Long Pottery Poems
Long Pottery Poems. Below are the most popular long Pottery by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pottery poems by poem length and keyword.
If you don’t take your time,
If you never slow down the step by walking,
You’ll never see the sun
Lay his gold leaves on the tops of trees,
You won’t pay attention to the fox
Conversing with two horses in a field,
If you never slow down,
You’ll never know if a girl thinks of you,
You will never feel the dew
which inclines the daffodils and harmonious petals
you will crush the innocent snail on the purple road,
If you don’t take your time,
If you never slow down the step, while walking,
You will never see the fishing sloop working at sea
You will not hear the merle in the fig tree
Sketch twelve notes of a baroque cantata,
and worst of all, if you don’t slow down the pace,
You will never write poetry,
You will never fall in love with the countryside,
With the sea or pretty girls with breasts of pottery,
You will never become as smart as Walt Whitman.
Pottery scattered and came to life.
I opened up that art supply closet.
Flicked locusts off of me.
The winner in me started out severed.
Fast talking, mixed up, mangled.
Something in me took off like an old billboard torn away.
I thrived.
I throve.
I thrived like miles of sick globs.
I thrived like spikes on a cloud.
I thrived like bites unspoken.
I thrived like being stapled to the wall with a gold star.
I talked as fast as they could scarf a whole seal off the beach.
A little clay figurine.
That little, monster figurine from the supply room?
Doesn’t remind me of anything special.
And yet, the chattering continues.
Flicked those locustsssss.
I thrived.
I throve.
I was mangled and covered in drool.
To heal with gold
By Michelle Morris
08/12/2022
I felt your brokenness
When you came near
Your light had flickered
And died a little
The death of a child
Is the Universe's pain
For each little soul
Means more heartbreak
I sit next to you
Give you a hug
Encourage you to
Love yourself
For that guilt you carry
Like a proud mantle
Is becoming an anchor
Around your sanity
You need space and time
To grieve and feel
You need to process
This emotional reel
I will be here for you
Every night and day
I will help you always
In any possible way
And slowly the embers
Will ignite and glow
Your flame will burn
And you will know
You're healing now
The mantle is shattered
No guilt or darkness
You feel lighter and happier
You'll never forget
That little one
You'll always have
Their loving aura
With you eternally
In your heart and soul
They are connected
And help you grow
But the visceral pain
Fades to scars
That forever mark
Your faithful heart
And the burning light
In your soul
Helps cleanse those wounds
To heal with gold
Kintsugi* those cracks
To seal them with hope
Much love and light
Forever golden
© Michelle Morris, 2022
* Kintsugi means "to join with gold" or "golden joinery", which comes from the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with lacquer and gold.
I've taken poetic license to broaden this to mean "to heal with gold".
from your first born, when you grab a dusting of talc, crushed with late night feeds, stirring in bouncing and stories on a knee,
adding a layer of stumbled steps, with a batter thickly made of learning to say “No”, doughy rings of crossed arm tantrums,
glazed slowly with parent’s evenings and bringing first dates home (sprinkled with questions from Dad) before adding candles for sweet sixteens and exam results,
packaged carefully in a ribboned box to protect from life in a university dorm, your tears adding moisture to an increasingly distant mixture,
silver lace can be wrapped around to celebrate a wedding, supporting that newly added layer of Mr and Mrs, matching mortar boards made from icing, surrounded by love heart shaped chews,
you buy an electric whisk when your hands hurt from stirring, still rustling up cookies for grandchildren using grandma’s special sugar, butter and flour,
until you go back to the trusted cookbook, scattering gold dust over fifth birthday cakes, dyed icing and sponge into the colours of a superhero – a grandchild’s eyes bigger than their belly,
your cakes gradually change from pottery to silk, from gold to diamond, for your anniversaries past, you contemplate making a Victoria sponge in black, allow yourself to grieve your husband’s last,
until a great grandchild grins and brings you a cupcake all aglow, revealing a one hundredth birthday candle which is your very own to blow
The other night we took a pottery class and I wish I could convey…the excitement we both felt with our hands immersed in clay.
In some ways we felt like kids again…perhaps that’s the appeal…as we began to play in the mud…upon the potter’s wheel.
Sitting on my stool or at the table where I stood I was struck how working with the clay…is a lot like parenthood.
When you first come face-to-face with the clay you feel so unprepared…you have no idea what you’re doing…you’re excited…and you’re scared.
You know you have to do something because deep down you understand…whatever happens to this clay…is totally in your hands.
And so you take a deep breath, perhaps smile at your wife…and then you jump right in…at first trying your best just to hold on as your world begins to spin.
The clay seems to have a mind of its own…it’s not going as you planned…and it’s only when you relax that you feel the clay conforming to your hands.
You do your best to feel your way…you squeeze, you push, you pull, you scrape...and eventually right before your eyes…the clay takes on a shape.
As the clay keeps spinning and spinning…you’re always on your guard…hoping you’re not pulling too softly…or pushing way too hard.
When you’ve done all you can…you stop to look at the creation you’ve just thrown...hoping you’ve created something that can stand up on its own.
And whenever you see what you’ve help make…your smile is as wide as a Cheshire Cat…as you proudly whisper to yourself…”I had a hand in that!”
And you’re proud to see how tall your children have grown on they’re grown…still…every time you see their face…you smile…knowing they wouldn’t have grown so tall…if you hadn’t built their base.
Was it deep or was it shallow
Was it full or was it hallow
Did it stay or has it past
Did it feed or did it fast
Was it a gift or stolen property
Gods goodness or mans own lottery
Strong foundation or broken pottery
One great risk that lead to poverty
Was the worry worth the pain
Was it sweet or filled with disdain
Does it follow where ever you go
Wanted or unwanted fast or slow
Does it really come to an end
And if so where does the end begin
Does it end in death or one left behind
Were they faithful until the end of there time
Was it mostly heaven with a little bit of hell
For whom were they living or couldn't you tell
Was love the single purpose
Or misery part of the surface
Could jealousy destroy the chains of children
Or mistrust create the need of resolution
Has old age made the two into one
The way it was meant to be when it all begun
Pointedly poignant points portend pointillism.
Pontiffs pontificate pointless pointers ponderously.
Pompous poems populate Pompei pottery potently.
Porous *********** portrays Portuguese porta potties.
Poppies pop Popeye’s popular popcorn.
Populist populism pots ponies properly.
Blithering blather blots bloody bleeping blips.
Bloomberg blogs bleach bleating bloated blinks.
Bluebloods bloom black blackberry bloopers.
Bluetooth blizzards blame blurry blackboards.
Blithe blighted bladders blatantly block blades.
Blazing blasts bleed blooming blenders.
Fumbling fumes funerals fast.
Feuding fluid furniture flutters flaps.
Fighting flatulent flamingos flounder.
Floating flotillas flee flying flops.
Families foment future futile forms.
Freaky frozen French fries frighten frogs.
They tax your husband,
They tax your wife.
They tax your children,
Leave them with strife.
They tax the poor,
But never the rich.
Your taxes soar,
With flicks of a switch.
They tax your car,
They tax your house.
They go too far,
They'd tax a mouse.
They tax the lottery,
They tax your clothes.
They tax the pottery,
They tax a rose.
They tax your check,
It's quite unfair.
What the heck,
They tax the air.
They tax your pension,
They tax your food.
We feel the tension,
And ruin our mood.
We stress and strive,
The simple facts is.
We fight to survive,
They bury us in taxes.
Born with a complex like a tormented fugitive in a constant flight from a life of acceptance, his Life is filled with questions and complexities. There is no room
for blame. In a secret place, he was crafted skillfully; non are the same.*
Stored away in my garage are many items of relative values. Some have little
to no value and are pleading for me to tossed them. Others are just put in containers relative to their size and shape. Some totes contain various items
with distinct labels of identity. Some are boxed; some are in totes; some are very clearly 'marked'. Fragile people are Like boxes of beautiful jars and
choice pottery. Such ones must be cushioned and shielded, with postings, signs, and markings, less they be broken in a thousand pieces. There is a
Divine Mandate requiring us to be sensitive and protective of them. To do less is to be a lesser human. Always present is that inability to stand
up to conflict and withstand insensitive people. He cries easily and hurts badly. He requires special touches of love and human kindness. The 'marked
ones' are so designated, not because he is more important; but rather, because he is so very fragile, and must be handled with care. The one who
would dare to bully or mistreat him will himself be uncovered and revealed as one with much disfunction and sickness. No elasticity; No bouncing ability; No
flexibility; as if crafted in a sea of glass. He is entrenched with fragility. Finished and matured glass is highly useful, but is very vulnerable and easily
cracked and broken. Some of us are strong and solid like a rock. Some of us are weak and vulnerable like sheets of glass. We all are made in God's image
and likeness. You and I have an intrinsic worth of high and equal value. May we be as HE who notices every falling bird**, and embraces us as HIS friends.
10132017 PS Contest, Fragility, Hamilton,5P *Psalm 139:15, **Matthew 10:39
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