Sculptors Poems | Examples

Night At the Necropolis

Night,
Ageless and porous,
Sang screeches of fireflies of
Crescendo-diminuendo sparks.
What hour?
In the midst of the hustles, I lost my hoursight
Different, tonight, is my eyesight, seeing even
Through the darkest foliage of gentle, but sinister
Caress sway.
On the broken, cracked slabs, squatting, dark torsos!
Pensive, broken, sad, old and so good the
Work of Italian sculptors.
Further deep in searching glare, the hardened
Mats of hurried sepultures of returning
Soldiers, whose wellingtons have squelched in
Mudblood.
Wars and battles never post blandishments
On peace.
What hour now, brother?
It is so dark and mean, and my hourglass refuses a
Moon reflection.
But now the hours move fast on march of the
Headless feet in wellingtons.
'Left, right, left, right....'
Dolts hasten among fleeing marabouts.
Stench from ailing, balmed smog
Stills the whiffs of roasting deer, all in
One silence of close hour canticles...
Such phalanx, brother, coldens the head.

the fairest

I found sweet deeps to plunge you in
    where oceans cease and vaults begin
      the wakes there roil in brumes of mist
  and cheeks of sky are blushing, kissed

the face oft’ graced with features, yours
    thus featured with what each adores
      soft bats each lash o’er polished stars
  that melt midst moony eyes … like ours

for beauties borne as thine shine bright
    ne’er chanced askance for fancied flight
      and should some others draw those gifts
  they’re tossed to where the flotsam drifts

lest drowning cold what absence pours
    they’d take from light what light abhors
      and float there buoyant twixt dark clouds
  their vixened visage swirled with shrouds

still - most looking glasses feign that grace
    should god-skilled sculptors give such face
      for women’s charms are poised and crowned
  to swoon their prince where hopes are bound …

with wonders soft …
    and warm …
      and round.

Harlem in the 40s

Harlem in the 40s

Harlem in the 40s was a place of rhythm and soul
Where music was the language and jazz was the goal
Where singers and musicians made the crowds go wild
Where swing and bebop and blues were the style

Harlem in the 40s was a place of art and flair
Where painters and sculptors showed their talent and care
Where colors and shapes and forms were the expression
Where beauty and meaning and vision were the impression

Harlem in the 40s was a place of words and wisdom
Where poets and writers shared their stories and opinions
Where rhyme and meter and metaphor were the tools
Where inspiration and emotion and message were the rules

Harlem in the 40s was a place of joy and wonder
Where people celebrated their culture and their power
Where creativity and innovation were the norm
Where Harlem was a renaissance and a legend was born

Naked women Anacreontic couplets

next to fountain nude she stood,
a delight for all manhood!

her skin was fair, curls so black,
muscles showed down to her back.

her hands were on both her breasts,
smile was invite to the guests.

a few more girls kept her side,
not demure, their legs were wide.

there was joy and laughter too,
men milled around, stole a view.

wine with beer made men bawdy,
some old spinsters went rowdy!

nudes remained by the fountain,
sculpted stones from rock mountain!

nude stone sculptors are a charm,
why profane in human form?

Statuary

“Le poëte est ciseleur, le ciseleur est poëte.” - Hugo

Poets, they are sculptors
Who wield their sharpened tools,
Who chisel not in stone,
But rather work to write…
Wordsmithing skills to hone.

Poets, they are sculptors
Who carve not into wood.
With imagery they play…
In grammar etching mood,
Emotions on display.

Poets, they are sculptors
Who fashion not in clay.
They mold in metaphor,
Using rhyme and rhythm,
With less, aiming for more.

Poets, they are sculptors
Who work with ink on page.
On paper trying to
Create in stanzas, lines
Something completely new.

Songs of Soul COS No 10: ABAB

Absent of pride, gave their lives, those they owed,
bloodlines warrant one soul's intended quest
persuades a past, that they constantly sowed
pastoral guides sculptors essence is blessed
Readiness spurs insights, smoothing passion
unforeseen tests that fool-hearted, not them
their unbidden stare on death's face, cash in
pushed e'er determined, tensing a rose stem
Unchecked horses, intrepid horsemen burst
barrage relents as foe feared those affirmed
lurked rears castle shadows most accursed
chance lights and afront darken all confirmed
won swords gained Heaven rewards fruition.
Bold victor of few words, save salvation.

A Song Of Gratitude

In the tapestry of time, where friendships bloom,
Mes amis, like petals, dispelling life's gloom.
Brothers, firm anchors in the sea of existence,
Une soeur agaçante, a tempest, a relentless insistence.

Parents, the roots, firmly grounding my being,
Leaves of wisdom, in the breeze, foreseeing.
Enemies, shadows that dance in the moonlit night,
Igniting the fire, propelling toward the light.

Obstacles, sculptors shaping destiny's mold,
Dans leur défi, a story to be told.
Life, un cadeau sacré, a gift from above,
Not a right to claim, but a testament of love.

In the symphony of struggle, where melodies intertwine,
Chutes et ascensions, a rhythm so divine.
Gratitude, a dance, through joy and despair,
Dans chaque souffle, God's presence in the air.

Number one on the list, au sommet, divine,
Grateful to Dieu, the source of the grand design.
In the dichotomy of good and bad, the ebb and the flow,
All glory to Lui alone, in the afterglow.

The Art of Motherhood

She seeks not a beautiful form to paint
but with virtues the mind to acquaint.
Her goal is not to sketch a perfect face
but to color lives with hope, love, and grace. 

She does not chisel hearts as sculptors do stone
But shapes vessels that can stand on their own.
Her aim is not to mold hearts that conform
but to pour in principles that transform. 

She writes on young hearts the words that are true,
not with clever ones as romantics do.
The goal is to train them in virtue’s ways,
and hope they practice them, through all their days.  

Like a musician practicing a piece,
she teaches daily, her words never cease.
Her hope is that when her children are grown,
a noble character in them will be shown.

Bridging the Present

Hope may wane
and wishes fade
but art forever keeps
Dawn till dusk
till dawn again
incessance buried deep
Sculptors sculpt
and painters paint
as writers seize the day
Creation’s bridge
 its toll insures 
—tomorrow’s yesterday

(The New Room: September, 2023)

Holding You In a Dance

holding you in a dance
the side-by-side stroll
raising my arm is your cue
begins the whirlwind
a whisper crosses the floor
you turn into me
my hand slides to the hips
fold arm into mine
bringing in the warmth
cheek to cheek, lips to ear
i adore you
now the gentle separation
my arm reaches into the heavens
hers in hand as my other lowers
begins the magic in her pirouette
as she turns her hair rushes
shoulder to shoulder
i am spellbound in the wave
the foam appears receding, revealing
the ivory neck of the Venus i so adore
the ear comes into full view
where so often i hover 
a butterfly caught in the magic
acquiring drams in a captivating meadow
moments spent in endearment
as that cheek-nose comes into view
i see Greek sculptors lost in a daydream
where chisel and stone await in reverence
as my hand pulls your hip in
lips in a simper, a delicious temptation
but not enough to deter our eyes embracing
as hysteria succumbs to ecstasy
our cheeks glide into one another
i am in a moment with her ear
i missed you
this is how my world turns
in the heavens we are

   OKC   12/22

She Is An Exquisite Dinner

she is an exquisite dinner
awakens taste with beguiling smiles
a platter of kindness
wrapped in delicate crepes
lips that promise
a selection of wines
set for any course you so desire
a delicate glass never empty
a macedoine salad
stolen from the garden 
of some goddess
a bewitching soup 
dipped from a cauldron
enchantment in every spoon
that reaches the palate
fruits that have come from far
and forbidden shores
an intoxicating sweetness that consumes
all of the senses
and finally the piece de resistance
what drove Greek sculptors to stone
she is sitting across the table

   OKC   06/22

Bricks and Mortar

The truth about children,
They’re tiny sparks that glow in the dark,
They're embers that warm the space,
They're treasures on an abandoned island,
They're vessels of a worthy cause,
They add colours to a gloomy day,
Their silly acts cast a shadow on a bright day,
Reassembling my childhood,
Fixing the lost pieces,
Straightening the contoured lines,
Bringing back childhood memories,
Admonishing, instructing and teaching,
Letting them know,
First, friends are sculptors and masons,
Secondly, they’re painters and carpenters,
What view of you do they have in mind?
What substance do they
 intend to make of you?
These speak volumes of their craftsmanship,
These tell of the motive behind their labours.




April 20, 2022.

Compose

Compose- create, concoct, contrive
conceive, construct, make come alive.
Configure, craft, compile, complete;
compose- a word that gifts a treat.
Composers- poets, writers of
inspired thoughts; musicians- love 
of sounds that sing; skilled artists paint
and sculptors shape with no restraint.

Through eyes and ears, all art is dealt,
and by the heart, emotions felt.
A poem- born through word control;
a painting- stirred by vision's goal.
Great music- tuned to strum delight,
and sculptures bring forth 3-D might.
Within us all- needs to compose; 
create the best of what we chose.


January 15, 2022

Contest: C Form - Couplet Poetry Contest 
Sponsor: Constance La France
Word Choice: 4. Compose

Forlorn Hope

*Image of Tennyson Cross, Isle of Wight provided by Pixabay.

Forlorn Hope
Poetic Form: Sonnet

Divined amassed, thinly advance their scope
bloodlines warrant one soul's intended quest
persuades enhanced history, constants hope
pastoral guides sculptors essence is blessed

Readiness spurs insights, smoothing passion
unforeseen tests that fool-hearted, not them
their unbidden stare on death's face, cash in
pushed e'er determined, tensing a rose stem

Unchecked horses, intrepid horsemen burst
barrage relents as foe feared those affirmed
lurked rears castle shadows most accursed
chance lights an afront darken all confirmed

Bold few opinions charged submits warlords
fruition won swords gained Heaven rewards

2021 May 08
*1st Place*
ALL YOURS (May 18): Judged 2021 May 18
~~Brian Strand
*2nd Place*
This or That, Vol 2
~~Edward Ibeh: Judged 2021 May 13  

*HMS checked 10 syllables x 14 lines.

Catherine the Great of Russia

She had no idea what a fantastic legacy of enlightenment she left
She was assertive woman who took no guff from any mortals. 
Her self-confidence was well known; she was feared by men. 
She gladly overthrew her husband and her cousin to get power 

Perhaps she sensed she would only live to the age of sixty-seven.
But she decided she had a lot of work to do. She hired artists and poets.
Surrounded herself with sculptors, dancers, singers and, orators. 
She uplifted women in a variety of ways, bringing them out of their darkness.

She created Smolny Institute,  the first college for women in Europe.
She wanted the others to get ahead like she had when she became Empress.
Catherine earned her name; she surrounded herself with free thinkers.
Her coup d’état paid off; Russia became alive with culture and new ideas.

Catherine was a nurturer, a mother, soon known as Catherine the Great.
Almost four hundred years ago, and yet we recognize her term as golden.
Still to this day, we call her reign “the Golden age of Russia”.
A versatile, liberal minded woman who traded her wifehood for power.

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