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E McNamara Jun 2018
i wish i could fall into
those pots and vessels
and shatter like ceramics
we are pieces of pottery
‘The Immensity’   by Stuart Williamson

“La Inmensidad”
Salvador’s words
Vast burgeoning watery place
Myriads of small creatures tumbling to the sands
Spent waves already fighting back against the tide
Cemetery walls crumbled in its wake
The bones of long dead fishermen once again felt the air

And a ***, the work of human hands
Striped with red around its rim
Cradled within a larger bowl
Exposed for us, and all to see
Left for a thousand years or more
To be held with pleasure once again.
On discovering an ancient *** as the sea tore away at the land.
blue mercury Apr 2017
You left your honey mouth in the cupboard, so
today your words are fogged glass
Don't you ever ponder upon the bruises you leave?
stained glass is considered art,
but it's not until you put it somewhere
to be admired that people know.
I saw you from a mile away-
like a kitchen fire
and someone's (dead) body.
But you were humming that melody
that made me seasick with its radio waves, and
made me burn bright with shame.
I always thought that maybe you'd see your
reflection in the puddles at your feet,
and that you'd try to change it
with your rain boots, dip them in the unwelcome depictions.
But I know that you'd continue on with your life,
saying that the reflected you was nothing
that you were something. You, in flesh, in spirit
You claimed you emptied your bones and filled
them with pebbles so you'd be grounded, when really,
you were just stuck in a rut,
smelling of sea water,
trying to get some sleep.
I tell myself that you were not wicked,
but why else couldn't you rest?
You sip your lemon tea
out of a little ceramic bowl,
telling me it tastes better that way,
but you weren't always all sour mouth
and sharp tongue.
You used to be fragile like a storm,
and wild as a starlit night,
diving, with the bruises painting you a melody
you couldn't hear, but saw
The voice Oct 2016
How creative can you be?
How dramatic does a piece of work have to be
to be worth your time?
How many times have you actually tried to go out of your way and experience molding your own definition of creativity
The texture, smooth or rough
The form, tall or short skinny of more rounded
The texture, allows you to think and concentrate
nothing else matters when your are planning your piece
The form, allows to risk and try new things
Nothing else matters when you are actually trying
That problem you have before you enter the room
stays at the door maybe it travels with you to the chair,
but as soon as your hands feel the clay and begin to form
the solutions begin to form
Clay is such an easy struggle
You have many decisions to make
How much clay?
How many details?
How many utensils?
How much time?
But that last one is actually the least, no time is good
spend years trying to figure out what you want to make
and then make it in a second
or spend a second figuring it out
and spend those years making it.
Taking your mind out of that thing that happened earlier in the day,
What was it again?
Yup, it was not as fun as clay.
You've build it, you've fired it, not paint it
What colors?
What pattern?
What resemblance will you give it?
One? More than One? maybe way to many,
or too alike of colors.
Black and white,
Wait, what was that?
Ohhhh, remember that problem earlier?
This time actually remember, because it isn't just a problem
It is a problem with a solution.
Now we know what to do!
It doesn't have to be clay, but I personally love it. I hope you find a good free class, there are many out there if you just look closely.
b e mccomb Aug 2016
and as you walk
down the dimly
lit glass hallway
the faces on the walls
in your breeze
of sadness and
iron oxide tears.

every surface in
your mind is
in a thick layer of
concrete dust
and you wonder
how long before
your nose
takes a dive
too often
to breathe.

there is clay
and you can't see
the cracks
between your
under the
thick layer of

as far as art
departments go
you're not feeling
so creative
painted or
it doesn't matter
when there is more
brown paper offered
to you every
time you believe
you've failed.

would you believe me
if i told you that a
newspaper and a pair
of old blue eyes
reminded me
and maybe you too
that there is somebody
out there
who actually

press that
into the wall
pin down
you've tried to
and avoid
stabbing your
finger into
the perforated
abused and

you're not
i promise
only your
entwined metalic
Copyright 4/21/16 by B. E. McComb
Nothing Much Feb 2015
I miss the feeling of clay under my hands
A spinning wheel, my foot on the pedal.
The rough silver plate always sands
Down the skin on my hand but I don't mind

I can build vessels out of the earth
Pulling cups and bowls up from the ground
In this instant, my hands are worth
A thousand vases glazed in gold

I dip them in thick buckets of color
And place the ceramic uncertainties in the furnace
We both come alive in fire
And emerge even stronger than before
Mannn I really miss ceramics.

— The End —