There is more in the poet’s craft
than strings of words adorned in the trappings of poesy.
He sees beauty even in a simple thing,
unclothing it, giving it a new cloak,
and revealing the work of art trapped in its ordinariness.
His verses are not just exclamations
from a heart possessed by passion,
nor mere ramblings from a tormented mind--
both of which are of transitory nature--
but are precious moments
captured, distilled, and preserved
for what he hopes is eternity.
Like a doctor who discerns
every cell and tissue in the human anatomy,
the poet dissects thoughts and experiences,
breathes into them new life
and invites others to view them in a different light.
November 9, 2025
Among 3rd Place
Pen Something to this Prompt Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Sotto Poet
Type of lace
Accentuating fine attire or
Tattoos accessorizing skin
Each month a craft fair,
is held at Pyree Fields in the open air.
All the local crafters are there,
proudly showing off their homemade fare.
Behind each stall, a pair of eyes stares,
hoping you will buy some of their wares,
or better still, admire their works and cares,
in making things, every devoted crafter shares.
Step right up to the craft fair.
Baskets, blankets, knitted ware.
Soaps that smell like orchard rains.
Scarves crocheted from woolen skeins.
Leather belts, and rings of brass.
Goblets and bowls of colored glass.
Jams from berries, wild and tart.
Paintings brushed with love of heart.
Patchwork quilts and scarves of dreams.
Homemade fudge, sweets and ice-creams.
Pottery crockery with glazes that swirl.
Wind-chimes and vanes, ribbons that twirl.
Wooden goblets and bowls, timber-scented schmooze.
Wax candles set, in solemn rows, pining like pews.
All around, the crowds have streamed,
past stalls half-baked and well esteemed.
With every artist standing up so tall,
So sure their work outshines them all.
So let's not disappoint them!
Join in Folks! Cheers!
nimble fingers
crafting creases pleats and tucks
paper musings
Socrates to Plato
Emerson to Thoreau
When the student is ready, the teacher will appear
Invaluable lessons will be on display for him to feel, see, and hear
Ali to Larry
Jordan to Kobe
If the student is willing, he will do the valiant work...
He would rather not be the teacher; instead, he aims to show his worth
Picasso to Warhol
James to Michael____
Teacher to student
From shadow to lucent
Teacher to student
From unwise to prudent
A smart man studies and learns from the best
He knows and respects the work and readies himself for his test
origami folds
become a vessel crafted
suspect of high seas
AP: 2nd place 2025
A Beautiful Collection
Artistic. Brilliant colours. Dainty embroidery.
Fragile golden hues in jewelled kaftans.
Light multicoloured needlework on patchwork quilts.
Rich silken tapestries
Unusual vestments with xstitching. Yarmulke & Zucchetto.
(A lone voice speaks to a crowd of poets)
You do know everyone has their own magical style
A style filled with such wild illustrious promises and kaleidoscope's of such deep vivid depths
For in poetry
No stone is left uncovered,
Ranging from life to death
Whispers of love’s wild explosive adrenaline filled triumphs
Everlasting hope or altarpieces of self-fulfillment
Descents into darkness
Opening portals to dimensions of festive destruction
And at the core for the inquisitive
The Red Flag
The smiling frown
Up or down
The fire to ignite a curious reader's eyes to the soul
That really matters
Is the what
Why and guile
It's quite simple
It's why everyone has their own magical style
For there is no guide to the labyrinth of the mind
When you enter poetry's smiling black and white turnstiles
And line up to read or write
With so many other groups of people who are still walking or standing still in history
In single file
(C)
Copyright John Duffy
Don’t refuse the muse, she might not come again,
Though if she does, you’ll know not how or when.
As flighty as they come, here once, but too soon gone,
You must embrace the muse, however long she’s come.
Know the muse might stutter with her wily words,
All many-winged and flying, like the birds,
But what she says you must obey, you must take heed.
Respect the muse and she’ll inspire you at your need.
She comes and goes to open eyes and broaden thought,
Inspiring every artist with the spell she’s wrought.
Her beauty might be missed, though, by the untrained eye;
However hard it works, take notice, lest work die.
With open eyes and only then the muse you’ll see,
Though she might make you chase her, fleeing fleetingly.
If you ignore the muse when she runs through the fire,
She might not ever come again, there to inspire.
Don’t refuse the muse, her stay won’t last too long;
However sweet and good, short is her song.
But when she comes, with open arms welcome her back
And she’ll provide the inspiration you so lack.
Science they say
Is discovery
Poetry a craft
Properly put
An industrial Art
A genre of creative Art
But wherein
Is the place of the Muse
And wherein
Is the place of the Wordsmith…
In everything
And on a daily basis
I eternally thank God
That
Ohwojevwe Ese Ganiyu
Is a wordsmith
Divinely given
to mankind
by our creator
The dark spill muddied my canvas:
Made its mess, dislocated light
And thoughtful lines to the edges
While it claimed the center for spite.
It seemed like all was wrecked.
The time I'd worked nightly
To craft something perfect
(Or at least not unsightly)
Laid to waist.
A vision erased.
But then, I spied a photo of the original.
I thought it would be pretty, as a picture.
Instead, I noticed flaws so visible
They would lead a critic to stricture.
It looked off-colored or drab in places.
Contrived and technically bad.
Downright mediocre and graceless.
My memory of the thing had
Rendered more precious and dear
The plainness this new light made clear.
An impression most unimpressive.
The thing once grieved not worth its mourning.
No longer the crafter obsessive
Or wracked with yearning.
What a stroke of luck!
Now on to scrape the surface
Or from a new layer construct
An entirely new interface.
The choice entirely my own
Blank space for the unknown…
With no room left for you.
Crafts loves this is a mystery I see
I didn’t know I suffer the same fate
I too have a garden, mahogany
Vines twist rocks onyx and alabaster
Oaks and ember leaves in zeal flutter light
Azure sky cast a mirror reflection below
Teardrop in the serene meadow this day
Ripples it all a sepulcher tomb gray
I want to know beauty but lack the view
My breast beat is this and this is charcoal
I can’t write gardens like you, I lack hue
That’s why this place is a cemetery
At a craft fair, people’s projects
Proudly are displayed,
So would-be customers can stop
To see what they have made.
From jewelry to knitted hats,
To paintings, quilts and soaps,
The crafters eye each passerby;
A stop will raise their hopes.
I feel a little bad if I
Slip by with just a glance
And sense that if I do so,
I’ll receive some looks askance.
Yet if I show some interest
They’re prepared to make a sale
And if that doesn’t happen,
Disappointment will prevail.
I like to go to craft fairs
Though I often wonder why,
For I leave there feeling guilty
If there’s nothing I must buy.
An ethereal mist manifests in heart,
swirling around in a toroidal orbit,
causing rapture ignition within to start,
whereupon lamp of Christ consciousness is lit,
with all nodes in feeble form playing their part,
that betwixt bliss spams, we rise to the summit.
Magic at play continues to so replay,
until we see the light of Self, clear as day.
break the cycle
own my path
opinions bring power
believe in your craft
negative whispers
holding you back
wounded by words
is all in the past
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