Long Sanded Poems
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Gilded Crosses?
By Mark D. Stucky
Shiny icons gleaming on altars?
And hanging from necks on gilded chains?
No. Not back then…
Not golden, not metal, not shiny, not slick,
not smooth, not symmetrical,
not sanded, not straight.
Unvarnished, uneven, irregular, rough-hewn,
knotty, cracked, scrap wood
with hazardous splinters.
No sparkling jewels inlaying gold.
Just rusty nails
impaling flesh and bone.
No ornate mounting, no pristine pedestal.
Just dropped into a hole
and wedged with rocks.
No symbol, no sacredness, no beauty,
no justice, no hope, no gain,
no victory, no glory.
Just naked, scandalous, criminal, brutal,
with loss, sorrow, pain,
and inevitable death.
That is what a Roman cross was
and meant back then…
a death sentence,
an icon of horror.
Until…transformed
one dark morning,
when Light shoved stone aside
and sentenced Death to die.
(First published in Small Town Anthology V: Entries from the Fifth Annual Tournament of Writers, Schoolcraft Community Library, 2019, pp. 147-148. See also my related poems "Resurrection iBodies," "Darkest Night, Morning Lights," and "The God Behind the Curtain.")
(Image by congerdesign on Pixabay.com.)
As rust falls from the anchor
Where do sandcastles go
when the tide engulfs the view and
lonely shorelines crest in tear drops
beneath white capped dream chasers,
foam laced erasers combing sanded wishes,
taking towers in the water's rage
as moats become minor indentations
on a beach bathed in the moon light,
moving gleams in metronome tickling
as our hearts wash out to sea
drowning in the depths of forbidden love
and with my final breath,
salt water drenched I profess
that forbidden or not, I love you
and the lighthouse shines its orbiting light
as I go under for the last time
happy in my declaration
as rust falls from the anchor
and I wait until we meet again,
on the island of meant to be
I roam through cactus and moonlight,
never knowing how old marrow can be fleshed
from pores sewn in blank lines of endings ~
and here I am among rows of a year’s diary;
these hands sanded by memorials
of famine and feast ; sometimes wrinkled
by the laundry of evenings’ regret.
At times, like a torn gypsy rose burned in coal,
I remember the faces of my family smelling
of tar and mint , knitting arms flamed
though midnight’s love, then doused
by autumn’s muddy rain ~ gone just like that.
12/28/2015
For the Contest Deep and Dark
Sponsor; Broken Wings
O breezy Spring leaves,
Show-offs of stupendous beauty.
Your breathtaking heights
and swooning low brights,
Puffy delights
As you bud and sway.
You delightfully chill me
Goosebumps on arms
and brace.
Fingertips are nearly blue,
brazenly so on this Spring-a-ling day.
An open space,
front door unhinged,
ready to be sanded and stained.
I’ll swing a jacket
about my shoulders
and sock up my feet.
Sock it to me, Spring!
I will spring into action
that is if
I can retract my wiggly fingers
back from the letters
leaping onto white space.
Reminds me of the swoosh of beach -
its tremendous peaks.
Not a damaging Spring
but quite mischievous!
Sea Glass
From Mother Nature’s jewel box
She gives us and
She reciprocates …
Over the sands of time She forms and fashions troves of jewels
Refuse, shards of glass litter discarded and strewn
Sanded and polished by briny waves magically glazed frosty verglas
Trading trash and abuse with gifts
Sea glass gems washed ashore
Stones resembling emeralds, amethyst, ruby’s,
turquoise crystals displayed on the soft carpeted shores
Wishes to have seen this newfangled beauty
She once gifted us exquisitely
A rare sight as less litter evinces Her gifts scarce
I wonder was She by us coerced?
Ample reasons for us to quit littering
if not, there are more
I like the old buildings,
the weathered brick,
the worn down doorsteps sanded
by a century of shuffling feet,
the musty smells from
old bond stores and hotel
cellars wafting up through
grates along the street.
I like the defiance
of the old façades,
how they hang on
beneath layers of gaudy paint,
the names and dates
embossed on buildings
refusing to be rubbed out,
the held dignity of a stone wall,
desecrated by graffiti
yet still standing straight.
I like the late night
peace and quiet
that settles along the lanes
and back streets
of the old port,
places only the locals know,
home to the ghosts
of washed-up sailors
and the lost souls
who have nowhere
else to go.
With anyone daring or caring enough to listen, he shared stories of experiences he had with her, about moments shared and places they went. When we met, he sensed in me someone he could trust. He feared exposing her true identity to anyone lest someone would call the authorities whom he feared would have him committed.
Everything he did, she did. Everywhere he went, she went. He could not truly feel lost without her because he never allowed himself to be without her. She was first and foremost above all others, and nothing came before, during, between, or after her. She was part and parcel of everything he was. He always listened and spoke to her, every moment was precious, never wasted.
He always carried a beautifully painted rock about the size of a golfball. He had sanded the rock to a very smooth appearance rather soothing to the touch. The rock was not to remind him of her but represented someone to have, to touch, to hold, and to hug. It was not because he had once loved and romanced another human being. No, his life was not one of failed relationships. It was the rock itself, a lifeless entity conceived and born in his own heart. He named the rock 'Miss Rock'.
Every night before bed, he would have those last intimate moments with Miss Rock. He sat her on a specially-made table created just for her upon which never sat anything more than a speck of dust which he was careful to always wipe clean every night. Those before-bed moments were most sacred. He never claimed to be deist, atheist, or agnostic, but if there was a goddess, Miss Rock was his, and he worshiped her 24-7.
063020PSCtest, A Contest About A Goddess Or God-Not The God, Caren Krutsinger. 3P
a wall with a perfect diminution
rough lumber built wide and strong a hollow
box with a window space cut through
sand, bank run, cement or Aircerete and straw
packed down and dried to fill the
hollow space and make a stone interior of
a rough lumber wall.
belt sanded and stained and shellacked
six of these were constructed and like
rammed earth wall they would
be the focal piece and design
connected by more modern
materials'
to create a perfect arteezy space!
Earth home or a hobbit house had been mounted
in rough lumber walls to be attached by more modern
appreciations. Finding it cheaper to use plyboards
and vinyl exterior coverings to make
Clear lines with perspective and perception
A garden of lavender shall make a beautiful scent.
Riverstone, cement and sand was used to cover the earth home
If there’s one thing I excel at,
(I am really quite a pro)
It is using the back burner,
Which, in case you didn’t know
Means procrastination, baby!
Putting things off for so long
I forget I meant to do them,
Which I guess is kind of wrong.
Still, I do deserve some credit -
The ideas are all my own:
Swapping couches for replacements
Or an upgrade for my phone,
Sprucing shelves up in the kitchen,
Ditching clothes that I don’t wear,
Having floors both stained and sanded,
Planning trips to who-knows-where.
Once I pounce upon a project,
I do research so I know
All the people I must contact
So I’ll be all set to go.
You’d think gathering the info
Would present the hardest part,
But for pros like me, that’s nothing -
What we cannot do is START!
A carpenter’s daughter am I but I do so love music.
So I built myself a lap dulcimer
of fine wild cherry and walnut;
I used my late Father’s old jigsaw,
cutting each plank into an elongated guitar shape.
Into the fingerboard, I measured, cut and hammered fret wire and carefully rasped away the roughened metal edges,
so I could play without any harm.
I sanded each one to a velvety caress,
steamed wood, shaped, and clamped sides into place;
a future musical vision, not just a typical hog fiddle but,
a fine tranquilizing music box.
On the top, I cut out flying birds and wood-burned, curly, swirling vines. I glued it all together carefully;
making sure to wipe down all of the sides.
When it was dry, I varnished it and then I sanded more.
So many layers brought out the woods luster.
No words explain the joy inside as my heartstrings did began to flutter.
Installing the pegs to hold the strings;
I carefully placed my screws then turning, turning carefully until they were solid there;
I adhered my bridge to the top.
Upon it then, I placed my strings;
adjusting the bridge, and tuned it up.
Oh, glorious be, such celestial sound
as across the strings, I dragged my thumb.
Such a magnificent harmonic thing;
ah, the way those strings had rung.
Off to YouTube I did go, for lessons I knew I’d find;
and when I play my dulcimer, it’s serenity sublime!