god and goddesses
hand crafted stone temples
old trees with old roots
hand crafted culture
forged by hands, glass and metal
a voice from the past
we stand in silence
awe struck
amazed by color, form and shape
in any room
we are transformed
into a kaleidoscope of color
as sunlight breaks through
each glass piece
a masterpiece is formed
a medium of expression
telling a story
through great craftsmanship
of love and creativity
creating a work of art
I try to avoid them in the crisp morning light,
but I hastily sink into their mud-caked bottoms.
I sink to my knees in their inevitable stratum.
One after another, beyond memory or thought,
swirling pools of consciousness unspoken.
Parallel immersive mythos together and unbroken.
Heavy here, my trudge from pond to pond,
egoless consciousness watches with detachment.
My fledgling demanding acts are persistent.
My emotions are unwitting and hand-crafted.
These ponds of my making create schemas
from hormones and perceptual appraisals.
I plod through stages of deepening awareness.
From weeping to laughter, I feel each nuanced valence.
Though I try to resist them again and again,
these are my schemas, my reckoned inventions.
Like a roaming wolf or a squirrel poised in a tree,
these emotional appraisals are my intentions.
These spontaneously self-organizing feelings
are my defenses, and my epiphanies of universal marvel
as egoless consciousness awaits, unspoken.
This is the poem you‘re breathless awaiting
Years and years in hand-crafted making
It promises nothing and delivers the same
~ These days guarantees instant fame
We have enough hand crafted ferns that taste…real.
And enough gratitude to last in a tunnel.
I didn’t do much with that ball of yarn.
Just ate enough cookies that are made of fuzz.
Trembling and have nothing to do.
Waiting on a brand new finger nail to grow in.
Becuase there’s nothing like graceful watered plants.
The items look so real.
Like real butterflies with real eyes.
Unraveled.
Just enough to leave a sticky print.
daisy chain delights
exquisitely hand crafted,
delicate trinkets
It’s colder now and seems somehow
more empty than before.
I wish I’d known the future then,
and what it held in store.
No longer is there will of heart
to venture form these walls,
and so I sit alone inside…
when the darkness falls.
Each stone hand crafted for the cause
to block away the pain.
The mortar mixed to guarantee
no feeling will remain.
A mist enshrouds the inner grounds,
with siren’s voice it calls.
To comfort as I drift within…
when the darkness falls.
A subtle shift and weightless drift
are all that’s left to feel.
No sign of any signs of life,
no sense of what is real.
Just drifting, drifting ever on
down never-ending halls.
Forever locked inside my head…
when the darkness falls.
This years most prized
Hottest ticket above all
Red carpet
Socialite Charity Event
The Guest list comprised of the
Who's , who amongst the elite
Those who are actually in the know
And the conversation in between
3* Star Michelin dinning courses
Drifted into the aristocracy saying
Rather than let the poor and needy
Starving and going hungry
Eat cake instead
Of stale old mouldy bread
Whilst congratulating one another
Sipping and raising a toast
On Vintage Champagne
Costing over $2k a pop
Which cost no where near as much
As their designer bespoke suit
Hand crafted jewellery
Or Watch
And you don't even want to know
Just how much the actual price of the
Ticket cost
Because that will surely
Take the Cake
And prove exactly just how entirely
Fake this all in fact is
And who truly benefits
From Charity most above all
If I have the time I'll write a letter old fashioned and serene
Hand crafted silk coated paper from my smouldering memory box
Let time stand still switch of the phone and turn back the clocks
Caress my pen and stroke the message to give it some sheen
As if on its own the quill releases memory gaps at the court of kin
Scratches the bottom of an ink pot in weary calligraphed weeping
Pauses for smudged words and tackles guilt which was sleeping
Uncensored and honest it resists to crumble the pages into the bin
Sentences assemble under an onslaught of consciousness' streams
Clouds of doubt loom large and write over the margin at both sides
Why on earth did we have to argue so much in belligerent nights
Until exhaustion won the battle of opinions and unfulfilled dreams
I'm not convinced any longer we strove for truth decisive and brave
Egos hindered a more peaceful exchange of generational disputes
Grounded in self-righteousness that poisoned love at vulnerable roots
Today I mourn those wasted moments and post an apology to your grave
26th December 2019
How I love this time of year
When Christmas markets beckon!
All major cities have them
And some small towns, too, I reckon.
The festive booths display their wares,
A lot of them hand-crafted,
Their quality assuring you
That no, you won’t get shafted.
From jewelry (my favorite)
To ceramics, hats and leather,
The dealers ply their products
In whatever kind of weather.
For now’s the time that people buy –
The ornaments and mittens
And toys and t-shirts, socks and mugs
Adorned with pups or kittens.
Of course, there’s hot mulled cider
Paired with donuts, for such offers
Keep shoppers warm and cozy,
Tempting them to fill the coffers.
Today I splurged on earrings
Though I’m often quite contented
To just browse and see what’s out there,
All so very well-presented!
It Fell
by susan Q miller © 2014
It fell,
Something hard
Off the shelf
Without warning,
Breaking what lay beneath,
A favorite green bowl, a hand-crafted half-orb
Made by these hands.
This vessel
once held my morning sustenance.
Now its fragments
Lay scattered at my feet.
I am not shattered.
Gathering the shards
Of something once whole and precious to me,
I am reminded of how fragile life is
And that nothing lasts forever.
Writer
Of positive words, a lover of spirituality, teaching, and art.
I have three sons, two daughter in-laws, and six grandchildren that live close.
I love everything that is pure of nature, antiques, and hand-crafted art.
I feel heartbreak, pain, and love.
I fear being left alone, forgetting everyday simple tasks, and getting lost.
I would like to visit other countries, Sistine Chapel, peace on earth.
Resident of Texas.
Mourning.
1/12/2019
Poetry Contest: Writing Challenge 2, January 2019, Bio
Sponsored by: Dear Heart
Browsing through families memories,
That we can never know.
Amoung the Heirlooms meant to be,
Decendents, now no more.
A cherished piece of crystal,
or china fine and rare.
Hand crafted mirrored Dresser,
or velvet Queen Ann chair.
Memories of lives and families.
The sum of them no more.
Stored away as aging Relics,
In this little Antique store.
Happy Happy Birthday Carl-Oscar Karlsson
To the SUPER-NATURAL MULTIPLE DIMENSIONAL Designer
with the most
SOUL-REACHING VISUAL ART
let me say
Happy Happy Birthday to you
i lift up my glass with a
LYRICAL Toast
just as
ENGAGINGLY HAND CRAFTED AND SKILLED
As to say to you
I hope you have a
Happy Happy Birthday
that only a
Designer and Artist at ELAKFORM
(Address: Klostergatan, 352 31 Växjö, Sweden
Phone: +46 73 310 62 20)
like you can do
Happy Happy Birthday
to a
MYSTICALLY GIFTED ORIGINAL DESIGNER
as FASCINATING AS YOU ARE SENSATIONAL ARTISTIC
and INCREDIBLE INVENTIVE
as THE ONE AND ONLY CARL-OSCAR KARLSSON
BELOVED DESIGNER AND ARTIST
by:verlecia fields
aka: lyricvixen
Her lips are purple with words
that crown and not demean;
Her mind is laced with golden threads of
thoughts seamed into rational words;
on them are actions like embroideries,
hand crafted by wits above sweaty brows,
by wisdom above hard labour.
Her purple lips is beyond the shade of a purple lipstick
Smudged on her lips while she gazed at reflection in a mirror,
But it is a shade of her femininity beyond just being pretty.
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