He sat upon his handcrafted mahogany stool
Facing the white plains of his canvas
His palette ready with selected color
Vision crisp and sharp like salted chips
Raising his brush to touch the matter
...clumps
The connection is resistant to attention
The heart is cracked, but never open
Movement toward closes opportunity
Like a mechanical apparatus without pause
So, the artist puts down paint and brush
Focusing on the receptivity of the canvas
...smooth
Once again, he draws close to deliver
The paint touches but turns to deep black
Blind people can't see value without light
The other senses sharpen the focus
Hearing what isn't refracted
Feeling what shouldn't be touched
...taste
Patience guides the flow of the artist
As he speaks life over the flowing paint
"My love, I infuse my vision in every stroke
You are no longer barren and afraid."
The canvas vibrates as sight is restored
The image brings forth the fruit
...goodness
"You, precious one....are not for sale."
Written by Trudy Schrader on 04-26-2026
Under neon lights and polished floors,
Where innovation hums behind grand doors,
A city of brands in banners dressed,
Each booth a stage, each pitch a quest.
Voices rise in a rhythmic flow,
Of deals to spark and ideas to grow,
From handcrafted builds to digital dreams,
Every corner bursts with vibrant themes.
Designs that dazzle, bold and bright,
Structures rising in a single night,
Stories told through shape and space,
Each exhibit a brand’s embrace.
Footsteps echo on carpeted aisles,
Strangers meeting with knowing smiles,
Cards exchanged, connections made,
Opportunities bloom in the trade show parade.
Screens flicker with future visions,
Products born from bold decisions,
From modular forms to custom art,
Each booth reflects a beating heart.
And when the lights begin to fade,
And the grand displays start to wane,
What lingers still beyond the view—
Are the ties we built, the dreams we grew.
For a trade show is more than display,
It’s where tomorrow finds its way.
I am a pink circle
One that cries and one that listens
I can be taciturn like the snow that falls slow
I have always been an observer
But I have grown to be a low-toned talker
I used to be a rotten fruit
But never enough to be a shining star
Now I am a handcrafted gift and a broken vase patched together by glue
I want to be a statue made from lovingly worn hands
But I will always be books that never close
From a small town in eastern Italy,
A dessert was born, beloved steadily.
Named from the Italian “tirami su,”
Meaning “pick me up,” “cheer me too.”
A medley of classic ingredients combined,
Handcrafted with skill, seasoned by time.
Egg yolks and sugar softly entwine,
Forming a base indulgently fine.
Mascarpone lends its silken embrace,
A creamy richness time can’t erase.
Coffee arrives with bold, dark flair,
Soaking Savoiardi beyond compare.
Marsala, Kahlúa add depth and punch,
A spirited touch to this decadent bunch.
A harmony layered, delicate yet strong—
A timeless dessert where all hearts belong.
Now let us speak of Limoncello tiramisu, bright and bold,
A modern whisper to a classic old.
Limoncello syrup works its gentle art,
Swapping tart restraint for citrus heart.
A sunlit dessert, vivid and light,
A refreshing turn on a recipe time-worn by night.
Crowned with candied lemon, golden and fine,
Pure summer captured in each spoonful divine.
From coffee’s depth to citrus light,
From velvet dusk to sunlit bite,
Each layer tells a story true—
Of comfort found, of joy renewed.
In every spoon, a moment shared,
A taste of Italy, lovingly prepared.
Wilted flowers
Wilted flowers lie in empty fields
Days pass as flies scour,
Leaving the decomposing ideas to be eaten.
The sun flickers as each minute weans by
An empty shell of you left in bloody waters.
A quiet silence crowding the space your words claimed.
The once blooming pedals, scorned by your nectar.
Craving the burn you bring into my veins; no longer able to be muzzled
A type of silent desire for chaos and destruction.
A desire for deforestation.
What started as weeds being plucked,
Turned to mowing down rose bushes.
Muddy boots left on waxed floors,
Destruction on the original wood grain that was once admired by generations.
Floors handcrafted from trees outside of what I wanted to call home.
Someplace silence was peace and peace was expected rather than craved.
Pruned roses left puddles of milkweed
Each droplet going sour the second it fell,
The bitter taste of cyanide leaked out of your pores into its water supply.
Empty plots. Pesticides. Ripped roots.
Bechstein, Blüthner, Steinway or Fazioli,
even an archaic Pianoforti,
long had he craved to play them all.
He was in love with their shape and sheen,
their sweeping contours, their circuit bodies.
He loves the sensuality of maple and spruce,
those handcrafted mahogany torsos,
the sprung brass of muted pedals,
deep resonations
within a grand iron skeleton
a tri-legged, beast of beauty,
built to create the most delicate of nocturns,
or a thumping Hungarian Rhapsody.
He would run his fingers,
over their curvaceous sable forms
allow fingertips to caress un-played keys,
the almost erotic white and black harmony
beneath a chaste lid.
He imagines playing
for a lady in crinoline perhaps,
and he the intense composer
of unspoken desires.
Sad to say,
his clumsy laptop fingers,
clattered upon that keyboard,
his coda forever silent.
Wooden spoon -old fashioned handcrafted discipline tool
In 1958 we saw the end of an era.
Mused the Curtiss Wright scholar.
he told a crowd of people
that an America that didn't
trust in the newness of creativity
would see a day were only exterior machines
would be looked at as something American enough
to be bought. Standing on the Promises of Yesteryear he
saw using the brands of yesteryear as the way to
move America forward.
He talked of reinventing the way we travel.
By moving the design forward
and never looking back.
Not using the samples of yesterday: but
creating new product under a Brand Name recogniable
enough to create family oriented appeal to modern auto's..
Bringing people together in the ailenment of futuristic design.
Creating quality Auto's and Luxury Products
were people from all ages could be proud to spend and buy.
The aquistion of Parkard motor Company:
to create from the sketch pad, a product
that would rival all companies. Building both
handcrafted timepeices
and the manufacturing of
products that would set the standard for quality
across the globe. He ended his speech
saying" Packard: where have you Been!"
My mood is Godgeous
My attitude is Godgeous
My life is Simply Godgeous
My house is Godgeous
My children are Godgeous
My beauty is Godgeous
My smile is Simply Godgeous
Everything about me is GODgeous, because God handcrafted and specifically designed me and made me GODgeous!
Through the sun and the rain, the good times and bad, whether the sky is gray or blue, always know and remember that you are GODgeous too!
A man reached me at the market that day.
He lifted two handcrafted seats on his head.
He urged, "Won't you buy my chairs?" Today.
Nobody took my chairs. All moved instead.
I recall helping others with daily duties in life.
If you find a poor partner, avail him in strife.
None are so flush that they might not borrow.
The fate of the poor may be our lot tomorrow.
Look, these are the best things I have made.
Please buy my seats. I slum my children frayed.
He seems gloomy. This person is my age.
Words nag me. I gave him cash and change.
I echo helping others, even when being mean.
Do not judge your pal's deep suspicions, lean.
No fine, people can avoid shame or misery.
Lift others in the race for a swathe of glittery.
I replied, "I need one seat, but sell the rest."
Kids are waiting, and I wish you all the best.
Thrusting his hands to pray, I was unready.
For me, it was an incomer with tears already.
I never lost the venting of the chair salesman.
It may not be a lot to exalt others when we can.
If it turns on a brother, do not let envy ruin it.
We pray for each other's rightness, joy, and grit.
Written: November 28, 2022
When you spot the stars above your head
Remember you are the quirky ones that glitter
the rivers turn blue under the sky
but oh! its only in my eyes?
Do you see what I see?
Haven't been to heaven
yet I imagine a mansion
A giant magnificent edifice
what a lovely master piece!
Then, let us assemble our feet stronger on the higher ground
Let the sun shines be ever brighter than it used to be.
Let the humans roar at you
even the wheels of your car may be stabbed
well, will you still be in awe of the wonders?
The handcrafted things,
the nature that display its glorious existence.
who can fathom the depth of the ocean?
But there is someone to whom, every detail is fathomable.
every ounce of anguish is known.
"Be courageous". He said,
will you recline and be at rest?
The night will not be dark
the sun will rise again.
and we will have the place in that mansion.
A familiar aroma wafted towards me,
As I looked up into blue azure skies,
And far beyond, a golden horizon.
I could barely see the shapes of an old
Man holding a young child’s hand,
The man wore a long white robe
And was smoking a handcrafted
Pipe, and the spiraling smoke from it,
Triggered a memory, who was this man.
He didn’t speak much until
I asked him who the child was, He
Granted us a short encounter
The old man said,
So that you can briefly meet.
Tears rolled down my face
As I took the child
And held him tightly in my arms,
For an everlasting moment, a miracle!
We are your guardian angels he said,
Taking back my bundle of life,
And gradually disappearing with his
Charge, leaving behind a trail of smoke
The aroma of which was distinctly the
Tobacco my father smoked. My father
Holding my child's hand, his grandson
Who died when only five days old,
And whom I had never met,
Celestial beings permitted to appear,
And just as quickly disappear,
Their message I believe, that one day we
Would meet, in the presence of His love
Within the realms of heaven above.
Poem of the Day - 18.9.2021
As this sphere spins within my hands,
I can see and feel billions of people.
They laugh and work and pray;
Within and outside my steeples.
..I've handcrafted them all,
..Each and every one with love.
..And for those that are troubled,
..I comfort with cloud-based gloves.
....Now I see two unfamiliar souls,
....That straddle this globe.
....They stand in the sun,
....And communicate in ways they know.
......They will never touch,
......Or know each other's scent,
......But both wish to seek...
......What true love is meant.
....They challenge each other,
....With language and riddles.
....And try to make sense,
....Even where knowledge is little.
..So I spin the Earth,
..To close out the lights.
..But these two souls
..Stay up at night!
And then as day breaks,
Comes to my surprise to see...
That at the same time,
They both stare up at me.
2018
This belle epoch awakes resemblance
With times of plague in dark-bound books
Allegedly, we’re on dependence
Of history, with all its hooks
I doubt this cliche, however
This comer is a bit too smart
And so it smells he’d stay forever
Being handcrafted from the start
He’s going to mature through the ages
He’d bring the depth in water run
He’ll pass all the required stages
He wouldn’t stop, till work is done
Then may he rest in rich man’s arbour
Where ivy hangs down to the floor
Last glimpse of lighthouse in the harbour
Eroded pier, and ships galore
A guest unwanted, he dissolves
In wee small hours, when the air
Is still at night, while breezing calls
For morning star - and it is there.
Woven together like fine mesh
A perfect fit of flesh with flesh
Handshaking
Mutual between romancers
Affirmations flow like dancers
Handwritten
Pearl earrings, dress of lace
Roses, baby's breath, and vase
Hand-chosen
A diamond in a ring of gold
The framework of a new house sold
Handcrafted
Young bride and groom, fifty years wed
Sunrises and sunsets ahead
Handholding
5-3-2020
Compounding The Verse Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Joseph May
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.