#sculpture
My rhymes have shattered into jagged deep,
The soul is placed inside a calloused crust,
Both dreams and raw desires went like feed,
Within the deep throat of pride was cast.
Bright images of moments surface now,
Invading consciousness these shreds of rhymes,
They are full of feelings bright — and so?
The sculpture was made from digested these.
May 17
May 17, 2026 at 6:48 PM UTC
I tried to conjure up words,
like a song embedded into this
lustrous air.
Because I did not want to bother
this world with my silence.
My brain would pinch out bolts of lightning,
trying to find the maps that sets me
in the middle of the room
because for so long,
I’ve always been kept hidden
at the back of an attic,
covered in gray motes of dust.
I tried to read more about this world,
about things I thought would make me
ideal and interesting.
To shape my sculpture into straight
lines, carving lucid edges in the
marble of my existence.
And maybe, the philosophers of this city
has so much to say about this world.
But some people shall wait at the other
side of the room,
sitting in silence, letting
the slanting light spill over the window curtains
looking down, drinking the tea of their life.
Who’s to say that there is no wisdom in silence?
That there is no freedom in the hush
whisper of the void.
I tried so hard for so long but maybe,
I just have nothing to say.
Feb 27
Feb 27, 2026 at 10:52 AM UTC
I catch in the crumpled draft
Feeling and held
Safe now in abandon
Mid form
I join again the ribbon left
Guarding the day
Fallen is the darkness
Molding in the clay
Returned is the letter
Oft placed beside
Now engraving
Removing desperate sighs
The great loss in waters
Repaying the fires calm
Hadn't the draft cooled
Despite my lurking ball
Feb 21
Feb 21, 2026 at 1:43 PM UTC
Stillness won't sit
My missing friend
Alone and remiss
She had changed
In her course
A perception
Innocent
And towards, innocence
She was warned
Many times
Causing my burn
So I settled
Unable to watch
Finally
She was beyond reach
Feb 10
Feb 10, 2026 at 8:01 PM UTC
My unfair love in question,
her lengthy thaw,
muting distance
Wisping towards the growing edge,
tumbling wire figurine,
and as an entire death
tentatively in posture
A sketching of fading pastels,
wash, without zeal
losing pallor, yet fearfully ripe,
and frail,
the weighing upon her,
my insistence
Feb 8
Feb 8, 2026 at 10:13 PM UTC
Amid the intricate carvings of my heart,
your form lay dreaming—
an unending stone at rest.
I never dared to touch it.
I was never meant
to be a sculptor.
Still,
on other stones
I carved your shadow.
In other faces
I searched for your trace.
From many,
I gathered fragments of you.
But your scent—
no one could ever claim.
Like a burnt feather,
my fingers drifted,
aimless,
through your hair.
Now,
in every stone I see,
your outline emerges to me.
Yet I will carve none of them.
I will not disturb the surface.
I love you more this way—
Hidden.
Feb 7
Feb 7, 2026 at 2:09 AM UTC
clumsy hands accompany honeyed words
upon knowing my existence, he fumbles for my silhouette
a blind man seeking to carve my essence into marble.
the darkness gives no grace nor mercy, so i do-
guiding fingertips to draw patterns on my skin,
to sketch an outline of my demise.
pieces fly, chinks and chips embed themselves
line the grooves of his fingers, gather underneath curved nails
fit into the indents of his mind, as he leaves each indelible mark
i am jagged rock lying in patience for unskilled hands who seek to polish and destroy
still, he sinks onto the process like weathering rocks.
growing arrogance with borrowed sight blooms like poison
blooms forth veins in my body with each misdirection of his chisel
yet most crevices remain unrefined and out of reach
as is my essence, locked away within my ribcage
pedestaled above the self-proclaimed sculptor.
i remain resigned as i am sanded and smoothed
the chamber echoes with resolute thoughts
a masterpiece, he remarks with a finality to misshapen ears.
he moves like he is close to the sky and i am his wings securing flight
yet i have no heart and no soul to tell he falls short of the sun
Feb 1
Feb 1, 2026 at 1:27 AM UTC
The whimsical sculptures of Ken Nyberg
found throughout Vining and Otter Tail County
for example The Big Foot
Ken's busy hands have created pieces such as
a dancing knife and spoon with arms and legs
a huge doorknob floating in mid-air
giant pliers crushing a cockroach
a jumbo potted cactus, and a huge watermelon
His sculptures are made from scrap metal
old lawn mower blades
and other recycled materials
I would really like to see
the special sculpture honoring
his daughter Karen, a NASA astronaut
Also, the giant clothes pin
the alien with a rose
the cowboy welcoming you into town
and the spilled coffee cup
Ken Nyberg insists that there isn't any
special meaning behind most pieces.
He just creates them
Jun 7, 2025
Jun 7, 2025 at 4:49 PM UTC
Pure as alabaster,
no servant, no master,
only love abides.
Lost in a kiss,
divination of bliss.
Together, they've stood, against time.
Their creator long gone,
still they live on,
to remind us that true love lasts forever.
Jan 15, 2025
Jan 15, 2025 at 11:15 AM UTC
Thought is finding its shape,
Becoming stronger¹,
And word by word,
Layer upon layer,
Self-erasing,
Taking form².
The mind is a collage
Creating itself from cut-up scraps¹;
It is a sculpture built by a flowing
Fountain of sand,
Both constantly being eroded
And being formed
And grown by the erosion²,
The sculpting fingers of erosion¹,
The sculpted shadows of forgetfulness².
Grains of memory
Beneath the fingernails¹,
They fall, they forget;
One remains².
Mar 22, 2022
Mar 22, 2022 at 6:12 PM UTC
living life on paper sheets,
in between nights and days.
paper planes that'll never reach their destination.
phone calls that hang dry like raw art.
painted sculptures are a fantasy,
my sensory hands, are voluble,
in evening's breast.
the clock moans for tomorrow's ******
and it's dull hums yesterday.
like raw art, on winter.
hanging dry, devoid of existence.
only citizen of the dead soul.
Jan 7, 2022
Jan 7, 2022 at 11:36 AM UTC
chisel into rock
from no-form form: extracting
the sculpture within
Aug 16, 2021
Aug 16, 2021 at 8:21 AM UTC
~
*atop the Manhattan skyline
her similitude descends as rain
we see her wonderwork
we see her water-standing
her very abandonment of draperies
unassuming and artless
where the heedless moths settle
with bodies of mystic warmth
colored with rose and a dash of flame*
~
– for Audrey Munson
May 18, 2021
May 18, 2021 at 9:52 AM UTC
a lover by day
and an artist by night
the epitome of perfection
let me paint you like you are
the heavenly piece of art you are
let the world see you through my eyes
the likes of an angel of love
sculpted by michelangelo
blessed by venus herself
brushstrokes simply cannot do you justice
50mm lens still cannot show the world the truth
cold clay cannot compare to eucalyptus eyes
forget these superficial takes
let's make art, my love
let's make love
Mar 22, 2021
Mar 22, 2021 at 7:55 AM UTC
Everyone cares how they are perceived in society; otherwise the ones that supposedly don't care... wouldn't insist they don't care!!
Feb 11, 2021
Feb 11, 2021 at 10:23 AM UTC
Today begins whole
Time shaved away into shape
Carving a sculpture
Nov 17, 2020
Nov 17, 2020 at 2:08 AM UTC
A face, a form and a surface ready to be scorned. Features, edges, texture, lines- all part of something bright in spite of putting up a fight. Restless, stoic, agitated are words to combine in order to express the world which I call mine.
Sitting, staring or a mere passerby thinks as though I'm a puzzle to entangle and intertwine but rather I am a piece that has paid her lease in order to attain what they call peace.
An art called by hardly any two; strange and displeasing said by a few. Deep down I know I'm remarkable even if the flicker of intensity from my eyes are invisible.
Oct 19, 2020
Oct 19, 2020 at 10:48 AM UTC
Poets always exist,
Such as rocks
And the statues within.
Jul 23, 2020
Jul 23, 2020 at 2:11 AM UTC
Mary Seacole
Black nurse sculpture
Your determination points
To injustice. Your struggle
To serve, be accepted.
Why were you shamed and denied?
This is the broken land where we live.
Your courage, your stride
Takes me to our weakness
To the ache in my chest like a
broken blood vessel.
And trace the lines in my hand
To a bad rotting root.
How many wounds did your hand with compassion soothe?
Behind your certitude
I imagine pain.
Did your hurting
Search out injury and loss?
And as you nursed those violent lacerations,
Patiently waiting whilst the pathway beat its course,
Did you see as if through a veil,
Your own fractured self,
Fusing with your patient’s,
Both your Injuries restore back together
All the way towards their good health?
Jun 18, 2020
Jun 18, 2020 at 5:25 AM UTC
Just because every leaf & stem, n all the greenery of foliage-
Twist up to the sun;
Doesn't mean some flowers won't still bloom in shadow.
Don't discredit a blossom in the dark- Though the light hits the leaves,
the truth of each petal
Is privately dispatched,
Through each color- and in each shape
of every lightless rhythm.
Apr 9, 2020
Apr 9, 2020 at 9:33 PM UTC
Let me describe the curve;
It is smooth as carved stone
Yet soft and warm
A texture like silk.
From where it begins
You can run your hands down
To describe a perfect pear.
Savouring each caress,
Let your hands feel
A hardened excitement
Electrifying your senses
Infecting the mind
With a passionate madness.
The curve can re-form,
Still described perfectly
Leaving everything in place,
Perspective changes
Enhancing new features
For fingers and tongue to explore.
You can become part of it
Melt into the sculpture.
Nov 15, 2019
Nov 15, 2019 at 1:20 PM UTC
It's in the sequence
within the space
on the slow turn
at the touch of the page
it's more than the optic
less than didactic
much more tactile,
less than merely mercantile
it's more immersive,
deeply collaborative
a match that's unconventional
beyond art, words and materials
avoiding any deference,
embracing our difference
flicking 2 fingers
without fear of irreverence
it's greater than the sum
of its many surprising parts
more than what was found in
the inspirational, original art
and whether it's deliberate
or accidently incidental
these are books as art,
beyond the coffee table
May 16, 2019
May 16, 2019 at 12:24 PM UTC
I want to say you have made me who I am
But you were not the sculptor
You were the one with the vision
Pushing the sculptor to create something
Without defects, without faults, perfection
But you pushed too hard
Until the statue cracked under pressure
You did not make the statue
It was the sculptor
It was I who made me who I am
Apr 21, 2019
Apr 21, 2019 at 10:31 PM UTC