For the crystal sculpture is gracile with an emphasis to be visible yet translucent.
If you
Have the gift of
Art - draw, paint, sketch and write.
Even if no one else cares, your
Soul will.
Copyright © 2026 by Crystal David John
In the cool, white
fluorescent light
a scalpel rasps, whispering,
insisting on detail.
A chisel flicks,
deft and sure,
snicking, razing,
in the clean steam
of icebreath.
Formless, frosty
bulbous ice
has pattern
punched into it.
An awl starts clattering,
keen steel stabbing
shards of crystal free
to shower down
as glassy shrapnel.
Ruth Amid the Corn
takes form,
growing
as matter falls away.
Final flurries of fussing,
flowers wreathed around,
and the beauty is inched
into the fug
of the banquet,
sweating.
Ruth weeps unseen,
pristine for now,
but already warming.
John Deere and the Lady and the Swan
Passed in front of view
And I saw neither John
Nor the Deer nor the Lady
Nor the Swan
And I knew something
Wasn’t quite true.
As I looked, I heard
The spaces seemed to say
We’re undefeatable
Non repeatable
Eternal
Day
Even when there’s no material
When all human life
Seems lifeless and evil
Even when the mortal
Principle violates the rule
Even when the self
Becomes non-self and cruel
Still deer flow
Swans glow
And Johns marry ladies
On viewing Anthony Caro's sculpture “John Deere and the Lady and the Swan”
Constructionist sculpture using pieces of John Deere farm tractor pieces
Donald and Harvey skipping and free,
never were two men more friendly,
holding hands and keeping things down low,
no telling how far a friendship will go!
they are yours
and mines;
the hard-boiled
cookery of virtuous noise.
a polyphony wrapped
in aluminum foil
on a tedious shelf
w/bits of mythic statuary,
petite reliquary
of gastronomic demise,
and jars of jazz
sit motionless,
mummified
in gifted dishes.
they are the cool
epistemologies
that gel I the mixing bowl of life
that sudden slap
in the face of time
and the subsequent freeze.
Soon, I will journey to the middle of the moon,
There, I will proudly place a memento with flair,
Fine sculpture shaped for reduced-gravity design,
One like proud Lady Liberty, facing the sun.
Like a bright beacon blazing in starkness, a spike,
Soaring melodies of beauty gently pouring,
From a breath of fresh air deaf to bees’ noisy hum,
Bold, elegant masterpiece dipped in crocks of gold.
Steady for the frozen silence of moon’s eddy,
That unyielding oak that confines winds to the mat.
Carved to freeze time, for history not to be starved,
Set in stone, clothed in a bright future free from threat—
Sweet treasure that no storm will ever dare unseat.
Write me a poem about the light
About how strong you are despite
The challenges you face in life
When balances don’t seem right
Sing me a song about your hopes
How you cheer even when broke
No tears in beer nothing used like dope
Except music near as an antidote
Paint me a picture with your heart
Light and airy with glee and spark
That could light the way in dark
Despite a day when life’s no park
Build me a sculpture full of desire
With your very own passion and fire
That’ll shine on in time in mind’s higher
Making one think and dream inspired
Throw me a kiss in the white wind
For it I’d live in a little silver sin
The kind that is always forgiven
In heart in mind in earth in heaven
Be optimistic in what you do
For I believe in me and I believe in you
I am a writer,
A crafter of sculptures
Showing off ability in creativity.
Beyond experiences of my own,
Beyond feelings of my own.
I take a stroll in journeys of others,
And pave routes in imagination.
I fill gabs yet to be discovered,
And open doors yet to be walked in.
I bleed pain through ink in hand
And Keep my journal thriving in scripted thoughts
I give life to thoughts in shapes unknown
I am a writer,
And I am artistic.
I paint pictures felt with a full heart,
And then again mend a broken heart.
I am like a magician,
I am bound to make the world dance to the beat of my drum.
This is talent wrapped in a golden foil
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
BRONZE SCULPTURE
tactile
with style
What do you reckon Venus of Milos was doing when she was fully limbed?
Was she thinking
Deep thoughts
Holding the apple
Measuring the gravity
Of her life?
Was she, like Aphrodite,
Poised with a shield
About to march off
Into a battle
Confidence writ on her face?
Was she a Muse
Putting on her work clothes
Getting ready to go
Inspire some artist
To create works of beauty?
Was she Sappho
The Poetess
reaching out for her pen
to finally complete
one of her poems?
Was she spinning a wheel
To make a tapestry of Dreams
Or to weave time
Winding and unwinding
Moments lost and found?
Was she playing a Lyre
Singing timeless songs
Of loss and triumphs
Great loves and heartbreaks
And exciting adventures?
Or, dear reader,
Was she just a woman
Like you and me
Trying to go about her life
The best she can?
Grandma’s face on a paper mache’ dog
What could be better? Nothing she thought.
Her overfed dog looks a bit like a stuffed hog.
We could not believe what the sculpture brought.
Behind grandma’s back we laughed our petootsies off.
In front of her face tears ran, as we tried not to cough.
It was the craziest thing I had ever seen, no contest.
She left it to me, for I was the one who lied the best.
ubiquitous
tactile
happenings
forever
traced
in
form
of
moods
in
waiting
engagingly
radiant
expansive&
eerily beautiful
unforgettable
haunting presence
in
representation
morphed
into
patterned
people
places
images
depicted
thought
pauses
gathered
in
the
readymade
created
or found
I need to see her again
Before what’s left of her is erased
Reduced to a pile of memory dust
scattered among the ashes
Of a long gone day
Let my pencil be a sculptor
Pulling my fingers as it will
To chip away blank paper
Carving away line after line
Graphite emerging,
Revealing the perfect words
Stringing them together
Bringing to life all my favorite details
Black and white buffed to color and skin
And sound
And sight
And smell
Until it has revealed my love
And polished a perfect sculpture
Rising off the page
In perfect articulation
So I can have her again
Before she’s gone forever
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