.
Flame trees flicker on way into town
but nothing kindles their flames to excite
the sleepy town set in its dampened, dank frown.
All the folks lie barricaded behind trenches
of never to be forgotten fights and campaigns
about, noise, litter, dogs and fences.
'Smile and wave' the response to encounters.
Gossip and tattle-tail endless behind closed doors,
for everyone knows everything, and about everyone blabbers.
Nothing changes, nothing excites, change on timeout.
The town heart's pace is fixed on 'set in ones ways'.
Everything in its place, nothing to catch fire, the pilot snuffed out.
The flame trees bloom anew each spring
blinding weary drivers entering the town,
sparing them the sight of sameness, staleness, tedium within.
Familiarity
Can sometimes be
A chisel
That slowly chips away
At human souls
Stripping first the aura
Then splintering
The shiny, pearly shell
To finally bear
The red, raw meat
That often brings contempt.
Sandra M. Haight
~4th Place~
Contest: Pierced
Sponsor: Rob Carmack
Judged: 03/06/2015
Based on Quote: “Familiarity Breeds Contempt”
Written by Lucius Apuleius (c. 125 – c. 180) was a Roman Philosopher
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