#pottery
A vessel for water
hardened soil
ceramic broken
forever spoiled.
But gather with care,
these grounded bits,
and paint upon them
as a soul canvas
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 10:36 AM UTC
The leaves are cracked
They lie like pieces of pottery
Drying, baking in the sun
An orange is suspended in the sky
Round heat floats down
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 7:31 PM UTC
I want to know
what it feels like
for reconciliation
to wash over
my fault lines.
Take my cracks
and paint them
with gold.
Let me glimmer,
gleam,
and glow
redemption.
Illuminate my mistakes
and let my skeleton
frame out a museum
of triumph
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 1:20 PM UTC
I hate to be the bearer of bad news baby
but I was broken a long time ago.
I had hoped
when I showed you that video
on kintsugi, the Japanese art
of repairing broken pottery
with lacquer and powered gold
that you would've seen our history
was not meant to be hidden,
that our imperfections,
the cracks in our ceramics
were meant to be illuminated
with gold
Oct 21, 2016
Oct 21, 2016 at 9:45 AM UTC
I am a tea cup delicate and intricate.
There are beautiful patterns covering my surface,
but if you look closer you'll see the cracks.
Every time you fill me up just to leave me empty again,
those cracks grow.
They grow and they grow and they grow,
and eventually they grow so big that I am no longer a cup.
I am just pieces of a cup, chipped and broken.
And you, having left me like this, having caused my utter and complete destruction, will not see the value in my remains.
But someone will, and when they do they'll help piece me back together understanding that the gold they use to mend my wounds only adds to my beauty.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 11:21 PM UTC
The proudest thing I think I've ever done,
Such artistry, such skill I have attained!
The semi-glaze reflecting of the sun,
The richness of the blue, so lightly stained;
So perfect is the pointed pouring spout
That sits upon a rim of gold emboss,
And proudly do the handles both stick out,
Exquisite is the painted Celtic cross;
I toiled and slaved for oh so many years,
My fingers ever wet and moist with clay,
But now at last I'm free of all the fears
And doubts that clouded me until this day;
I know you'll all be very pleased for me,
So thanks, my friends, on Hello Pottery!
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 6:50 PM UTC
****
***A fine play
of the
clay
soft
and sift
moistened
turns malleable
gathered and made
to spin on a slow wheel
formed with shaping hands
baked at a high temperature
comes out a beautiful craft
and both of 'em are ready
an urn from the pottery
and the poetry!!***
****
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 9:24 PM UTC
The story teller writes
For a naked character
On a bare stage.
The one character,
One line play.
Profound, all encompassing;
A brief run,
But a blockbuster
With opening nights
In all the capital cities.
The visualist
Could use one brush stroke,
One lump of unmolded clay,
An unchiseled stone,
Weathered driftwood
Or a piece of glass
To display in the great museums
For our interpretation
Of the exposed truth.
One note could orchestrate
On string, wind or skin,
And the composition would be complete.
The maestro could bow and walk;
No encore could repeat.
I want one line of verse
To embelish my yearnings;
To explain the cosmos,
The meaning and crux
Of this place,
Including us.
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 11:50 AM UTC
I can feel your heart ache under your soft, warm skin as I glide my fingers along your gold-mended pottery fractures. Skating on the glaze you've let me peer beneath to reveal your raw materials. We used to use air and clay and water to speak, now we communicate in a wordless language, born of naked otherworldly splendor. — and that planet, your body, I long to explore.
Dec 23, 2018
Dec 23, 2018 at 12:14 PM UTC
I am honored to have been merged with such a well crafted human being
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 7:16 PM UTC
Were they thinking
That you can get some good news about this one
is
A blossom
a blossom
intrinsically linked to
tree roots trunks - petals -
with or without you?
Were you
You
Remembered
Passing your past
Where the - within'you
becomes more difficult than the one you can see
Wraped gently around
Aroused
Whenever you're ready for I
Am not sure about glances
Why or how or when
Could've found and lost impossibility
To bond deeper than thou
Fa~Do
Cream
Sounds
Beautifully lurking around
Any corner of this honey dew
Dripping on every
Sweet corner of this
Earth ~ molasess and maple
Pancakes ~ perfectly
Aligning
With another
Sunrise
Seemen home toasted
Creamy Cheese
Wee
Bee's
Busy
Pollen
How To Bow Properly?
To awareness~ To automatically repaired
Spell checker's wicked authority
Abundant celebration
As passing days
Crowning
Drowning
Feasting
Days
Crafting
Themself
Into
The last invisible
Youthful
Appearance of the darkling
Fireflies Beaming
Devotion
I
To stars up above ~
Many times un~authorised
Molders of our dreams;
Sky high and heavens
White blue sync with
Ebony and Ivory
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 2:41 PM UTC
*Of mud and clay,
drawing strength from the sun.
In the heat,
insides harden even if layers begin to peel.
But in the rain,
the shell concedes and starts to run.
All is left,
is a puddle - stagnant and bereft of zeal.*
Dec 14, 2017
Dec 14, 2017 at 9:12 AM UTC
wrestlemania
traveled cross country,
wrestling with extended
celebration and an
unexpected death;
the body maladjusts,
only to be disrupted
when time zones reset,
hard a-heels upon return,
packing up again for a
sacred pilgrimage
to a summer place
of sheltering, where poems
grow and dangle like participles
from local fruit farms, one
need only pluck and taste,
attach your moniker
and then feed them to the
joggers & walkers running past
send them all on their voyages,
hopefully protected from
travel disorientation and the
cycle of rebirth
with luck, bits and pieces of me
will accompany said word whispers,
them shreds and shards
requiring healing,
or just pruning,
exiting old words,
fresh fruit berries,
roadside acquisitions to b
carry me stained & strained
& happy new travels o‘er
this fruited plain
Jan 20, 2024
Jan 20, 2024 at 2:56 PM UTC
My proudest work comes from water and dirt
Artistry and patience is my quirk
With a bucket and tools my options are endless
Small vessel, medium vessel, large vessel
My soft hands feel with the clay
My steady hands become the clay
Keeping the vessel together and contained
My vessel is a blossom sprouted from water and dirt
Apr 19, 2018
Apr 19, 2018 at 3:37 PM UTC
The mountain grows much slower than your perception of the mountain growing taller, as the dynamics of the sea, which sculpts the earth beneath your feet, speaks—summoning the breeze: isn't it surreal, living on God's pottery wheel?
Sep 4, 2020
Sep 4, 2020 at 9:39 AM UTC
Art is personal and has many forms
Paintings, pottery, and people who perform
Music, Photography, the making of bling
Finding new ways to dance on a string
Poetry, screen writes, and novels are there
Finding new expressions that you'll want to share
What is your flavor, how far do you go
To find your own art form, that shows off your glow?
Brian Hill - 2019 # 153
Jun 23, 2019
Jun 23, 2019 at 9:31 AM UTC
wheel thrown pottery
coils of clay willingly yield-
master potter's touch
Oct 18, 2019
Oct 18, 2019 at 11:19 PM UTC
i wish i could fall into
those pots and vessels
and shatter like ceramics
Jun 8, 2018
Jun 8, 2018 at 6:31 PM UTC
He died today
all I can think about is
when
he and I snuck over the fence
of my parents home
before they bought it
and flicked ash on the back deck
he would move the hair out of his face
grinning
knowing
I was sitting there playing with my cigarette
reminding myself
over and over again
that I had a boyfriend
we used to lay in the fields
behind the school buses
while he detailed
the home he would one day own
"It'd have a pottery wheel and everything!"
"My studio would over look the ocean"
I would bite my lower lip
trying to grip onto the grass
remind myself I was still here
while he'd breathe
tell me the world will still be spinning
tomorrow
but I guess that makes sense
as if I can't see the empty room
he became
the way my heart still fluttered
when someone said his name.
Nov 27, 2017
Nov 27, 2017 at 12:41 AM UTC
I witnessed your unraveling
as she tore you to bits.
Eating at your very core until
things seemed irreversible.
I saw how things changed
when I picked you up piece by piece.
You weren't the same but
It was like looking at shattered pottery
put back together, gleaming with gold
at the cracks.
The same, yet new at the same time.
Renewed.
Then I saw how you went back to her
Jul 28, 2019
Jul 28, 2019 at 12:43 PM UTC
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
Aug 11, 2017
Aug 11, 2017 at 12:55 PM UTC
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?
Oct 2, 2018
Oct 2, 2018 at 6:52 AM UTC
Clay is a dead thing
Brought to life by potters hands
It lives and it sings
Aug 4, 2020
Aug 4, 2020 at 3:39 AM UTC
Austen handed out
lumps of brown clay
and dumped it
in front
of each boy
in the classroom
onto a wooden desk.
I broke off
a piece of clay
like he said
flattened it
as a base.
Then rolled out
another piece
into a narrow
oval strip
about a foot long.
We had to twirl it
around the base
to make a ***
then smooth down
the joins.
Austen then walked
among the boys
with his stare
through thin
wire-framed glasses.
He stopped
by my desk
what's that?
he said.
A *** Sir
I replied.
He stared at it
bring it
to the front
he said.
I picked up
the clay ***
on the palm
of my hand
walked
to the front
of class.
Lift it up
so all can see
he said.
I lifted it up.
This is how
NOT
to make a ***
he said
Coles has
obviously
not been listening
or watching
what I have
been saying
or showing.
A few kids
sniggered
out of fear
of not doing so
rather than mirth.
Had you been
watching me
or listening
to me Coles?
he said.
Yes Sir
I said.
It does Not
look like it.
He took the ***
slammed it
on to his desk
shooed me
away from him
plopping
the misshaped clay
in my palm.
Go sit down Coles.
I took
my lump of clay
and sat down.
Other kids
stared ahead
**** scared
of Austen
to look away.
I stared at him
taking in
his stern features
and pockmarked skin
and grinned within.
Jun 18, 2017
Jun 18, 2017 at 9:44 AM UTC