Beautiful form,
Color of cement,
Rough texture,
Heavy weight.

Thin brush,
Melted white wax,
Pattern applied,
10 minute wait.

Wide brush,
Turquoise and white glazes,
Alternating in bands,
Around the tall vase

Sitting on a plank,
Drying in the breeze,
Sunning itself,
Just another in a line-up.

Dark place,
Intense heat,
Wax burns,
Glaze melts and fuses.

Brief glimpse of sun,
Put out in the trash,
Newspapers below ignite,
Lid closed down tight.

Flames suffocate themselves,
Reducing environment,
No longer oxidizing,
Affects the final look.

Carbon floats, turning
What was covered by wax into shiny black,
Adding lines of black to the white glaze,
Covering the vessel with burnt debris.  

Exposed to the sun once more,
Cooled in the breeze,
Rinsed with water,
Scrubbed clean.

Admired by the crowds,
White vase with black cracks,
Copper bands with hints of turquoise,
Interspersed with black vertical leaves.

Each one different,
Results never predictable,
Never to be reproduced,
Variables too complex.

Raku-fired pottery, treasured for its unpredictable color variation
Why can’t nature’s palette of skin color,
be likewise prized,
instead of despised?

it was surprising the first night I saw you right before me. skin imprinted with the pattern of lace, the light scattering in a cacophony of projections against your porcelain skin. lightning marks against your throat and thunder rumbling in your eyes. it was unexpected.

in no way were you tame. fragile, perhaps. superficial, undoubtedly. beautiful, certainly. but never tame. never would your wrist be bound. the sharpness in your teeth and flick of your flesh would never allow anything so shallow as domesticity.

you were raised out of the authentic. molded from clay, the word "impossible" placed under your tongue and mouth closed shut. a shattered childhood born from an indian-summer sun frosted by wildflower springs.

so here I stood, gazing up at ceramic wonder. earthen-ware and glazed glass. a sculpture of femininity by all aspects, by all respects. left to become memorialized in a wilderness, little time noticed.

Was just dust or dirt to most. Ignorant as to what the earth truly hosts.
From ancient times, what is now considered art. Taught to combine the elements into art.
Red earth, crushes quartz and sand add a little water. Smash it all between my hands. Work it like making bread she says. Put your energy into each piece you create for those outside, maybe they will keep it by their bed.
Your inner strength mixed with the earthen powers is how you create health for all those that you shall encounter.
Your art is unique as the earth is as well. Only a very a small group of people can tell.
Maybe at a pow wow. A stranger picks up a piece, eyes meet no words speak.  You might see some change, you might even feel their pain. Maybe you can pull that away. Or maybe you will even bring them peace even if it's just for that moment or that whole day, you will never know how long, you will just know that you served your purpose on that particular day. You come from the family of healers. Remember your gifts. Never forget your people. Never forget what you have to give.
Nashoba copyrighted 2017