Short Fashioning Poems

The finest siren
To have tread the fairest acres
At the height of skyscraper
She ascends
autonomous and replete
fashioning the ashes
that compose the minutes
that we have loved and lost...

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Voodoo cryptograms
were the mirrors
alleviating all that is
bred of elementary nature
having spaked in tones
that could quake the bones
fashioning humanity’s frame
furnished by deathly tales...

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Twilight darkening to dusk,
welcoming the night.
Poets fashioning their words
do not need the light.
Moments of dusk bring
flowing creativity,
causing words to sing.

By Joyce Johnson
10/01/12
Written for contest "Wonder of Dusk in Sequidilla"...

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"Gypsy's Creak"

Her hair sways
Like a gypsy’s hips in summer
Young, seasoned, and ripe
Was the frame of her smile
Voice knocking upon
The fences of freedom
Swooning men of her choice
Before the suave, sleek edges
Fashioning the finesse that is
This dactylic wonderland...

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Creator of the universe…more than I can see
Unlimited, all powerful, yet still He cares for me
Sitting high upon His throne, working in all time
Visible, invisible, His magnificent design
The Creator of creation, fashioning in love
Everything is made for me so I can live above...

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I see her working in the garden
the skillful little soul.
Fashioning her home to perfection,
her delicate abode caressed by the breeze.
Jewelled by the rain, destroyed by my finger 
should i dare to interfere.
So inviting, so inviting...
Yet a trap for the unsuspecting pilot....

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Shan’t one discern
Between a reverie yet to conclude?
And unprecedented retribution?

Society may think it dexterous
To berate the triumph of others
And reprimand them
in exclusive and dire scrutiny

Though such a sycophant
Becomes aroused by
The fashioning of controversy
An indictment is questionable...

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Whilst I sauntered the halls
Her face surfaced before the lantern
That beloved grin an abstract design

Though she was settled behind glass
Fashioning the imagery ‘tis window shopping
Presenting the proclamation that she’s without a price

I covet not for alienation to shape us
I hunger for a sense of harmony
For us to never have spaked of tragedy...

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The life, the lies, the heavenplace
In which we sole survive
Contain a bit of shame as well
As tiny beads of sweat.
There isn't much else to say
That hasn't already been heard.
Yet I hold you to each fashioning
Each posting; every word.
Do I dare hold open doors of genius
Only empires will abound.
Each time the art can hold its own
The world is homeward bound....

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These nine Christmas wreaths are made with my hands.
Hands fashioning expressions of my love,
Love for these nine, once part of my life.
Life that came and went for five generations,
Generations that started with my daddy.
Daddy has been gone for fifty-seven years.
Years of loss and love and joy,
Joy and sorrow woven in wreaths from my hands.




For Wreath contest. Won no. 4...

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The Farrier
Miracle Man 
3-16-2022

With uninhabited joy sings his hammer, 
upon the anvil fashioning a tune. 
The “Smithy’s” life, not one of glamour,
reshapes a shoe this day in June.

Billows puffing keeping flames hot,
with shaping done there’s cooling to do.
Fifty meters and you’re from earshot,
with music concluded- a single horseshoe.

Now nail that sucker on!
...

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Amidst summer’s day
Post middle school finale
In the concrete valley
A vanguard viking lay

We gathered as a ragtag crew
Peeled his corpse off the floor
Carrying him, despite the gore.
To the stream, as we knew what to do

Fashioning a mausoleum of straw
Hoping he felt no disdain,
His grave enveloped in flame
And gently floated away.

It was there I thought to myself,
“What is the meaning of it all?”
...

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Today the mist rules, stolen horizon
in a merge of sea and dank air, sky
confiscated, parcelled in a grey 
patination like macular degrade.

Fields and village prematurely aged
to lie in a state of transience,
shrouded in mourning funereal garb
fashioning weighted reverend silence.

Even the rising tide treads  quiet
in its take as the pacing frill 
of frothed surf whispers a rhythmic  lullaby
to the drowsing day beneath its blanket....

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I can recall
the hours and days
you stole time from me

You said forget the past
with kisses that erased my memory
you becoming my future

In the park
where the ground
was dressed in fallen hues

Fashioning a blanket
out of the calico leaves
to give their death purpose

Then in September
in time for the harvest
we became thieves

You stole my heart
much like bees
steal honey from flowers

Just before a lover
plucks them from the ground......

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Eleven elves even the score.
Fashioning into a matador.
A bull comes along, but does not gore.
Aiding elves is what he had sworn.

If you believe this is mere folklore,
I will ask you to please go next door
To borrow salt, sugar, tea, and more.
For they are rich, and we are poor.

I can no longer show myself at the store.
I am a thief, sought out by the owner Ms. Core.
Her husband is even meaner, they are both a bore.
No more questions. Please just go next door....

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In showy fashioning from your heart
      my beating heart demand a green light
      and date cruder fit over pyramids
      Of nor realities being dressed.
     
       I craving mine sweet, thus you!
       arousing daily with me by anew dawn
       From my bedouin is a poetry link.
      
      Whereas by various of reasons, I wanna
       not stop persisting until fulfils it —
       secure I’m thou flimsily if you wanna
       I canfuls are things, your dim moan....

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