Long Clay Poems
Long Clay Poems. Below are the most popular long Clay by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Clay poems by poem length and keyword.
So quickly gone our perfect day,
softly fading in ombre gray;
we loved, lying in grasses sweet,
mist mountain shrouded and discreet.
Pink pearled the clouds like china clay--
so quickly gone our perfect day--
dangled above the mountain rim;
pearled the wine kisses I offered him.
We strolled hay scented meadows, fair;
he laced white daisies through my hair;
so quickly gone our perfect day
for night swooped down, dark bird of prey.
Sometimes a day almost like that
makes me wistful, heart acrobat
contriving to return that way,
so quickly gone our perfect day.
Copyright, January 23, 2016
There was a time
I saw my mother's hands and
noticed quite a difference
between hers and mine
hers were fine
soft and smooth
with lovely nails, refined
While mine-
so rough and dried
no lotion could soothe or hide
the blisters and the callouses
while hers were fit for palaces
mine were like a scullery maid's
accustomed to hard work
I often thought looking at her
that we must have been made
of different stuff
for even though
she was a simple woman
no frills or fluff
she seemed somehow
to be made of finer clay
Like porcelain-
delicately enchanting
but prone to chips and cracks
while I, more like a
sturdy stoneware
strength and durability
making up
for what I lacked
I never knew just how true
this was until she died
never realized just how fragile
she really was, because
she was the vessel
that originally
carried me
there’s a man in a suit clutching his sanity
there’s a man wearing sandals and gripping the clay
there’s a wild, brewing, undying calamity
there’s a part of him that knows that this isn’t the way
as he’s dipping his fingers into the basin
the sensual shaping of a vase or a plate
something miraculous about his creation
something that tells us this man will be great
flaunting his hands to all of the peasants
he makes them beg for a dime of his time
they’re shaking with rage while they wait for his presence
how can it enrage you if it is divine?
there’s a girl at the easel with soot on her face
she’s stood still like a madman, just scribbling away
i hate her for being and taking up space
but there’s nothing that could make my hatred okay
and yet it persists, yet it’s still there
i dream of her failing and failing again
i look at her art, i compare and compare
and then i’m too scared to pick up my pen
i’d like to crack open her skull and just take a bite
let me worry about the tossing and turning
it won’t matter that i can’t sleep in the night
if i’m busy creating, if i’m too busy working
Line of inquiry: This form of dust is by God energized wherein we are all living light housed within. How may this truth be realized. Show me, oh monk, how to begin.
Oh monk, I awaken to first light,
the morning opening like a held breath.
A kinship stirs within me,
a glowing kindled from within.
Oh monk, I confess~
I spend my days
walking life’s path without direction,
no markers, no map~
only the faint shimmer of His pulse,
an awareness rising like slow-burning incense
from my heart.
Oh monk, I admit~
I am a weary traveler, a neophyte,
a newly planted seed
in faith’s fertile ground~
this soil beneath my feet
foreign to me.
Oh spiritual sojourner,
perhaps I can comfort you.
You are a form of soil and dust
energized by God’s Light~
you are not foreign to him;
he seeks fellowship with you.
Oh monk, I implore you~
How do I begin?
How will I thrive in His fertile soil?
How may I realize His truth?
How may I discover
the Eternal hiding in my clay?
Oh weary traveler,
His lantern stirs within~
a small, steady glow
showing you where to begin.
Turn your face toward this Light,
step out with faith onto
the invisible pathless path~
the one that lies
just beneath your feet.
Then, oh faithful traveler,
release your ego strivings,
surrender, and enter the hush~
His truth will meet you there,
and the pathless path
will rise beneath your surrender.
*
On
This
A blessed
Winter Day
Dressed for the
Holidays. A pure blanched
Vision awaits me so I reflect out loud.
Satin white angel hair snow, sleeps light on our street,
enriches the raw pines in a virginal base coat of flurries.
Families dressed for the holidays, lovely, quite the treat.
There are voices singing, travel soft on a passing breeze.
My senses are ablaze on this blessed winter day.
Children's faces bright red from play rekindle memories.
Remembering crafting sculptures, the element, like clay.
Snow fights, where we'd take refuge behind shrubberies
Lights energized, dance with the dark as their partner.
Colors, tints the nights complexion in a luminesce glow.
Smoke from pillow covered roofs make my heart flutter.
My days of improvised ice rinks, skating with the flow.
A holiday surrounded night ignites passions deep.
Making snow angels, pulled on a toboggan down my avenue,
Picking a frosted pine then wrapped and thrown into our Jeep.
Heading home with that years tree to dress and decorate anew.
But it is now and time to play in this our new frosting of snow.
With my two baby girls we use it to bake as if it were dough.
Life is different now, as an adult with my children, I go slow.
Savor every moment, their youth a gift, repeats like an echo.
03~12~2014
Sponsor: Poet Destroyer A
Contest Name: Winter Poems #1
No torrid steel rod cauterized my wounds
I could not lick the festering gashes clean
Your sharp-bladed tongue bit too deep
fangs plunged with each vile cursed scene
No mere prick or scratch did you inflict
as thorns draw drops from a finger laid bare
You severed our dangling cord with a stare
Without gauntlet thrown before you swayed
I was waylaid in the pitfall of vows betrayed
I sat weeping upon moistened ground
faintly hearing from ears, a snarling sound
a vile bitterness in your laughter as I stirred
If you have a conscience, I shall be its burr
You turned your back and sidled away
basking in glory; your cruelty had been done
but there is no victory for you, nothing won
for a man whose feet were molded of clay
How often you preyed on weakness of others
while you played at being sanctimonious
Liquid courage brings death that smothers
but I escaped the hold you once tightly held
before my life had been snuffed and felled
I still breathe and I've no fear to speak
I've been set free, and I'm no longer weak
My tongue holds daggers of its own
whetted on the grind stone of your deception
I was hungry for strength, parched with thirst
to take vengeance as my anger grew
emotions that were long past due
Felling you would then label me a doer of evil
which is something I would never desire to be
Vengeance will never be mine to take
knowing this is true is what set me free
Years will pass but I shall never forget
that I was true to you, yet I sorely regret
not realizing the kind of person I loved
I've moved on and no longer grieve
while you still swim in the fiery waters
of your besotted world of make believe
This is their moment
Place on your makeup and let us begin
Cast the shadows of deceit with a grin
Curtain calls and the show begins
The world is their stage, action consumes.
Warm hugs and I love you’s
Serene and pristine,
O, look how they are giving their all to you.
We are one they proudly say
but your hand is the one bent like clay
at the expense of putting on this charade.
You comforted them for their loss
Though their arms were folded when you lost your heart
I did my all, and I've given my best
I made them who they are, o how I'm blessed
How perfect
how right
how just
These lines read with sureness and might
Bravo
Bravo
how deep shall this go
Your fate lurks in the darkest corners
There you will find your:
Trauma responses
Fight or flight
Trust issues that sing aloud
Worthless, characters,
Keep your makeup up on
The show is not done.
The script is read, how dramatic indeed
Her part is played with vigor and feist.
With the roll of a dice, all are against her
but the sword welded came from her
Nameless game,
Adjectives should do
here let me spell it out for you
Weak,
Smug,
pathetic,
Delusional
you're no longer you, but what they think of you
This house is their stage, let the act begin
A wonderful family they say.
as they step over the sharp edges of bloodied mirrors
that scatter on the inside of our feeble bodies.
That mercilessly cut at our heels, we are forever
nails against chalkboards that go unnoticed
We are the thousand shallow graves that were dug without names
O how we give and give
and they take and take
Justify, manipulate, and cast the blame.
You've taken their hits,
Felt their pain,
comforted their sorrows
but what have you gained
Fake appreciations,
Blind assumptions
Degraded and in pain
Serpents venom spat
back at you.
If hate were a color this world
would not be blue
But only if they knew
that dancing among the rain, to hide our tears
The red was never from allergies
Curtains go down
applaud,
smile,
Encore
Encore
The Oscar for best pretender goes to...
YOU
Like a Witch Disguised as an Owl
Like a witch disguised as an owl, loneliness deafens us with its wing of clay,
it comes toward us and its tireless claw keeps growing in the dark,
it has been on this earth for ages, a shadow wearing a human face, carried down through centuries,
in general we embrace it quickly, but its fears run too deep for me to hold in my hands,
I don't try to translate them, or tie them to the thin thread of the day.
Accepting its geometric way of slipping through our unfinished sleep,
we perform small rituals with enormous symbols, drawn on the eyelid of night,
and then we hum a nameless melody, torn from some forgotten choir,
I swallow its echo like a hot stone, so it won't disturb me too much,
and I stay silent, waiting for the quiet to grow back from its own ashes.
It carries in its gaze collapsed cathedrals and children who never once cried,
its footsteps are old coins fallen into bottomless, echoless wells,
and its claw, grown from centuries of hunger, digs into the wall between me and the world
a crack through which everything I never said and never wept pours out,
and still I remain here, on its threshold, a silent and doubting witness.
Sometimes I feel it settle on my chest like a bird heavy with melted lead,
I listen to its breathing, steady and cold as the sea beneath winter ice,
and I understand that fear doesn't want to be defeated, only held, like a sick child,
so I sing to it quietly, in a broken voice, a song I don't even know myself,
and it falls asleep a little, just enough for me to breathe in turn.
And maybe this strange stillness is the only prayer we have left,
a wordless dialogue between fear and the body that still wants to exist,
a witch and a man, seated on the same step of the same endless night,
each humming the same echo, each in his own silent tongue,
until dawn comes and turns it, if only for a moment, into ordinary light.
Oh Sleepless night oh Glory be
The stealth of nature burdens thee
As winter washes o'er the stones
Your cold caress doth sear my bones
An unfurled sail on straining yard
The banshee howls, its breath bites hard
Tossed from main, to fevered waters
To the open arms of Neptune's daughters
Oh sea, oh pearl oh wondrous treasure
Oh faith of mine, unmarked, unmeasured
No one I am, no one I've been
Fates overlooked, times overseen
The cold, the cold, right from the start
Pierces flesh and failing heart
Oh what of God, can he not see
My plight, my toil, oh Glory be
White horses race as noble steeds
Drawn breath from lungs no longer breathed
Your manic howls and fevered pace
Entomb my mind and ashen face
A sailor lost, as sailors must
No bed of clay, nor pillow dust
Unwatched am I from sightless bow
No comfort here will storm allow
My Cross to bear, this broken mast
Oh save me Lord, or make death fast
My cries unheard from ship nor shore
Will peal in vain, forever more!
In this world, we think we rule
that we're in charge of everything
ours is the control button we press
so for our own success, we cling
But this is not the true reality
for there is one in total control
the creator of all things the Lord God
he is king supreme over every soul
God is the master potter complete
taking us and moulding us for his fit
for being created in his holy image
this his purpose to clear us of our grit
This great God who is the Lord
is the potter that makes our mould
shaping and bruising us as he will
in his perfect will to shine as gold
So bow in worship to the potter
who perfectly knows what he's doing
for he uses all of our experiences
to mould us on work of renewing
(But now, O Lord, you are our Father;
we are the clay, and you are our potter;
we are all the work of your hand.)
Isaiah 64: 8 (ESV)