Short Artisan Poems
Short Artisan Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Artisan by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Artisan by length and keyword.
nature's artisan
busy spinning silver threads-
web cradles rain drops
For the Thread contest
2/3/12
twilight holds her artisan silhouette-
delicate afterglow as
constellations ascend
October 8, 2016
Master Sculptor, God Divine,
Chisel upon this life of mine.
Strike each blow with artisan care,
Until the shape of Christ appears.
Bits of what we had
Became unstrung, life then spun
Out of my control.
Then saw goodness of your soul...
Sadly cannot find them all.
silhouette of touch
beloved-
lover's tender trace
MagiCicaga 13 Contest
howmanysyllables.com
August 14, 2018
An old artisan skill
Who truly knows
How to ply his craft
Turn a big stone
To a small stone
To a beautiful art
By constant chiseling
And persistent accurate hammering.
My passion is to find obscure places,
shops down alleys with old traces;
artisan, bookstore or second hand,
I can spend hours exploring . . .
For me this is calming and never boring,
and lovely when I find a "thing" grand.
"You are the Forge that tempers my Steel.The Artisan that Reshapes me.I am the Canvas that Changes the Stroke of the Brush .You are the Cause Well Fought for and I the Earthly Need You Have Wrought.We are the Blood When We Blush. James Patrick Kail Thursday July 12th 2012"
Form:
ETCHINGS
Ebony chalk e t c h e s-
Easel full of parchment
exasperating me-
Edges of drawings that
elude my skilled talent-
E N D L E S S soft artisan...
Pleiades E - Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Kim Merryman
Date Written: September 16, 2016
We are blissful married, me and poetry...
She is the sweet treat when I write her
and I taste... She is the mouth that feeds me,
I am the artisan who cooks her in a low fire...
sweet is the poem that I cut,
soft is the poetry that I consume...
We are sugary married...!
We are Both Sweet... !
Hands softened by diesel oil
Strengthened by daily toil
Scarred by physical work
Lie helpless while they talk
Softly of time and age and
The shifting of life's sand
The artisan listens sadly
Sixty years so badly wanted
Fifty nine years are granted
His life ends that terrible day
He has no reason to stay.
F-A-T-H-E-R : PENTACROSTIC
========================
Father forms first fecund features
Attaining all adroit artisan attitudes
The trueborn titles truthful triumph
His humbleness hails heirship honor
Ennobling earthly efforts evoke excellence
Rearing relations retaining roots rights
19.06.2020 Chattogram
Happy Father's Day To All
Gypsy heart
Delusional Scimitars
festive daggers
soft balalaika
captive sword ...
Mandolins,
hot nights
harps and wine
venom of passion, ...
dangers
daggers
Banjo and
boldness,
gypsy waltz,
jubilant joy ...
wish of
of life,
The beauty,
arpeggios
Utopia...
the art
for art to fight ...
be an artisan
of the delights
live life in
fully
Bohemia......
Swaying,
Rocking,
Like water against a boat
Her unfamiliar fragrance snatches sense with every whiff.
Tall and exquisite.
I sat watching
Her slender frame stately set
against traveling commonalities
Who, in comparison,
were a mere eyesore
than equivalent.
Had I been an artisan,
Canvases would walk and speak
Up, she looked
Our eyes entwined—
An instant connection,
Train Love.
Form:
Some would say...
That those of great vision,
doesn't see the apparent...but,
reveals whats concealed.
Like the artisan of marble,
whom envisions the beauty of form
trapped within' it's block of stone,
only to release and free it from
it's solid confinement...
Aren't we all artisans,
builders,architects,
in the developing of the infant soul,
preparing it too maturity
and it's future release....
A ballad for Franz Dolp
His exercise was forestry
His initiative was art.
He painted his forest in trees,
composing four seasons of song.
He searched his right balance of trees
revising rhythms for harmony's poem,
Mothers of Deep Rich Women.
A writer of therapeutic forests
written in trees with good roots.
Franz was a poet
rebuilding with forests,
artisan trees
forming long-healing words.
Words tumble like dice,
nonsense vies with sense.
Life plays hide and seek
with itself.
An artisan mixes clay,
gathers new mud,
spits into it.
He molds a prayer,
words shape themselves.
Each word is a fractal,
of a pregnant womb,
not all, but all the parts
appear
for his seeking hands
to gather in and structure.
Later, once the clay has set,
the worker will craft a cradle,
to reveal the truth of mud.
Lucky lovely elephant with a tuft of green
Created by a master artisan, that is easily seen.
With trunk upraised, in the luckiest of elephant ways.
We congregate around him, to give him some praise.
His décor is lovely, his metallic finish is a treat.
He is the utmost beautiful elephant on Rochester Street.
We follow him around, fawning over him, giving him our best.
He finally asks for some privacy, so he can get some rest.
All her pill boxes
understood to be collectibles
neatly arranged on her coffee table
treasured baubles, bits of metal
Varying uniquely in size, in color
each in a replica of someone's dream
rare in their form,
nearly minted in quality
entrancing small fingers and innocent eyes
telling their stories with secret compartments
tendered with nimblest artisan hands
existing, cocooned, in the quiet of her living room, an urban museum...
he knows nothing but loving me-
he bleeds adoration
through crimson-colored
veins.
he knows everything about me-
he is my creation,
my one and only reason
to exist;
now only intimacy remains.
he is my artisan masterpiece-
reaching depths where only
a soul gains.
he imprints only,
affection-colored stains.
October 2, 2017
Artisan from Kenya worked hard on my locket.
I thought I had lost it, but it was in my pocket.
Have had many compliments on this one-of-a-kind treasure.
It has gemstones of ivory, opal, and it shines beyond measure.
I doubt that I will ever meet the craftsman in this world.
But this locket is valued, the gemstones are swirled.
Artisan from Kenya, know that I love it ever so much.
I wish I could see all of your work, you have a magic touch.
From strength to strength...
...this full body this flow...
I find myself in the soup...
my palet hungers the flavour...
where artisan and genius grow...
poets feed the ladle...
we all feel the sweet interpret...
this nourishment gathers all to celebrate...
...from our rich decant...
each poet decorates...
...we breathe the nearer...
...the deciduous - deciphers
...more brilliantly...
...our soup full compliment...
Once I set my eyes on you,
I realised you were
a piece of art,
One that can truly be only made,
You were truly
by an artisan.
You were truly artless,
For you were as innocent
And sincere,
as a child.
As I talked to you,
It was like, a session
In an art therapy
For I truly expressed
My love and care
For you.
You truly acted Arty
As an artefact
That you penetrated
Into that arteries in my
Heart,
Truly , you were a piece of art .
Listen to poem:
The Ripe Olives and Red Wines of Florence
David J Walker
Austere is the way I remember
The convent in Florence
Perfectly white walls
And the small single bed fronted
By worn floors from daily
kneeling in prayer
A simple soup
will be served
At supper
My native guide says
Possiamo fare di meglio in città
Either way there will be
Ripe olives and red wine served with
Artisan bread dipped in garlic
Sweet basil and virgin olive oil
artisan chiseled upon the finest marble
stands the firm testament of a memoir
of her beauty and her elegance
captured in pose
whilst carried upon a cloak of crimson velour
her unclothed ivory vellum... conquers
in such a way the celestial pearls
must be of consequence to her candescent pallor
piercing the captive vigil of eventide
as i take my leave, she remains alone
to weather against my future days
abated by faces and feelings yet to come
(late ~2000s)