Workshop Poems - Poems about Workshop

This is not my body. Not the one that used to tell everything to anyone— I mean everything, like I thought it might get me somewhere closer to known. I sat in a circle today, some kind of writing thing— you know the type. Lots of deep breathing and soft lighting. Someone cried reading what they wrote in the first eight minutes and I— well, I flinched. Not because it...

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After the Poetry Recital by Michael R. Burch Later there’ll be talk of saving whales over racks of lamb and flambéed snails. Hell-Bound Hounds by Michael R. Burch We have five dogs and every one’s a sinner! I swear it’s true—they’ll steal each other’s dinner! They’ll hump before they’re married. That’s unlawful! They’ll even screw in public. Eek, so awful! And when it’s time for...

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a certain rhizz an essential charm that provides a way to speak the quality and level of one's appeal and star value. The zhuzh is minimal and often is unspoken due to the maturity and professionalism of the staff associated with the production. rewilding the area were filming took place meant to resspect the fact that people would be more likely to tour this area due to the populay of the film...

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A jolly old elf named Nicolaus had all the elves in a frightful fuss he played with the toys for good girls and boys and left the workshop in a big muss...

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An abode for everything, A home made in us, A place where we permute and select, There we create and assemble. A place in the deep, There we sow and reap, There the tools are laid down, Our hands make their choices. A place where dawn chauffeurs its elements, We're caught in different moments, The unseen takes its shelter, Gloom and bloom desire a room. A place...

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That Salad Went Right Through Me I've always wanted to write a poem called “That Salad Went Right Through Me”. And I would wager upon its best destiny: To begin with, there is the Universal Theme-- For who has not gurgled around a conference table at half past the last radish scrap? Who, once stalled, has not persistently punched the flusher to muffle the...

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Santa’s workshop was full of singers of every kind of voice. The loudest one that sounded like gravel was my cousin Joyce. She was wrapping and humming, and they all sang along. We are in the best holiday mood! Said the happy elf throng. They are off key a listening robin said as he stopped to peek. We don’t care,...

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Hi James, Thanks for registering. You’ve been added to the waitlist for the following event. West Side Poetry Writing Workshop Thursday, May 27, 6:30PM Virtual This event is full right now, but you’ll be registered if space becomes available. If you have questions or want to cancel your registration, please call us at 440.885.5362, or visit https://attend.cuyahogalibrary.org/myevents and enter your...

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West Side Poetry Writing Workshop Thursday, May 27 6:30pm - 8:30pm Add to Calendar Virtual This event will be held virtually on Zoom. Share your poetry with amateur and seasoned poets alike in a comfortable setting. Join us to engage in friendly discussion and receive instant feedback on your craft. You may email your poem to Jeremy Jusek (jusek27@gmail.com) ahead of...

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There is babies’ workshop Too much care is the scare The leanest is in the chair Hand in the chin thinking “Today, we make history” The fattest rises and shouts “Listen, Mam is most loving Away from home one seven Me in bed twenty four seven No Mam, fingers milk bottle” The shortest rises, no word Touches his legless limbs All the babies cry out loud “Who...

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A poet's life was all too dull For good old Harvey Jingle-Bell He tried the best he could to write But at age six, gave up the fight Harv ran off with his girlfriend Whose proper name was Alicia Jen Yet in a week, Harv, bored again Left his love to scratch his yen To Santa's workshop, off he went Where tiny elves helped...

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The repetitive saw of metal against metal, The bashing of steel for designs, The whir of the copper polished And the hiss of the patina finished. The file and sandpaper rasping on the brass The noise all around The hammers they pound, As we create our own sound....

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A clutter of wood and dust in cobwebby corners, and dappled sun shining through dirty windows; on his work table a drawing; a project in progress, and tin cans and jars of nails and screws on shelves. Tools on hooks waiting for hands that will never come, I touch the old tools like they were the finest of lace; and...

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Poetry workshop — knowledge springs up like wild flowers...

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Year ‘round at the pole; Banging, clanging echoes ring; Riding Winter’s winds. Elves will hone their craft on toys For children across the world. ...

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