#sculpting
i understand now
why people make sculptures of their
deceased lovers
they get to hold their face
one last time
Dec 20, 2025
Dec 20, 2025 at 6:58 PM UTC
When I looked in the mirror,
I saw an incomplete face.
A human formed so vague,
God forgot to give her a face.
Formed by the last lump of clay,
A human,incomplete in every possible way.
Yet, a chisel given as the last parting gift,
Ready to define my own face.
When I look in the mirror these days,
I see a different face.
Imperfect but proud,
Because I sculpted it.
Aug 22, 2020
Aug 22, 2020 at 11:47 AM UTC
Wordsworth bubbled in my cellophanate bath water
yesterday, at the candled hour.
whilst horse tails whinnied from Joshua Bell—
Tchaikovsky in brood, 1878.
Oh, but if I had thought to Bogart the whole affair, well,
I'd be a modern Michelangelo, a downright da Vinci—
a Dostoyevsky before the dawn—
propped between the cold **** and the hot,
wet behind the ears.
Then I turn the note-the page-the scene:
Don't try this at home, they echo in the shackles of
celebrity. A drowning horse has sounded better
than their confession of our normality.
Feb 11, 2018
Feb 11, 2018 at 5:03 PM UTC
The most beautiful artwork comes from us. Our lives are like a mosaic. Sometimes we have to break apart, in order to remake ourselves. That’s the beauty of life. With each trial, we are constructing new and different versions of ourselves; sculpting into a beautiful masterpiece.
Aug 2, 2017
Aug 2, 2017 at 9:06 PM UTC
Photography is poetry using light.
Poetry is painting with words.
Painting is sculpting on eyes.
Sculpting is music for stones.
Music is writing through feelings.
Writing is pottery with thoughts.
Pottery is photography of clay.
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 7:36 AM UTC
i fight to peel each moment
of pure stagnation
off of me
a tinnitus cacophony whines in my ears
as my dilapidated fan
keeps slow rhythm to the faucet drip
minutes drag like molasses
handcuffed to the daily lag
groundhog day
i escape into the forest
running, the breeze caresses my face
wildlife pries open my desperate eyes
a spider’s web bends and sways in the wind
fine strands of silver silk flow
soaring they meld in crescent waves
a butterfly glides gently by
befriending gusts of air
softly breathing in another tomorrow
the conductor of the symphony
with sculptor’s hands i cannot see
whispers ever graciously
life is not your enemy
drink it in and let it seep
drop your sword i’m molding thee
©2016janetaylor
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 4:58 PM UTC
I constructed my sister’s portrait in three parts:
her eyes painted full color, bright with oil,
nose in colored pencil, a few shades more sallow,
and her mouth lightly smeared No. 2 pencil,
because I wasn’t sure how to form the words
for a police report never filed against you.
And sometimes I pass you on my way to town,
you still driving that ugly, blue pickup
with that same old sneer on your pig-like face--
I want to scream out my window the way I did
when I dreamed you came to me years in the future,
asking how I’ve been, some lame excuse to bury
your immorality with rice-paper niceties. I remember
my throat tore and bled as if I’d swallowed broken
metal wire as I repeated over and again:
Do you know what you did?
Do you know what you caused?
I constructed my sister’s portrait with three bits of paper
ripped apart and glued crudely together again.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 9:43 AM UTC