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Mollie Grant Feb 2016
We all want to be someone
carved into stone—
assured in our identity
by the admirer taken enough to
etch our jawlines into eternity
from the heart
of a marble slab.

If you work on me as Michelangelo,
I will proudly stand as your David.
K Balachandran Nov 2015
IN the divine frenzy of that moment,
when they met each other first, as predicted,
she pulled him down over her,for eons together,
on the marble step they just passed each other.
Both froze, trapped in a time wrap,
within a moment as a sculpture in alabaster.

A somnambulist sculpturer,with a wild imagination,
claimed it as his master piece, oblivious of the facts!

The cosmos is only a thought,like a flowing river reaching
to the ocean of eternity, if you would remember.
Every imagination, at a point becomes real, memory,
happenings, gains and loss all look the same as one goes on.
Every one passing the steps up and down, invariably is amazed,
wonder still, who this marble couple are, what story they'd tell.
The circle, is bound to get completed, a million years after,perhaps,
                                                  ­      2
Two butterflies, flying around the sculpture, to see if there is a drop
of nectar anywhere,find it on the lips joined,in a kiss eternal,
as they taste it together, they did remember a day in the life of universe,

A wise silver owl, watching this divine pantomime, flies up,
enlightenment strikes hard;on that zen moment, all fall in place!
Robert C Howard Aug 2013
honoring the glass artistry of Dale Chihuly

A rainbow of serrated globes,
Friends to the water lilies,
Floats in a sculptured pool.

A surreal yellow glass Medusa
Woven through a white crescent trellis
Gleams in the midday sun.

Choirs of chrysanthemums
Sing with multicolored flora
Blown from molten soda, lime and sand.

Sheltered in a geodesic tropics
Orange herons stand on legs of glass
Amid living palms, bamboo and wild orchids.
Towering blue spires
Lift skyward out of the soil
While butterflies dance
In the misty veil of a waterfall.

Nature and the shimmering world within
Happily converge in the florid vision
Of an effervescent man with a patched eye -
A man called Chihuly.

October, 2006
This poem was inspired by an exhibit/installation of Chihuly art at the. Missouri Botanical Gardens in St. Louis. Many of the works Chihuly created for this show remain as permanent adornments of this wonderful garden.
Robert C Howard Oct 2015
The artist leaned in slowly
to his daughter’s sculpted visage,
placed a slender leaf of gold
across her ceramic brow
and gently pressed it with his brush.

But for all his art and craft he knew
no gilder’s foil was half so dear
as the child with half-closed eyes –
with mother’s tender brush
caressing strands of finest gold -
singing her to sleep.
Please consider checking out my book,  Unity Tree - available from Amazon.com in both book and Kindle formats.
Irate Watcher Jul 2015
Bow down.
Look up.
You addict —
consumed by a
human body.
Ideal to you.
Indifferent to me.
So, look at me.
Look at my *******.
Swollen.
Sagging conically.
Look, but don’t touch
Then, sharpen each square inch.
Pause at each nip.
Turn me around.
I make it easy to feast on my anatomy.
Shove your white fists
inside these delicate folds of skin.
Then rip me off my pedestal
and onto your lips,
so you drown ******,
choked by dust.
Your tongue
carving territory
inside a power-hungry *****.
Just another sculptor, shackled to art.
Such cold worship
granite cannot love.
Joe Cottonwood Jun 2015
Timmy Ray, poor boy from Kentucky.
Football scholarship.
Degree in Business Administration.
Respectable job, bored.
Enlists with best friend in Marines as a macho trip.
Vietnam, what a crock.
This ain’t football. And it ain’t fair.
Schemes to get out,
ignores an order to go out on patrol,
******* mission, but the friend goes,
gets shot up bad.
Timmy Ray runs out to help the friend, is shot.
It’s all blood and mud, man, blood and mud.
Friend paralyzed, Timmy Ray okay.
Court-martial for Timmy Ray, discharge.
The friend takes an overdose.
“No moral here,” Timmy Ray says. “My
war story. That’s all.”

Timmy Ray makes sculptures, big metal things.
No people.
“The human body’s been done,” he says.
Downtown Detroit in front of an office
he welds a pile of globes,
names it “Love” so he’ll get paid
but he says it’s really “Moose Brain.”
These days, Timmy Ray’s hand
trembles. He volunteers at a suicide
hot line. No moral there,
either. Moose brain.
Devin Ortiz Jun 2015
Cold, muffled sounds,
Existing formlessly confused.
Heaved from the bedrock.
Awaiting freedom from
My primal stone prison.

Each strike cracks away
Imperfections piling up in
A haze of rubble and lies.
Slowly clinging to a feeling
Bound to the earth.

I feel the touch of soft
Loving hands through
the rough shell incasing.
Searching for the fine details
Which parts will bend or break.
A work of art only seen through
Careful gaze.

Working away at rugged body
Ill dreams, poisoned thoughts
Fade into the dust at my feet.
Finally feeling the smoothness
Of my skin, almost ready.
Complete your masterpiece.
Finish me. Your relic to stand against
Time. Eroding, breaking losing
Profound definition as years pass.
But the meaning and the love
Stand against loss of mortality.
Nothing Much May 2015
I am clay on the wheel, bending to your touch
As you run your hands across my ceramic curves
I learn the terrain of your marble figure
Tracing the veins that lead to your heart
You and I are performance art
A watercolor dance on canvas bedspreads
Each sigh is a symphony
As we write music in the sheets
Together, we can paint our own starry night
With paintbrush fingertips and sketchbook skin
Though we may never display in a gallery
We quietly create a masterpiece
Ashley Nicole Mar 2015
And for the first time
Someone made me feel as beautiful
As chiseled Renaissance marble
I'm ******.
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.
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