Short Kiln Poems

iron dome roost
kiln bruise
spoilt rattle crease...

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soft, malleable
manipulated deftly
hardened in a kiln...

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making a kiln
      eyes glaze over
     when she speaks



***...

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Fragile
and tender pots
molded in the furnace-
mistakes erased,their beauty will
endure...

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Fragile,as a tender pot
He moulds us in the furnace
The fire makes our beauty last
Clean,glazed mistakes erased-
A new creation cast....

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Kettle of destiny
Kite that pervades the sky
King of nature’s highway
Kills the lesser lamp's light
Kiln that forges the seen
Kindles the dying glow
Kind and unkind to us


September 14, 2023....

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Bittersweet
A misnomer
Like salty chocolate
Or
White the new Black.

Face value
Only
Cut or dried
Perceives.

A severed-meat
Kiln
Hanging
Dry and tasteless
More
Soot on the tongue
Less
Beauty in spaces....

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terra cotta earth 
baking in sun's open kiln 
large empty table 

drops of kindness fall 
nourishing new sprouts with hope 
earthen mother heals 

lively greens abound 
nature's plentiful banquet 
offers of herself...

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From chill of breeze, dawn sighs on
Ride, arctic of morning’s froth
I'll temper your gnawing wail --
Winter flakes held high

Dare I still you with sunlight
Vesper of day's beginning,
Let the carpet of warmth prevail
Share the kiln you hide!




Winter Dodoitsu
9 November 2015...

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From the potters wheel to the kiln, hot
All for form, function and ugly not
A work of art must involve some pain
The work itself must vanity, not feign

The creator lives in his creation, good
The creation at times is proud and rude
Creator and creation joined at the wrist
Dare not, to the former, raise your fist...

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I fled the kiln
of the house
where ceramic floors
bake like focaccia bread.
My haven is a bench
in the shade of an oak,
praying for a breeze.
A bevy of bees hover
over blushing jasmine 
and scarlet lilies,
dousing me with honey
in July's sticky air
as my finger
culls a drowned earwig
from my glass of iced tea....

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Red, orange, yellow, white
 licking at the wood so bright,
Burns the flesh,
 charred bone colapes
 gone, melted in to the flames,
 As I burn to the last cell.

(After)

Bones of the dead, 
Diffrent by looks,
 but all hold the same story 
of the flames consuming them.
Body, soul and faith
 stolen by the devils hands...

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Earth, air, water and fire; 
turquoise’s elements rest happily; 
against the soft skin.

Turquoise is the child of Mother Earth; 
reflecting blue skies, white clouds; 
the heavens and earth are reflected in its spirit.
The luster of nature; fire in Earth’s kiln; 
is a protector and lovely companion.
...

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The Ache of a winter's howl
rendering me helpless at wind's tip
sitting on the frozen ground
and give into it.

I still long for snow,though I despise
its beautiful rendering creates a portrait
before my eyes.

I wish to go where it is warm
a kiln or fireplace
but why do I deserve the warmth
where others would freeze in my place....

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Dizzy-like state
Stumbles as I walk through the darkness
Hoping God hands me a lantern
Faith is my game plan
I have become the strategist in this chess game
How can something as serious as life---
be a game?
Changes molding my clay in this kiln
Money only complicates this hardship
Knowledge should serve as the answer,
But I remain unsure 
Dizzy-like state
Illumination is but a mere fantasy.......

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It seems no matter how hard I try
I can never escape this flesh of mine ? 
My enemy is not Lucifer, fallon angels or
Demons spirits rulers as any other powers
Albeit most assuredly yes they do contribute
Unto these trials in reasons amid their own kiln..
While we wake another day about it's walls flames
Bringing us to our knees pyres hearts whom can forego ?
Flee this wisdom which keeps one bound atop, His love's altar....

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I am the master potter with clay in my hands
I use all my tools and talents to shape what I have

I am the clay in the potter's hands 
I can be molded to any shape to fit any purpose

I am the Kiln for that is where I am tempered 
and made strong

I am the artwork shaped with meaning and design
when I break that is when my true beauty can shine

Where my cracks and flaws show with gold
I am the master potter with clay in my hands...

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Stone Cold Statues

Clothe the saints.  
Whosoever sees their flesh
will be damned to the great kiln.

I love their garments, the sculptor’s breath
on billowing stone, their faces white
like hosts of God turned man,

of bread turned God, and sinners
turned harmless in unleavened circles.
I am not of the miracle life.

I only understand the statues' 
never-wavering watch as their
clothing flows obdurately soft.

©Kathryn McL. Collins...

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With lilting tongue and glittering eye, the Celtic potter chortles by.
His clay-browned hands delicately placing, kiln God's on shelves and window facings.

Minute figures of Sun and Moon, mystical men with beard and rune;
sheep wandering on grassy hills, all on clay placards for windowsills.

And tossed about through roof and rafter hung, pink and purple, from pilasters,
were all the glorious flowers' of Spring, saved, dust covered, on dangling strings....

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Love forces, makes me write,
changes my name
with exotic murmurs
waves on a far sandy shore.

Love - can a body stand it?
Touched by an inner God,
I am clay in my own kiln
worked, molded by fiery hands.

Often I wonder why?
Often I stamp a word
into a silent cosmos.
Change me not though,
push me into that inferno.

While others stare at a madman,
I stare into a maelstrom
glad to be this wide-eyed,
this typing upon a typhoon
traveling nowhere but here....

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I can see the potter's hand when looking at your face.
Each gentle feature not by man could such a thing create.
I watch in awe as you sleep, this cherub from my flesh.
A most precious gift he gave to me he knew 'fore she drew breath.
I know nothing but to stand rendered in my awe.
In this role that I have granted me by God.
I wonder eyes how did you see before you saw her face?
And heart I wonder how'd you beat 'fore the kiln yielded that day?
What the potter's hand had made....

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