#craft
We too are joined together,
hands holding hands,
side by side in a long human line,
torn and cut and shaped the exact same,
almost cookie-cutter,
almost paper-thin,
almost accordion,
and the triangle for a skirt,
for a chain link,
the longest word without a drop
of India ink,
and yet the silence of this group,
that's scissored and trimmed
to craft an art,
binds us all as one
and not apart.
1d ago
Jun 2, 2026 at 5:30 PM UTC
so in the end,
poets are simply soldiers stirring
word-weapons like daggers in teacups
gulping down the honey sweet tea
that scalds our aching throats
there is no draft
but everyone can go to war
May 5
May 5, 2026 at 3:15 AM UTC
15 seconds in the OK corral
That’ll do wonders to improve the morale
Bronco Billy love to ride wild fillies
His first ride he had the Willie Nillies
He named her Tilly, she was wild and free
Was it possible could it be? He had to see
Billy had to catch and tame this beautiful dame
His achievements gave him his proud name
Until the day he realized he met his match
Wrangling Tilly Billy dealt with a rough patch
Tilly reared back and forth and gave him a ride.
Billy fell off the horse, but took it in stride.
In the hospital with black and blue bruised pride
Newfound respect Billy stayed by Tilly’s side
He remembers the lesson of the wild ride
He was too cocky for his own good,
He had a show in front of the neighborhood
Knocked down a peg or two animal respect grew
Old age gets us all we don’t get to choose to call
Lessons learned give new Cowboys their turn
Bronco Billy no longer sows his wild oats
He teaches children how to ride their first goat
their head high with a smile a mile wide
Anything worse doing do it with pride?
Bootlegged Bronco Billy had his last riding
GoldBuckle belt he took the change in stride
Billy stays on the ground with the rodeo clown
their clown face painted for a night on the town
you’ll never catch Bronco Billy wearing a frown.
He was a celebrated Hero the BEST in town
Now Rodeo in town country folk gather around
Ribbons to be won for the old and young
Quilts candles crafts are all honored traditions
Youth 4H program with parents permission
Weekends kids take a goat home yes often
We are searching for the goat that ROAMS
A quilt can last 100 years with perfection
If an error made expert eyes detection
Under the eyes of scrutiny without objection
Footnotes
I’ve won First Place ,Blue Ribbons several years for my original designs, decorative throws and Afghans ALSO chili cook-off Wimpy chili. My chili a combination between traditional chili and con Carne. Simple ingredients wins every time.
It’s more than just a ribbon. It’s vindication. You’ve mastered a craft and Yes bragging rights.
This poem is based on true events
This type of poem is called a SESTINA
(6) six line stanza 36 lines
Plus an ENVOY a three line ending 39 lines
Inspired Songs
1) A horse with no name
By America 1971
2) Wild horses, 1975
By The Rolling Stones
3) All the pretty little horses,( nursery rhyme) lullaby from 1819 many renditions through the years. The rendition Eye May 14, 2019.YouTube
This is a video with words and beautiful horse scenery greenery, wild horses
By SuzyBoggus
Apr 30
Apr 30, 2026 at 12:12 PM UTC
The bitter truth is,
you can’t rescue a culture overnight.
You can’t free or educate individuals to see what excellence really is..
Especially if they have never been shown or encouraged to seek it.
And that hurts us all and the damage carries forward , even worse.
I spent my life cultivating
depth,
insight,
and attempting integrity...
and to see the gulf opening wider, and the inexcusable consequences.
It’s the worst generational collapse in recorded history. A shameless erasing of standards, taste, discernment, quality substance, class , and sadly of nuance.
" ... the ones who will fight to maintain skill, knowledge, and integrity
they’re rare, but they exist. " ( Nabokov to Kubrick)
And they’re the ones who carry the thread forward. That’s why perspective, passion for art and craft, isn’t wasted.
Are you part of that line?
One of the people keeping the map of excellence alive, even as everything around it is recycled, rebooted,
or just plain ... flattened ?
OR are YOU the problem,
pumping out sludge and meaningless unwanted
self centered skill - less garbage?
( It's a rhetorical question, and
obviously only you know the true answer deep down inside. ... but for the rest of us ...
For empathy itself ,
it's a self examination and A real internalization that you, and only you can and need to deal with.)
Dec 22, 2025
Dec 22, 2025 at 2:29 AM UTC
Our desire for emotion in people's craft often forges our unseen path that sometimes may lead to confusion in the process—which sometimes leaves us to hunger for what still lies beyond.
Sep 20, 2025
Sep 20, 2025 at 4:24 AM UTC
On a day that was
fraught
with anxiety and anger,
I sailed on
to the
other side.
The two pens that
blew up in my hand
foreshadowed the
prolific writing
streak to come.
Six poems today,
a personal best.
Bukowski would be
proud.
He might even
wonder
How I did it without
******
***** and
cigarettes.
It was easy.
I had bluebirds for
lunch, and listened
to Vivaldi.
I just let the telephone
ring
ring
ring
Sep 10, 2025
Sep 10, 2025 at 9:44 AM UTC
The bone dry
hand of stone cutter
works away.
The clink
of metal on stone,
scraping,
dull and full,
How many strikes have they laid
trying to form a new passage?
Humans taking up the work
nature left unfinished.
But they might disagree
saying nature did the hard work
bringing the stone to this point
from a miles deep furnace
and all they’re doing
is hitting a stone.
Mar 22, 2025
Mar 22, 2025 at 2:37 PM UTC
Dare I tell a tale, oh so eerie,
faces go pale, senses are lost,
as knell overflows the hearing,
unheard, hair fall tossed,
blood brought to a boil.
It opens with moss and greenery,
hinting a shallow soil,
painting the scene peaceful, serene,
but the coating is fresh and thin.
Like something was quickly covered beneath,
the way you'll surely hide behind a grin
the grinding of your teeth, in just a moment.
"Why the rush?" comes a thought—
good, nicely caught, but no spoilers.
The deed that's done here,
spawned by a curse like no other—
It cannot be cured, and only endured
siphoning the life of another.
Cruel is fate of those who astray
and open up hearts to darkest of arts
allured by their offer.
Reading through verses of old,
they want to behold the world
through the eyes of their foul sires,
and learn from grim tomes
the knowledge untold, until they’re absorbed
and molded akin, so they, too, may sin
with the same sins, following the same desires.
Now, I'm really sorry, but here ends the story,
my gourmet hunger satisfied, you were most kind!
You see, I'm of such readers, I am accursed, and I've rummaged
through the purse of your lifespan for quite some time.
But this was much needed! I hope you don't mind!
Just please turn the page and I'm sure you'll be fine!
Mar 19, 2025
Mar 19, 2025 at 9:42 AM UTC
Surrounded by beads and notions,
she creates with no hesitation.
She is struck, like lighting,
by the fires of creation.
Mar 7, 2025
Mar 7, 2025 at 6:47 PM UTC
~
Hand and needle,
weapons of mass protection.
Mending day called solace,
bitterness in every stitch.
When all guides disappear
the hand begins to tremble,
that is the material point.
Listen to the water,
the sea is full of memories.
It knows everything,
it feels nothing.
A rage is building.
The sails unfurl,
the wind follows.
A hundred years of
traversing the deep
on a ship full of opiates
and other distant mermaids.
This blood vessel,
cresting the heart of the wave,
you will never completely cross
this body of water
until you learn to trust
the hands that hold back
death and it's squall.
Even now they drop anchor, singing
into the starry sky:
*"Gather ye fishermen's wives
As thy men roll out to sea
Pray one and all
Thy sails hold strong this day..."*
~
Dec 26, 2024
Dec 26, 2024 at 4:33 PM UTC
The mason works the living stone
to shape it for its slotted place.
Pale flakes of rock fly as he hones
it to a rough-hewn sandstone face.
With chisel and mallet in granite hands
and flinty grey eyes to plumb the line,
the rock gives way in grains of sand.
He chips and flicks one blow at a time.
His fingers trace each pit and dell
that he’d worked in with his iron tools,
while nostrils fill with chalky smell —
light dust clouds through his workshop move.
As one by one his blocks are laid
by his apprentice at his side
to fill the role for which they’re made:
they’ll be joined in one more arch of pride.
More arches form as months move past
then building up to many a year:
They mark the time of a life well cast,
his mason’s mark left on each stone sheer.
Each arch arises, pointing high
to the master mason of us all,
who carves and fits in his workshop sky —
by shaping, marking us in his wall.
Then piece by piece, the church takes shape
while grains of sand from worked stones fall;
The mason, now old, his final finial makes
as falling sand an hourglass recalls.
And here I stand in centuries hence
to spot the mason’s mark he left behind,
his arches pointing upwards whence
the mason built his final shrine.
Dec 15, 2024
Dec 15, 2024 at 6:54 AM UTC
Black stones
Are what will
Repell negative
Energy
From you
Aloe will absorb
Evil energy and
So will an onion
Try it it will help
Dec 8, 2024
Dec 8, 2024 at 4:08 PM UTC
The blacksmith works the iron ore
with tongs and hammer on anvil’s brow:
Within his forge’s fiery core
grows metal soft, with carbon endowed.
The coal turns grey, much like his beard
drawn out by age to wiry lace —
a silver mine that roughly rears
from his craggy quarry of a face.
In his chest, the same fire roars,
a molten furnace fueled by air
****** in by bellows, lungs engorged,
then exhaled in the bright sparks’ glare.
The chimney of his mind is filled
with sparks that dance, a glowing throng,
arising through his thoughts that thrill
to the rhythmic beat of his anvil’s song.
Reflected in his clouded eyes,
mixed in with soot and sweat and toil,
the steel sings out in joyous cries,
its notes ascending to a boil.
For though the years have dimmed his sight,
he sees through the smoke and flame. He knows
how he will find fulfilled delight —
when he with music his craft bestows.
Dec 4, 2024
Dec 4, 2024 at 10:25 AM UTC
Today I saw brown mountain peaks touching the sky and what a grand sight it was,
As I was humbled by the silence of greatness that doesn't need to shout.
As I was mystified by the rolling valleys beneath.
The mountains, so eerily vast and huge made me feel nervous about my silly human apprehensions.
Time has tested the fate of these mountains, their peaks still don't bend to anyone.
An eagle flew between these great walls, as if taking a casual evening stroll.
I wonder if the bird admires the beauty in the stillness of these earthly structures.
I wish I could be the eagle, flying as high as the top of the hills, as if conversing and chatting with them.
The mountains are obviously not made of smooth rocks and unmarked skin,
Their surface and body have stories to tell.
If you notice, there are rocks on the mountain chest making a pattern just like ocean waves, creating a painting upon a painting of God.
The limestone that flows so easily on the back of the mountain, like beautiful hair let down.
And the curves on top, the bends on its peak,
The mountain is not a triangle.
It's a woman sleeping peacefully,
Do not disturb her,
For she is She is mother Nature...
She embodies the mountain spirit and has great power.
Do not disturb her,
For she is our mother Earth.
Soon, light gets stolen from the blue skies
As stars come to their job shift, it's now their time to shine.
When the moon rises behind the mountain peaks, the cosmic body feels smaller than the hills.
It becomes the cherry on top of the cake,
It becomes the eye of the mountain.
As the hills breathe and rest,
The soil beneath ever shifting and changing.
The mountains have been crafted over a thousand of years through storms and rain and dust and water.
A thousand years after I die, the mountains will still be there.
Brown peaks touching the sky,
Undefeated and unconquered.
And I will be the eagle flying between the mountain peaks.
Nov 12, 2024
Nov 12, 2024 at 8:56 AM UTC
Of colors born
from depths of human sight?
with fingers taking scuffing steps
and their raspy breath
for years of yearless quest,
what gold weigh with a
master’s piece made destitute
by passion wants?
Visions mothering hues and strokes,
in blood, tears, and sweat hardening on the canvas,
from pockets that solely dreams of bread to sit on the table,
would they find the worth?
Lo, when the hours covet sleep,
but the soul in the soul lay wide awake,
and night and day bleed on each other and the yearn chafes his bones no end to be under promise to the craft.
“Apologies, but into the word art, simplify not,
nor of labels you set a perilous climb to a wicked peak take refuge.
For whilst eyes, in liberty, take pleasure in mocking outcomes,
the road on the way there taxed the soul flesh pound per pound.”
Sep 28, 2024
Sep 28, 2024 at 8:32 PM UTC
Six string buzz galore
Stars align in solemn swear
The soul oozes out
Jan 13, 2024
Jan 13, 2024 at 12:31 AM UTC
I've recently been told
That music's for the bold
And performance represents
A simple flow of confidence
While I think that's good to know
I think there's more to music's glow
Cause when I put my pen to paper
I want me to be the shaper
I aspire to hone my craft
And not come off as over-daft
But my music is my art
Communication from the heart
And that calls consideration
Of musicians' motivation
Cause when you stand up on the stage
It's true the listener's the gauge
Of if your music is worthwhile
Or should be thrown into the pile
So overall it's just a balance
Of one's skill, but also talent
So at the ending of the day,
The final thing I'd like to say
is...
A is for Adam
Atoms are for art
I'll write like a free radical
But on stage I'll play the part
May 17, 2023
May 17, 2023 at 4:50 AM UTC
It's time to light bonfires
Heat up some witches brew
Light up some incense
Cast our blessings
Churn some spells
Fear not thy winter
For autumn is first
It's time to enjoy
evening walks under the moon
Time for us witches
to prepare & craft some
Halloween decor
And to enjoy our time with
nature for soon we will
stay more indoor
So brew my coffee as , I do
I think of creative autumn
things , I need to do
Autumn is such a blessed
time of year
So here's a cheer for
this blessed time of year
© Jennifer L DeLong 9/28/22 🕸🌰
Sep 28, 2022
Sep 28, 2022 at 8:04 AM UTC
my feelings are the splattered inks
bold, italics
threatening to spill
weighing on every meaning
words could carry
scrambled up, juggled
those who’ve yet to feel
shall not speak
and pray tell, words
do you realize what you amount to?
what’s behind was for a reason, a person
clear as day, solid reverie
what lies beneath shan’t remain between the lines
and if it reaches you, we’re alike
Sep 27, 2022
Sep 27, 2022 at 7:01 AM UTC