3. a compass with which castle crafters
emily m
Aug 1, 2011
  1. infinitely flexible, malleable
    in every way imaginable;
    sprinkled in magic with a taste that can

    2. complicatesimplifyconfuseand
    clarify;

    3. a compass with which castle crafters
    map their masterpieces, built from layers of
    similes and metaphors and symphonies of sound,
    of memories and apologies and everything bound;

    4. a reel of delicate threads which
    fervently await a seamstress of words to
    weave them together;


    *impressionable when you don’t mean it,
    fleeting when you do.
Crafters work with full earnest
Jacob Traver
Jacob Traver
May 24, 2013

Where echos bound off cavern walls
Thundering, spacious water falls
Giving power to the ember furnace
Crafters work with full earnest

Our clang of metal forming metal
Our  laughter around the stew-filled kettle
Lacboring long into the night
Carrying lanterns for our light

A golden tint in the arenose air
A rich man's delight, deep in this lair
A cornucopia of jewels and stone
Picks and axes spark on the hone

Melted metals with tools of the trade
Upon the anvil are ceremoniously laid
To be shaped and formed into desires
By light of the blazing, crimson fires

Where we find sweat and danger as one
And rarely journey out into the sun
Have amity with our fellow men
And all write to loved ones with one pen

The cavern echos, the rays of gold
This ancient house of tales untold
To find this place, a costly fee
For a way of  escape will never be

Crafters of the stars
Kiri Nells
Kiri Nells
Jun 26, 2011

Sleeping hearts
And dormant souls
Beauty hibernates
Many years fold

Shattered reflections
Eras unseen
Generation: Perfection
Of them, are you keen?

Undiscovered peoples
Obscured luminescence
Shadowed by life’s steeples
Hidden is its presence

Great- their advances
Ignored- their passion
Will cause today’s trances
Lost- intelligence enough to ration

Underground spirits
Nightlife astounding
Colors like parrots
Such a city, hear the pounding

Learn to listen with your hands
And feel with your eyes
The masters of oneness can
All connected are their lives

Together, in unison
Sleeping and knowing
Waiting to show their Sun
And love that is flowing

Wisdom consuming people
Swallowed in thought
Outpouring in emotion
And flawed they are not

Crafters of the stars
And admirers of Animalis
Networking nature afar
That family of causes

Protectors of innocence
Harboring lovers
Defense for our weakness
Strength shared like brothers

Who are these creatures
Forgotten and lost?
Crazy, awe worthy features
And what is their cost?

Who sings this song
Of grace and ability?
Who could play to this music
And not feel so guilty?

Crafters and rafters, and activist bloggers,
Subconscious on Parade
Subconscious on Parade
Sep 13, 2012      Sep 13, 2012

On old mainstreet, sits an old café,
Where home-town-grown musicians play.
Sometimes they like to change its name,
But the clientele stay just the same.
When times are tough down in the town,
You know you can’t get the Black Dog down.

Rednecks and faux-necks and used-to-be-loggers,
Crafters and rafters, and activist bloggers,
And poets and hippies and mystics and fools,
And outcasts from the secondary schools,
And gypsies too: you’ll find them here,
Drowning in local, hand-crafted beer.

At night, locals sip organic tea,
And turn up the menagerie
Of lights and mics from another age,
Pieced together to make a stage.
And there, the guitarists waste their breath
Beating the Same. Four. Chords. To. Death.

There are some new lyrics, there and here,
But all of them memories of yester-year:
A year spent in the same damn space,
With others who’ve never left this place.
They sing of their dear loves and pasts,
And how much longer the wandering lasts.

And on they wail, and on they moan,
And twang the antique, rustic tone,
But their faces show they like it here,
This breaking haunt of yester-year,
And after the set, they carouse with cheer,
And smile contentedly to their beer.

On old mainstreet sits an old café,
Where home-town-grown musicians play.
Sometimes they like to change its name,
But the clientele stay just the same.
When times are tough down in the town,
You know you can’t get the Black Dog down.

09/12/12




Written for The Black Dog, Theatre Black Dog, and Isadora's, which are all really the same place under time's sneaky aliases.
These certain master crafters
Whitney Singh
Whitney Singh
Oct 12, 2011

And I heard a sound that called me down to a pretty painted town.
Where all the people make the rounds to cover the bounds

And they say, if it looks good, it must be
If it seems holy, it must be.
We all know holy's on the outside anyway
If they don't see it, it won't be true
So smile again and turn on cue
And until tomorrow when we press repeat let's find some solace in our sleep

And I wondered what could break them of this spell
What truth was there that I could tell
These certain master crafters
Who shout the sound of breaking
And abuse the holy laughter
only to bounce it back from the rafters

And they say, if it looks good, it must be
If it seems holy, it must be.
We all know holy's on the outside anyway
If they don't see it, it won't be true
So smile again and turn on cue
And until tomorrow when we press repeat let's find some solace in our sleep

I don't want to stand and watch any more
I've fought the battle. They want the war
With no solution but silent desperation
This hollow sanity is not breaking
The masks seeking to swallow adoration
Leaving only the cruel imitation
Of what once was truth

And they say, if it looks good, it must be
If it seems holy, it must be.
We all know holy's on the outside anyway
If they don't see it, it won't be true
So smile again and turn on cue
And until tomorrow when we press repeat let's find some solace in our sleep

magnificence depends on not only on the crafters art, but on the contents of the gem wit
Verdae Geissler
Verdae Geissler
Jun 26, 2013

Tuesday, April 26, 2005


Rambolina is the driving force within. She lives in that place deep in the spirit of me is the driving force that has kept me alive, with conscience, and with love, and with the understanding I have only recently begun to develop inside myself. I am developing an understanding that I am not made only of myself,but I am of him, and of you, and of them, and of all the bits of life that have been accumulating inside this soul and body through years of bewilderment, abandonment, and a life led astray.
she is, and always has been the driving force behind my very survival.
my objective in writing of her is to reach within, to come to terms with, and to share the hardships and happiness that this life has brought me. As well as to give testimony of the blessings I've received, while God in all his glory,has tried in every way known to him, to bring me out of the torment and tears I've relentlessly inflicted upon myself ever since the very first breath granted to me. In saying those words "the first breath granted to me", I am only now, I mean right now, with the very next breath I take, realizing and appreciating that I have so selfishly taken each of those breaths for granted in a way that no one could ever imagine. Stolen by me like a thief in the night, like stealing a child sleeping safe in its bed. Stolen from me, by me. Gone are those breathes , never to be recovered, wasted away, in a mad dash. Running as fast as I could. Through a life spared so many times. Why? I ask. Why am I running? I'm passing it by, this life of mine. I'm passing it by while running......running as fast as I can.
Stop! I say. It is time to breath normal. It is time to give thanks,to give thanks to life, thanks to death, thanks to good, thanks to evil. Its just time for thanks to God, to life and for having been given the chance to finally live it. To cherish it. And it is time to appreciate the gifts of life that have been so graciously laid at my feet like jewels before a princess in some fairy kingdom. In my life I ve not been lavished with jewels of men, though I have been lavished by the jewels of god.
for I have learned, if nothing else, that life is a mere jewel. Its' magnificence depends on not only on the crafters art, but on the contents of the gem with which he is working .the lesson of life is as hard or as easy as one makes it.

 
To comment on this poem, please log in or create a free account
Log in or register to comment