Earthenware Poems | Examples

Moving Out

I was born in a muddy time
created to be a field of broken bricks.

Years wove their weeds.
There was hope,
enclaves of suburban heavens
old men in grim pubs spoke of.

You might think
that I pulled myself together,
dug my boots out
of that land of bitter muck.

Not I,
I killed the weeds only,
carried still, the rubble and smut
inside my belly for decades

only to give birth to an inner life,
small green shoots I then replanted
in earthenware pots,

tokens left on the bare platforms
of railroad stations

Circle

A large round terracotta pot is broken.
It sits upright in the long grass.
where a slab of clay has crumbled away.
A tortoise dwells there now.
The cracked pot still provides shade
for that slow moving turtle.
At midday when no shadows play
it can still outrun the sun
in a small earthenware circle.

Simple Simon's Halfpennyworth Laugh

Simple Simon was not really his name,
    A nom de plume, of poetic fame.
    Each poem he composed, he carved backwards on wood,
    Then printed on foolscap as fast as he could.
    For halfpennyworth, he sold every one,
    As all of his poems, were written for fun.
    Where Simple Simon was doing no harm,
    For each misfortune, was bedevilled with charm.
    But Simple Simon did not go anywhere,
    Or tried to snare an elusive wild hare.
    Nor rode on an ass, for he already knew,
    That the hare was jugged, in an earthenware stew.

    1 / 23 / 2022.

Working With Snowflakes

Watching snowflakes settle
into a large earthenware pot,
frozen fractals grow.

The snow is ridged into serpentine shapes
and the humped backs of deep sea monsters.
Bobbled ice forms dimple and peak.

Is this a strange art, a contouring
or a  sculpturing that takes form
by the act of watching?

Why is it not the snow 
deep and crisp and even?

If you stare at a cat
it will look away, wash its paws.
that’s called ‘displacement behavior’.
People are not much different.
There’s a force behind a concentrated stare.

Cats know something about watching snowflakes.
You have to respect that kind of power.

Lest We Forget

Lest we forget
Where our ancestors planted
The tree of knowledge and wisdom;
Then forget that a man 
Whose hand is in a Lions jaw
Needs more than a pat
On his back
A man with a speck in his eye,
Must thread with caution
Not to rupture his eye

Brother, come let us till the soil
While the rains are here;
Before the harmattan season creep in on us
And crack our earthenware
Let us gather in sommer
Before winter pounces on us
Seeking for its perilous pound of flesh
Let us play moonlight games
Before the moon bids us goodnight,
And shuts its seductive eyes on us

A man who does not know 
Where the rain began emptying its bowel on him,
Will not fathom when the rain closes its spincter
A man cannot sow rice 
And expect to reap Cassava

Brother,
Let us not forget where our ancestors
Planted the tree of knowledge and wisdom,
Then, mistake an Obeche for Iroko tree
Brother,
A good name is better than gold!

A Day In America West

Buckaroos wave in the wagons into a corral, circle of
Conestoga wagons mixed with covered wagons 100 count,
Next to the butte, a springer delivers calf alive; compadres cheer wahoo!
Exuberance looking at large remuda, choosing each a horse to mount.

Morning sun illuminates camp as mozo helps secure on a horse the rig,
Saddle up with aparejo and alforja to work on the range, the keen
Vaqueros mill the running cattle into a circle, and bulldog the doggie
Pulling down the calf to avoid the barranca deep ravine.

Noontime hot sun heats frijoles, huevos rancheros, and beef or lunch,
Cowboys drift cattle slowly ranch side, buckaroo pulls in the doggie stray calf,
Moving away from the coulee ravine towards the crick,
Dragonflies zoom near as waddys punch cattle herding, 
     resounding a hooray laugh.

Evening warm summer sun lights adobe viga roof beam end rustic,
Acequia irrigation canal greens the bolson flat arid valley,
Olla earthenware pot full of water complement hoedown and dinner,
Ramada shelter branches on roof give rest to camp, peaceful tally.

Broken

A broken people hearts and souls and a land ravaged and destroyed,
Look closely at how the earthenware pot was smashed- small repairs.

A broken list of lives, remembered once now forgotten- remember!
Like a mirror that has cracked fallen from its rusted nail-still used.

We see a reflection within and look away- best not to dwell on its image,
All was once whole and beautiful and we claim its destruction is just.

You would not look at the view outside our window to such injustice,
Just closed your eyes and pretended you never noticed. Remember now.

Did not the gods chose our destiny? where are they now? did they hold the lost?
Let not their sacrifices be in vain for freedom costs us dearly.

Our Dream

We built ourselves a dream and sent it high into a blue sky,
Watched as the gods crushed it between their thighs-
cried as they threw it back down to earth- tiny pieces like rain,
our dream fell from above like a broken earthenware pot.

Remember how we gathered up the fragments and re-built it?
how then we sat it upon the old sideboard- below the mirror.

Recall how we stood on a high mountain and cried out to the Eagle-
as she soared above us, and the sun sparkled on the sea below us;
how we waited for darkness- a sky full of a thousand stars and an Owl-
from Athena settled on an old tree.

Our dream- renewed and undeterred and whispered silently to the wise one-
and how we watched as she flew with it over the moon.

Woman In Black Colors

She cooks fish and rice,
her unfolded hips
pushing all into place.
Oils, and aromas,
train buds to lap at shadows.
The marl of her hands
turns bowls of smoke
into lemon and butter. 

I won’t get to eat the spiced Mackerel,
but I imagine my scaly head laid
in a tabby cat’s saucer.
I dream of small-boned piquant desires,
the lick of her fingers,
the coral curl of her tongue
as If she were a cat and I a fish in a dish.

She wears dark clothes, a peasant garb,
black skirts below her knees,
a lace shawl when she goes to church.
She is Greek, a Turk
an Albanian.  She is an Etruscan vineyard
for orphans.  A mother to a lover.
Her gourd is full and spilling.
In her hair black horses leap,
a few stout gray mares
amidst the mane.
Tides turn and swirl
through turtle-shell combs.

She’s not a disciple of pretty.
She is earthenware to hold my hungers.
These words are just terracotta shards.
What she is, is an alcove for halvah.
Apart from Holy Days,
she works at a grocery store.
Where she bakes grape-filled suns,
and moon-glazed pastries
for those in need of the olive yield
of her light.

Earthenware

THIS VESSEL IS EMPTY
NOT A DROP IS LEFT FOR YOU
YOUR WORDS ARE ACID
TO MY HEART
GRAVEYARD PHILOSOPHY
STRAIGHT FROM THE LIZARD'S MOUTH
CLASSICAL HYPOCRISY
WITH MY GOTHIC REASON
I FOUND YOU
HARSH AND IMPENETREBLE
NOW YOU'VE GONE
AND LEFT ME FOR DEAD
AN IMMOBILE SPIRIT
HARVESTS NOTHING
UNPLUG MY TRAGIC HEART
FEED IT TO THE HUNGRY DOGS
DEAD GRASS, DEAD LOVE
SOMETIMES WE ALL GO NUMB.

RIP J

Ee That Were Good Mum

Freezing Monday, your fingers are numb
Hurry on home to the fire and Mum.
Walk in the back and sniff the air,
The smell of lovely Cottage Pie is there.
Come home on Tuesday,stomach rumbling,
Mum's made a pan of Stew n Dumpling.
Is there an onion in there for me?
Go wash your hands and wait and see.
Wednesday it's the poor man's treat,
Thick sliced bread and potted meat.
Thursday comes, 'what's for tea' I cry,
It's hot n tasty, a Shepherds Pie.
When Friday comes you know the dish,
Even though we're not Catholic, it's fish!
Saturday,out comes the brown earthenware pot,
filled with whatever meat that Mum has got,
Veg and lentils,simmering in a thick Bisto stew
With a thick suet crust , I'm raring to chew.
Sunday in our house wasn't special as I recall,
If Mum's purse was empty, no meat at all
But no matter what, we kids never starved,
Whatever came in was equally halved
Whether fruit or meat or bread we didn't care.
Mum divided it up and we each got a share.
It must have worked out, back when I were a kid,
Because I'm here now to tell of what Mum did.

© Dave Timperley February 23 2017

Fermentation of Mulberries

A timed lesson in diameter of dialogue is akin to eating a vast amount of bean. But buttering a heron should never really be performed in a new moon. So hesitate not by the tropical bowl whose ideology is to seek and retract. Such a testament to an earthenware cup. And saucers know where the spoons are hidden so plot grid lines accordingly. Merely a spin on a silver table. Merely an itemised innermost inherited inhabitant. Rotating squirrels on a static seesaw seldom swear. Oh look wow indeed. Is the appearance of the hexagonal formations. Mineralization of a pool cue with a tennis ball. Hahahaha garters grabbing games. Hahahaha and a fish tail swirling slowly around in a glass. Triangular glass. Hahaha number of triangles and circles swarming empathically. Now rise really relaxing remember reading red. Xxxxx miniscule mammoths munching mulberries. And a rabbit watching a wallaby whistling. Xxxxx fermentation z z z . P y q z and a f g h z z Z

Fhrifhfkdhfk

A caption is not a utensil. And highly recommended is the hiding away of the ladles at this time of the year. Frankly it is most often spoken of but never delivered. Delivery deliberations deemed done. And no wise word from a misted curtain of dust. It is rather preferable to be a fun fool in a tin with several characters than a jacknife in a crown. Savour not the savage. And a fattened form of a static void. Goodnight and goodbye to the morning and greetings. *** radishes ravish radiance. Xxxx centralisation oh wait till the riders arrive in much painted earthenware. Beads bring bracelets. And talk not of a bucket of concrete. Talk instead of little sandcastles prettily waving to the seahorses. Then the tide collects for to decorate is often to deassemble. And a coveted crab can often be discovered in a broccoli brooch. But never a brioche. So portray a pocket of pins as a great idea. Especially when ice skating. Snow snoring and wind up there in an arch breathing. Frantic fruits flying. And of course the singular most importance of one single marble stain. Xxxxx pestiferous pesticides.xxxxx pathological phone xxxxx climatologist Z

You Are Human Too

You are not,
The machete that mauls the mound
That sends the ants scampering from the hill,
Preys to the threading feet and the hungered hens

You are not!
The gunpowder that blasts the barn
Heralding the angry bleats,
And inviting the cock-made complaints

No, you are not!
The arrow that pierces the air
Erasing the lines of the birds
Chasing the dark clouds into the sun

You are not
What they wash into your pores
What they sing into your being
What they carve into your heart

You are not
Apart from the tears that tear
Detached from the broken earthenware
For you are human too.

Train Travel

Train travel





Since I was a small child,
trains have fascinated me,
Some memorable journeys,
still put smile on face in glee.

Recalling of a train travel,
as it ran swiftly on the rails,
Trees ran opposite to us,
fields walked away in trails.

Counting of platforms,
that intervened till the destination,
Bridges and tunnels it crossed,
we screamed, what a grace!

New friends and sharing,
playing cards singing songs
Reading novels, what next,
sleepers extended beyond,

Calls of vendors at platform,
snacks and tea in earthenware,
Everyone wanting it first,
when thrill was more than thirst,

Looking out of the window,
the hair stuffed with coal,
The whistling sound,
the green signal as of reach,

Wish to travel more on rails,
and change tracks often as it did,
Satiate zeal of adventure,
steaming, beaming on train!




Written August 4th, 2015
For contest "Trains and fantasy" by Mystic rose

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