He Sculpted her from, a block of ice
and he had an image, drawn down, it twice
a million ice pleats, in her dress, that glowed
he must carve it slow, must carve it slowwwwww
and the light behind her, showed no imperfect flaws
so he sculpt her more, scattered shards, fell to the floor
and he carved her bodice, of frozen plumes
to mimic feathers, that appeared to move
so up and down, frozen , round and round
and just like Artic water, but it had no sound
and strings of ice beads, from her shoulders edge
her covered garment, the strands did blend
not once , imagination , did ever wavering
though her ice cold eyes, had splintered shavings
so he kept stepping back, to view , his work of Art
sublimation decor, this woman, would never part
but he took too long , in this Art, admired
for now it melted, for time makes , ice,
....so very tired.
As in the mind of the sculptor
who sees a face or figure
to be revealed
in a block of stone or caressed
into form out of a lump of clay,
the sacred too is held hidden
within the appearance
of ordinary things.
I seldom notice
in the hurry and self occupied
focus of my life the profound
silence that lays at the core
of the magpie's exquisite song,
the still across which clouds move,
the emptiness into which
all the contents of a day are poured.
And in the turmoil that sometimes
rages through my mind
am I aware of the calm
at the very centre of who I am
and in the essence
of all created things. Nor do I
grasp eternity along whose
endless path time ticks out
its measured steps
and my life on this planet
plying a universe that seems
to be expanding into
an unanswerable mystery,
a Mind writing itself in matter
and gifting me in its vast
unfolding, a part, a moment
of form.
Shall every dawn a gentle sculptor be,
That moulds the clay of thought with softest art?
As yonder flower, bathed in crystal sea.
Doth catch the light and teach the drooping heart.
From golden vein where dewdrops slowly trace
Their shinning path along the petal's curve ,
So doth the mind, in quiet, sacred space,
Absorb the strength that daily trials serve.
Teach it to trust the root that grips the earth,
Though tempests rage and shadows cloak the sky;
For in the bloom that drinks the morning's birth,
Lies power born where fragile droplets lie.
Thus shape thy soul as dawn's own hand designs--
Believe thine own bright strength , and claim what shines.
Pygmalion, with your chisel and your mind,
Did fashion beauty past the mortal lot;
That Aphrodite then with life did bind,
And this Galatea, who your heart had sought.
Then bask a moment in that glorious morn,
When wonders new awake unto the world;
But what the age that with her life was born,
And what beyond that dawn shall be unfurled?
For soon enough, the chisel comes for you,
And all that was has but a certain date;
And all that will be, shinier and new;
Is obsolescence destiny, or fate?
In time, Galateas galaxies shall own,
And all we are, shall scarcely well be known.
Pygmalion, it were stoutly done
To chisel up your special one.
You can't get a date,
But quarried a crate,
By which all your courting is none.
You have the hands of a sculptor
I am malleable clay ~
Shape me, body and soul
Mold my senses ~ sculpt my heart
Where your fingers touch me ~
I am a candle, melted by your flame
Never to discover
the limits of soul
Such is the depth
of its station
The nature of being
not what’s distilled
But what’s left
— from evaporation
(Septa R5: March, 2025)
Between the trees
a waterfall
of
light,
a stillness
bright with bubbling springs
and birdsong.
Here you stumbled
on
that
strange intensity
by which
the tongue-tied earth
is made articulate.
First published in Landfall, New Zealand
The wood was perfect.
Hammer in hand, he toiled.
Sweat trickled down his neck.
Her face was chiselled,
A perfect portrait:
The hawk-like nose,
The high cheekbones,
The wide brow.
But not her flaring eyes.
They defied him.
In exasperation, he threw the lamp,
His only source of light,
And watched the wood burn.
In the deserted cabin.
In a wooded glen forlorn,
When the fire subsided
They found his body
Long dead, carbonised and cold.
And a piece of chiselled wood
Charred and worthless.
originally written in 10/4/2016
I’m a bone sculptor the gorgeous man said, his name was Dean.
I asked what does that mean? I had never heard of such a thing.
An artist, I take bleached bones and make a fine scene.
Thought I could take it, so I went with him to see a creation called Sing.
Oh, this is it, I said, and saw that he was super proud indeed.
bunch of bones in the desert, some might have been from a fine steed.
He hoped that I would give him high praise that day.
Unfortunately, I could not wait to get home and scurry quickly aw
Jerry and I were inseparable then
straight and tall
high school buddies
we had it all.
The girls favored him
heart-melting smile
the epitome of class
the essence of style.
But I won over a few
'twas only so much of him.
I had sweet Patricia
who loved me to the brim.
The day came when we parted
Jerry chased what he wanted to be.
He chanced upon me after fifty years
disbelieving what he did see.
Never-resting time chisels marks
on every frame.
And what we once were
can only in memory remain.
Water Sculptor
Life stretches into abundant sheaths swelling with water,
Living breath of the selfless servant cascades through veins
Drawn into waterways of stalks and roots
Reaching – climbing – filling - shaping
Boughs of mighty oaks and agile weeping willows
Self-sculpture surging, fashioned into perfumed sinuous vines,
Arching floral sunbows,
Floods of bursting supple rose petal scented fountains -
The graceful limber lilac in nodding plies -
Filled to saturation and untouched
By the withering hand of drought
Strong stems of landscapes like waterfalls of vibrating weirs,
As buttercups in spas of tumbling dewdrops,
A living hush of gushing life infused –
Flowing in the murmur of the silent unseen molding,
Whispered into new wings soaring
On ever rising veils for conduits of resurrection
From inner arterial paths and aquatic branched channels
Waterknife shaping in undertones of colorless hues
The contoured face of field and forest - sky and mountain meadow.
6-20-21
Contest: The Shape of Water
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
Glacier! Icy, cold,
hard. Diamond-like, it chisels
the frosty landscape.
Time and events chisel and shape our lives,
an unknown sculptor blue prints your life plan,
a knock here, a cut there, we think ‘not fair’
we journey along through ridges and lairs,
rewards flow in that we relish and cheer,
count our gains in terms of money we earn,
real reward is that we don’t understand,
the gift of wisdom that comes with failures,
the gift of forbearance that comes with grief,
the gift of love that comes with family,
the gift of happiness comes from sharing,
the gift of compassion helps us wipe tears!
from end of life we look back to admire,
the road map of our journey now much clear,
brothers, sisters with parents and teachers,
have guided my life to what it matters,
enemies who threw at me their arrows,
helped me strengthen to counter my sorrows,
every defeat made me that much smarter,
thanks to many foes for playing their part,
If my life had been happy and easy,
I would have ended up a useless slob!
2nd placement
‘It is a part of me’ Poetry contest!
Silent One
Written 15/11/2020
10 syllables each line
rhyme not intended!
22 lines
oh sculptures around
imagination sculpted
poetry poet
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