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Steve Page Feb 4
When I create,
when I build and make,
I seek a transfiguration,
a hope-full salmon-leap
toward the new creation.

I rise and dance beyond redemption,
I reach and pour the full fruits
of God's fresh fermentation.

I embrace God's ancient intention
for us to dream with His vision
taking us toward His now and not yet
new heaven and earth re-creation.  

When I create, I'm not just fixing,
I'm building with His blessing.
Reading Makoto Fujimura's 'Faith + Art'.
Travis Dixon Jan 16
Art is a creature—built

from bones of failure, tied

with tendons of tireless days, wrapped

by fiber upon fiber of hopeful nights, filled

with blood of laughter and despair, pumped

by a heart in a beloved cage, neglected

at the behest of a brain—crawling

through a maze, trying

to stumble and walk

and run and jump

and fly and

nick armbrister Oct 2021
A Job
I work designing guns
Never out of a job
Quite creative work
Firing pins to mags
Via handles and barrels
Art via a lathe
My mind and hands
Always at work
Like the hitmen
from LIZARD SNAIL 124K Nick Armbrister and other writers OUT LATE 2021/EARLY 22
Kenneth Gray Oct 2020
The poetic apprentice constantly
ponders and plans.
He dreams up wondrous writings that through critisms can stand.
He imagines mystical miracles he elaborates with his hand
Unending possibilities his vast
Mind demands

He scoures the depths and peruses vast heights.
He indulges crisp, cool mornings and envelops the nights.
He listens for lyrical lullabies and observes majestical sights.
He journeys throughout space
as he embarks on jaw-dropping flights.

The poetic apprentice searches
The depths of his heart
He dissects it and reads it
And tears it apart.
Then divulges it's secrets
And crafts them into his art

He wishes so dearly that his
Work becomes no disaster
He keeps his senses in tune
In hopes he'll one day be a master
As more work pours out the
Pressure grows faster and faster
But he'll slow down and humble himself
As his work evolves and becomes vaster

Now the poetic apprentice sighs
A great sigh of relief
He wipes off his brow
As he mumbles "good grief!"
His work is now over his
work is complete.
He knows they will like it.
Its his faith, his belief

The poetic poet now bows
To you, his work is bequeathed
I was just trying to bring a writing forward again from a slightly different angle. Just trying to be a little unique with my approach. Ive been thinking a lot of how I need to learn and grow. So through that the idea of an apprentice came to mind. I thought writing in 1st person as I wouldn't create much of a persona with the character. It would have just been me and that's not quite as interesting to write about. That's kind of the thought process with this one.
There will be a moment when

all the mountains you have ascended

that tried to bring you down under torrent and hail

will be over your shoulder

There will be an instant when all you have learned,

all you have fought for,

all your mistakes, your pains, your cold,
your love, your light,
all of it,

melt together

and you know, finally; you have arrived.

In this
a new fear will arise

telling you
you don’t have
enough time

to complete your painting,
your sculpture,
your chapters of verse,
your photographs,

All you want
in this newly arrived
way of Being
is to
have the time
witness it all to creation’s end

To catch
The impossible weight of sand
at the bottom of the hourglass
with plenty of time to
watch the paint dry.
Poem on the curious things that happen to an artist after surviving death.
South City Lady Sep 2020
silence scooped into tributaries
navigating thoughts by gondola
we glide beneath her Bridge of Sighs
tasting the acrid breath of lost words
into a palazzo where ideas congregate
exhumed from brackish waters
poems glistening between our oars'  
slippery blades at midnight
Orakhal Jun 2020
thy creation

Be not
reacting to dictation
Orakhal Jun 2020
Be not
warming your
hands over a cold fire

be lit
to the heat of a new desire
Orakhal Jun 2020
****** thy chest to a swallows breast
Fix feet to ground white fire blessed
Flow breath in kind on highest tide
Set compass north thru eyes be wide

Raise tongue to taste thy words not waste
Let voice be rich and sowing
Set thought no aim be blind to game
Its fert be not worth knowing
Fert - suffers bears
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