Mortared Poems | Examples

Shadow Diorama

Even the ghosts have faded now,
splashes of gray like shadows
in a child's diorama.
They slip in and out of mortared cracks 
in my mind,
seeking a validation
I cannot besrow.
But they must remain in
their graves,
Wrapped in their gangrenous
shrouds, pursuing
redemption without me.

Oldtown

Tall and narrow,
the houses stand,
wall against wall,
hunched together
on the edge of the 
cobbled street,
as if armed against
the unknown.
Tiny balconies
Where laundry 
Used hang on railings 
To dry, now bursting
With potted plants 
Walls bright yellows, 
greens and blues, 
stucco and stone
mortared together
hundreds of years ago
by stout men in
leather aprons
with the rudest of
implements,
they lean inward 
over the street, 
which once ran with mud,
the contents of
slop jars, and wash water.
Now teeming with tourists
who hobble on the cobbles,
peering into first floors,
converted into tiny shops
crammed with hats
and shirts and sandals,
soaps and wine and bracelets,
postcards and paintings,
candy and local delicasies.
Oldtown suddenly finds itself
squarely in the middle 
off the twenty-first century.

Bite the Bullet

Bite The Bullet

Puerile caliber, risks crypt goes I, 
peashooter to Saturday-night-special, 
relatives riddled our home, armed, shot nigh, 
puerile caliber, risks crypt goes I, 
mortared appendages, aimless, I sigh, 
pinched and kissed, triggered red-bled cheeks, et al, 
puerile caliber, risks crypt goes I, 
peashooter to Saturday-night-special.

REVISED

2020 October 25
*Honorable Mention*
Pick-A-Title, Vol 24 - Triolet
~~Edward Ibeh

Rampart of Stone

Within the woods, stood a wall of stone
molded by hands from a distant time.
Though roughly hewn, it had endured.

What narratives could it tell of its past,
this ancient bulwark,  built to last?
My fingers traced each pitted wound.

I wondered as to the tragic fate
of one missing mortared rock.
I dared to peer inside the hollow;
the scent of age overpowered me.

A sudden dizziness rattled my senses
with a brief glimpse of a long ago battle
when weapons pricked the rampart's bulk.

This bastion had served as a battlement,
a barricade between differences of opinions.
Was the victory worth the lives forsaken?
Because of it, were families torn apart?

With need to offer words of compensation.
I paid homage to the unyielding wall, 
whispering, "Stand strong, brave soldier."


October 6, 2020 ~ A Wall in the Woods
Craig Cornish ~ Sponsor

Ado To Salt

I‘m embittered by isolation like Ado turned to salt
but outside, the flowers are dueling for attention.
I am mortared in this seclusion as Catullus rendered stone
yet outdoors, trees bask and frolic in the sun.
I'm locked in place, punished, like I'd smiled at Medusa
yet the squirrels go about their gatherings as birds forage.
I am gently constrained, but freedom nips at the air and invites memory.

Poetry

i used as
a coaster
Poe's book
of complete
works for my

beer and as
i watched 
it sweat 
on this 
day

a particularly
humid can't
get used
to it day
i may

have
stated
that i had
contemplated
being buried alive

coughing
but not even
in a coffin but
in floor boards or
in mortared walls all

be it still sealed
in breathlessly
taking away
my living
all gasp

forgiving
as if bitten
by an asp that
slowly emotionally
takes me to the river

but delivered with
empty pockets
my shoes and
socks off 
but not 

a dime

so casts off
the ferryman
throwing sticks
telling perhaps if
he can come back

to see if
money i have
in hand to take
me to that promised
land but never can i to get

for i'm just 
a poe boy 
from a 
poe 

family
momma
mia momma
mia let me go

Buccaneering Dorian

Like wild buccaneers
on a partying raid,
they came ashore.
Fierce waters and winds
wielding their destructive swords
grabbing defenceless trees by the necks:
viciously shaking their hair-like foliage heads;
bending their backs; snatching them up
and throwing them here and there.

With torrential forces,
the marauding buccaneering
waters and winds leveled mortared
and boarded constructions
as if they were thatched huts of shade.
Young and old beings
became like unripe and ripened fruits
consumed by the ravaging forces of nature.
Behind, lay skeletal fields and sandy shores
laden with rampaged debris.

Satisfied with the fun and booty,
the buccaneering twins
return to their seafaring sails
in search of more up roaring.
Meanwhile, the prodigal Sun returns,
reflecting dry salty tears
pasted on the faces of those
who must now iron out their wrinkled lives.
In the aftermath, Nature makes no apologies
and God can’t be cursed.

Nulla Universitas

Behind ivy thoughts and mortared speech,
my soul cannot be bought

As I worship freely deep within
—the truth forever caught

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2017)

Under the Rug

I’m frozen staring out into the dappled light,
You ask me why I’m quiet,
I say I just enjoy the silent,
sound of hopeless anger turning to unfocused sight,
So blurry,
Then you leave me in a hurry,
Are you all that satisfied,
with every time I’ve lied and said,
It’s all ok…
It’s just in my head…
That dull ache of apathy is just a side effect,
of watching all my love turn dead,
and cold,
And every time you laugh or yell at my expense,
Can you really blame the wall that builds so high in my defense,
And each new brick that’s mortared with a frown,
only takes a day to set,
but a thousand years to crumble down.

Inklings of Spring

Winter finally moves his lumpen sluggish weight,

Spring is like a shy dryad shivering in his arms

Wind's whippets droop to trifling whine

Sullen rain hisses to a grizzle.

tiny fruit buds swell enough to moisten lips.

First daffodil maidens preen, bright faces so fair!

Chattering swallows check granite grey mortared mansion.

Duck naps snug, beak a chest --- gull floats overhead.

Longer days mean I must leave my snuggly, sleepy daze,

slightly more light; work energies reappear

poetry is laid aside in favour of trimming trees

seething solar heating sound, signals dimly smiling sun.

seed packets eagerly spread out – What to plant this season?

Suddenly, more bees aflight – our crops will be alright!

Another cycle begins!






1) Anthropomorphism       2) Simile   3) Metaphor   4) onomatopoeia
5)Synaesthesia      6)  Personification  7)  Sensory Imagery
8)    Ellipsis       9)  Homophone   10) Caesura    11) Pun
12) Alliteration   13) Rhetorical Question   14)Internal Rhyme 
15) Truism





Written 20th August for Line Gautier Contest - A Litany of Poetic Devices

Walking the Line

Blood,
fires from my pen
like a well shot round

14 karat penetration, 
mighty wound of 
self aggression

Letters,
reducing armies 
into a special force

Time dying,
as mortared ink strikes 
the page

The raw edge of battle, 
...new combatants die, 
leaving their mark

Cursive warriors of the
spoken word,
martyred sentinels of a bigger truth,
—walking the line 

(Richmond Virginia: December, 2002)

Potters Wheel

Wheels of fire burn at the potters hands and feet.
Sweet passion of mortared clay;
fashioned on a potters wheel to be carried away.
Lamps holden in wheels created as before you see.
Sweet passion of mortared clay;
fashioned on a potters wheel to be carried away.
Between  the two a lamp moved promising today.
Sweet passion of mortared clay;
fashioned on a potters wheel to be carried away.
The potters eyes who hold mine created me for you.
Sweet passion of mortared clay;
fashioned on a potters wheel to be carried away.

3

There’s nothing so suitable as a pen—for expressing pain—
No other instrument has a stint extended as deeply within the vein.
There’s nothing so fit as a laugh to release the pent up fears—
Nothing that can break the mortared cask enough to dry the tears.
There’s nothing so perfect as a song—for escaping misery:
With each rung on the staff, a soul climbs closer to free.

Perfectly Breakable

Mother buried hacked-up carp beneath 
pink rose mallow. She knew the filthy cats 
would come. A balled-up dirty rag 
and coffee tin of smelly kerosene 
were garrisoned behind a red berry twistwood. 
Mother would hide in a column of shadow 
near the porch. Ambush the cats as they dug 
for carp. Their noses spiced with fish-oiled peat. 
Tails flagged above puckered targets. 
Mother was quick with her kerosene rag — spot on! 
A hush-hush tripwire stretched taut round 
the perimeter of mother’s mortared desperation. 
The sacrosanct, lint-free, perfect world, where 
she demanded God wipe His feet at her door. 
Dear Mother, our Elizabeth Taylor dead ringer, 
who could waltz with kings, or gut them with a glare. 
Ghetto mother, who would murder to keep 
her suburbs white, the cat crap gone, and 
her prize mallow big as Frisbees. I couldn’t 
let it storm on mother. She would get crazy 
if her galvanized tin-roof mind was rattled. 
Her daughter always had to shine. I kept 
the attic window shutters well oiled. Mother 
never heard my bare feet crisscrossing 
the roof, as I ran to catch the rain.

Who Will You Love?

who will you love when it finally comes down
when both of your feet are planted firmly on ground
not sand that shifts and threatens your soul
casting your heart in a deep, black hole
what sparkles not necessarily gold

who can you trust other than your friends
when the walls crumble and collapse within
mortared feelings at your feet
your spirit sagging from the weight
grace escaping this same fate

who do you know, what do you feel?
what is untried and what is real?
what lays a mystery to be revealed?
it stretches before you, always has
the secret inside a shadowed glass

who will you love, what will be revealed?
when at last your heart is unsealed
when you finally cut and run
to the valley of the sun
North to mountains and endless nights
far away from prying eyes
far away from a past life
far away from me

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