You've been searching for a craftsman to build you up with clay.
So I'll sculpt you with my love as I sit upon the brae.
I'll gaze up at the sunshine and talk to God; I'll say,
"Just what were you thinking when you molded her this way?"
Did you know that she—had breaks along her back?
Or when she feels sadness—her heart begins to crack?
Do you know her head—was hollowed far too thin?
There's too much room for thought; she keeps it all within.
Her feet have chipped from walking, her eyes—they see too much.
She doesn't even recognize she has the magic touch.
You could've made her stronger, at least along the rim.
Or maybe even built a smile; you could've shaped a grin.
You should've added color—a little sunshine too!
Maybe then she'd take the chance to see what she can do.
For now, I'll just keep sculpting;
I'll fill the cracks with love.
I promise not to change the girl or change what she's made of.
I’ll just soften out the sad parts, so that she can shine.
And one day she will know —that she was made just fine.
A shabby opaque stone, rough, dull and grey,
Hidden behind the veils, out of the way,
No sparkle bright, nor any fancy shine ,
But a rugged rock of an olden time.
With patience, diligence and loving hand,
A craftsman with skill, carves across the land
And comes out with a villege beauty so dear,
A shining diamond for all to cheer.
from a craftsman of heaven's domains ~ to a gardener of olives
Raised by his grandmother,
He understood the depth of life at a young age,
He delved deeper into existence as he turned each page,
Life was like a book before him.
He often asked intriguing questions,
Ones that made people wonder and ponder,
His mind was a blooming field,
Time facilitated the yield.
His grandmother told him stories about the night,
How it had concealed people’s light,
She told him about the mysteries that traversed its meadow,
And the treasures that hide in the shadows.
He dropped out of school,
His hands became his tools,
Penury wasn’t a setback,
His grandmother cried that she couldn’t support his education.
He stood like an Iroko tree,
His hope was as solid as a rock,
Although turbulence sometimes rocked his boat,
He had learned how to keep it afloat.
He was devoted to his grandmother,
He kept her teachings to heart,
He was desolate when she transcended to the beyond,
Life became a still muddy pond.
Gradually, he sailed across the sea of his grief,
He prospered in his craft,
He found love along the way,
Together they embraced both the grey and fray.
March 30, 2025.
He mended shoes for a mere pittance
His payment was your smile
A craftsman from another age
Pride in his work his going wage
One morn his light was off, his door closed
His customers wept, understanding
Never again would they see his like
The call of his craft daily demanding…
With golden hand
Craftsman creates
Arts beyond time.
Jumped down to save the battle hardened pearl made from heaven's dazzling greatness
Evenly spread and crucified the serpent of ocean's darkness
Uplifted the ships of dazzling light he crafted to be heaven's brightness
He could take what most found, in the time of that
Particular incumbent fashion, to be lacking in any
Pleasing or greatly passionate way,
And, after immersing it into low, blue flame,
Repeatedly beat upon this quivering mass as
If it were but a whitened molten lump when
Drawn from violent, torturing heat constrained
Deep within some smith's insatiable forge;
Seen there the blistered face, scorched forearms
Impervious to the fizz and burn of popping sparks;
Blackened hammer wielded by a gnarly hand,
The repeated raising; forceful, downward strikes --
High-pitched ringing chimes of metal on metal;
And him, the better craftsman, bent desperately
To his task, shaping something new and
Disturbingly strange...
While, amassed amid the silent roaring of those
Unremarkable fields,
An idealistic generation, readied, prepared to spill
Its hot, innocent young blood over a sea of
Flowering petals for the valueless ideal of an
Unworthy hour spawned by a vile whoring b***h
Before it slunk back into the lengthening
Shadows of a withering age.
God established the color of His children
Yes, we are all of God's children
Well, we are one big extended family across the earth
More than that, we are brothers and sisters, kinfolks to each other
Our skin colors are an evolutionary adaptation and process due to the environmental conditions that we dwell in
Meanwhile, in the Garden of Eden, every color possesses a natural beauty within itself, but somehow evil drifts in the opposite direction of the will of God
Thus, religion has played a significant role in propagating hate, slavery, and racism for control, profit, and power over mankind
Well, God did not create black and white people, thus He used humus (Dark, earthy, rich, black soil) to create Adam
Furthermore, God specifically made a rainbow race of people
no shade of black nor shade of white - just red-orange, blue and green and a little bit of indigo
Notice that a rainbow doesn't have the colors black or white inside of the bending arc across the earth.
In summary, God is a wonderful creator and thus a master craftsman!
This broken vessel leaked its bitter bile
from every spider crack of spiraling webs
damaged by a lover of careless means
refurbished by the hands of a master craftsman
who learned his trade in lonely liquid years of blackness
filled with empty bottles of blame
damp darkness dripping from his eyes
he honed his craft through sleepless nights
of reflection to learn the art of renewal
as he filled each crack with memories
then covered them in blown dust
from fool's gold
until he could forgive himself
and give his heart a renewed bounty of beauty
8/17/21
contest Broken Poetry
The cookies were raw, must be the salt,
The oven's a little bit broke,
And the cake didn't rise, flat as a tack,
Must have been a faulty egg yoke,
Maybe the hammer is bent at the head,
Maybe the saw is just blunt,
Maybe I need a new set of tools,
So I can work like a normal adult,
You see, each time I work to create something new,
And it doesn't turn out like it should,
I tend to blame the things that I use,
By saying they are simply no good,
But deep in my mind, in the silence of me,
I know why things don't end up like I plan,
I know it's not the tools that I use,
I know I'm a crap handyman.
There was a craftsman named Handy
Who used to a craftsman dandy
everyday day he'd make
a craved wooden stakes
and boxes shaped like hearts to hold candies
7/11/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2019©
With the skill of many years,
his aged hands move,
movement that years have made,
fast and sure that when young,
were slow and doubtful,
and thought years of practice,
when in each day he does again,
the same moves as always before,
and the same as tomorrows,
and day by day his skills improve,
although each movement may not be better than
the last,
in the passing of time,
he improves in all,
with his advancement in his skills,
his work becomes better,
and being better is worth more,
till it becomes a thing of beauty,
an article to live beyond its maker,
to become of value with age,
until it is priceless,
a thing of art forever,
to be looked upon as a ultimate,
to be known long beyond,
the death of the craftsman,
the man who made it.
Some shout no to corporate welfare
And spit on those who say otherwise.
Tax loopholes seem unfair,
To those who minimize
Their day-to-day and scrutinize
The monthly budget.
The craftsmen yowl this advice,
Be a Maker, Not a Taker.
An artisan lists out what's true and fair;
A list of various jobs and supplies.
To complete his family's share
Of fruited endeavors reprise.
The labor like clockwork unifies
The sons and daughters sextet.
The craftsmen sing a fanfare to canonize,
Be a Maker, Not a Taker.
The effort rolls on in splendor
Fulfilling and occupying their lives.
Each embraces the craft and takes care
To improve with each enterprise.
They learn new ways to devise,
A trio rhythm to the minuet.
Until their breath greets sunset,
Be a Maker, Not a Taker.
Years hence others apprise
The fruits of their labors sweat.
Finished works inspire others to reprise,
Be a Maker, Not a Taker.
CRAFTSMAN AVATAR
The source of what we perceive in the physical world
Is a question that exercises the wisest of minds
Nonetheless it seems, as nature is slowly unfurled
There's a pattern and form that speak of creation divine
So it is in the microcosm: this artisan skill
In the mind of the craftsman a new creation takes form
Then materials are forged with meticulous care to his will
Thus an instrument, object of function and beauty is born
With unswerving purpose, growing discernment, affinity
The mind and hand shape the substance, the wood and the plate
'Til it takes such exquisite colour, form and symmetry
That those who behold it are moved to higher estate
Such art is in the domain of sacred cause
Therefore craftsman, it stands that a spark of divine is yours.
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