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
She waited as her brain burnt her body to a crisp.
Shaking as time passed, she just won’t relax.
Her heart is in the hands of one’s fist.
He ran far away, until one fateful day
He couldn’t keep living without her.
?They pushed and they shoved,
but never fell out of love.
I suppose no more needing to chase her.
Now the two never part,
just like at the start.
Conjoined and molded together.
hello and meow
very much hot summer noon
love cool pottery
pottery row
lead me to the beach
pottery row
the ocean in now within reach
pottery row
thank you for all the scenery
pottery row
i appreciate the blue sky and the greenery
pottery row
your back roads are so lovely
pottery row
i welcome your purpose when your encouragingly shove me
pottery row
i am happy that you create beautiful central confusion
pottery row
i thank God for you as the nucleus of the most wonderful solution
pottery row
even though it is inevitable that i must return
pottery row
it is you, though one of many, that i will forever yearn
Splintered gold carpets the ground at her naked
feet. Stars spat from skies above crashing
down to carve out craters in the earth, barren.
She crunches memories once perfect between
her toes - the past squelching-squashing
in meadows bogged with rain and night-time tears.
His ashes, once held in an urn, float
now over a field, let out to pasture. The vase
cracked by her own hand, a widowed hand
grieving. It is said she walks under the moon
searching for those broken pieces. Grasping at
grass. Anything to meld his mosaic back together,
her palms the kiln moulding him into a frame,
a skeleton of pottery.
You have the darkest silence
I can’t read your face
I can’t interpret you blink
There is no meaning to your wink
Your smile is warm and cold
You head shakes like a nod
Your yes sounds like a no
I see nothing on your fore
But you have a soul
You get my attention without a call
You make chants of a statuesque dead man
Frozen in the scorching sun
Wordless and sightless
A statue standing in the darkness of silence
In sanctuary,
Cracked from flows and blows of life,
A piece of raw clay!
Mold me, my Potter;
I surrender to thee now,
Pray bake me finest!
i hate to
because
i want to
stay
awake
for to take
you
by the
hand and
shape
your clay
into a vase
you
needn't be
Ming Dynasty
for you
you please
me just being
Colombian
If I had some clay
I would work with it
To create a vase
or make a soap dish
Working with wet clay
Ins easy to work with
Making it into something
To be so proud of
The large items made
on the potter's wheel
It takes time to shape
Making objects right
After twelve hours made
Then into the kilm
Next to be sanded
After that g;lazed
Then painted again
Returned to the kilm
Once more again
Then apply the felt
STORIES IN POTTERY
Bluebirds above the azure lakes
Burleigh cups - willow pattern trees in gold leaf -
Once with mashed Sichuan oolong,
And on their side plates, shortbread tiffin,
While nephews in white laughed loudly and played tennis on the lawn.
George V Silver Jubilee mug and plate (1910-1935)
Found by slum clearance machines
In a small kitchen overlooking the slipway at Wallsend -
The mug was dropped once and chipped
On the stone floor, toasting the returned Mauretania -
The plate was never used again,
The Mauretania was never used again.
Chipped but uncracked ; dust coated, but loved.
Shapes and pictures that hold more than hot tea.
Saucers deep and smooth, or shallow and scalloped
With painted delicate petals.
With oolong long cooled,
Cups with flared bell-mouths buried
Under crumpled newspaper stuffed
In soapboxes advertising Daz flakes
She stalks the hall of graffiti red,
bare legs and platform shoes,
and she ties her shirt in such a way
as to best accentuate her boobs
her hair's a mess,
smudged makeup dress,
and lipstick sticks on bottle tips,
cause she's she's she's...
drinking in the bathtub,
taking pictures of her body,
glorifying vomit and drugs on the floor,
and her friends gather round
to touch her alabaster skin,
the bastardized salamander
scales of sexual abuse,
made gold,
and highlighted by the hieroglyphic
autograph of cursive,
that's not just a tramp stamp-
but a prize for past and future lovers,
her mark, her brand, her scent
is a black hole, sucking men in,
Venus and her orbit, spins
desire, violence, jelousy;
sex and mud: a recipe for revenge
and power lust- pornstar pottery.
A BEAUTY BORN OF THE ‘BURBS
I showed her the steamier and seedier side
A place where the desperate have tried, cried and died
Young Ms. Suburbs took to it’s derelict charm
As we’d stroll downtown with arms tangled in arm
She had never been confronted by the pitiful and the poor before
They never showed up at her mahogany and gold leafed front door
The beggars on Broadway fascinated her
As beauty in the burbs had created her
I led her to a land of underground sorrow
Where beleaguered moles belittle tomorrow
I showed her both the glory and the fear
In a land difficult for a body to bear
The shoddy sidewalks spit out steam
Where the lost ones don’t even dare to dream
Their nights are as dark as their prospects seem
While manic depressives scurry and scream
I showed her the lives which led to death deep underground
The place where subways vomit out the unfortunate found
She was profoundly effected as we strolled down concrete curbs
And it was evident my tour was a life altering trip for Little Miss Burbs
© 2011.….Phreepoetry
A poem sleeps in my body in an upright state,
Among the heavy traffic, I lay bare my desire
Comes unto me in the broad way of my heart
Search in her body similes, title or metaphor.
I breathe in her mouth with the words proper
I whisper into ears to hear the echoes of words
That are in my mind to compose the body fair.
And feel sound effect reading it aloud for tunes
Touch your curved lips with overflowing ideas
Deep down in the vault of your soft rosy cave
I feel you and hear it in firmament of heavens
Touch heart that heaves and throbs like dove
Like a potter I lay my hand on waist for rhythm
Balance,proportion,and aesthetic flexible rhyme.
=================================
23-12-13
First Place win
Contest: Portrait of a Poet by Gautami Phookan
Dr. Ram Mehta - ***A Shakespearean Sonnet***
Date 11-6-10
Sixth Place Winner in:
Contest: Create your own form, maybe? by The rambling Poet, Dear heart
Pottery jugs big and small
Flowers in abundance one and all.
Sometimes roses, lillies too,
Daisies white with a yellow hue
Birthdays weddings, anniversaries too
out comes the gug both bright and blue
To house the flowers sent by you.
something in so-called modern
landscaping amuses me no end,
be it in plush mansions, resorts
or some cottages round the bend;
seems that to residents who fancy
themselves as aesthetically cultured,
a well-mown grassy lawn is never
considered artistically manicured
unless there are antique-looking
pots and jars scattered around
which must be slightly cracked
and partly sunken in the ground,
like accidentally unearthed markers
for a mummified queen's jewelry,
but to ordinary plumbers like me,
this is a health-risky, silly mystery;
the pots and jars breed bad skitters
that inject malaria into your artery,
insects don't care if you majored
in archaeology, minored in pottery.
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