Sculptor Poems | Examples

Hands of a Sculptor

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

A Sculptor Muses

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)

To William Ricketts, Sculptor

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 Sculptor POTD

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 Am a Bone Sculptor

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

Sculptor

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

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, Nature's Sculptor

Glacier! Icy, cold,
hard. Diamond-like, it chisels
the frosty landscape.

What Shaped My Life

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

Haiku

oh sculptures around
                                     imagination sculpted 
                                     poetry poet

A Granite Sculptor

Midday sun burns. 
An iron chisel plays
sad tunes on a stone.
He enjoys prolonged
                   chiseling.
The granite conceives
from his tool-point, 
giving birth to a god, 
who will be plagued 
in a prayer hall, with
endless demands, by
someone as his spouse. 
Though no narcissistic
            admiration, his 
sculptures are marvelous.
Creativity is the sperm
of beauty, growing in 
            mind’s womb. 

He lights a candle at night.	
While warming his palms
over the flame, red hue 
reminds him of an old 
bloodshed over his god. 
A sculptor is never a culprit
behind a communal clash, yet 
musing moths swarm his mind.

First published in The Literary Hatchet

Master Sculptor

Master Sculptor, God Divine,
Chisel upon this life of mine.
Strike each blow with artisan care, 
Until the shape of Christ appears.

To Alberto Giacometti: Sculptor and Painter, 1901 To 1966

they 
say
that
life 
is 
but
a
shadow-
play,
and
we
mere
lines,
picked
out
by
the
light
of
day

The Sculptor

molding
every word
with bare 
hands

putting
pressure
on every
letter with

thumbs
that have
their own
minds

shaping
vowels of
verbs from
action to

possessive
and never
using periods
to keep

the
viewer
always
looking

The Morning Sculptor

the gloom splattering
the morning sculpting the void
the life from the death

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