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John F McCullagh Jul 2014
Imagine yourself a red ceramic Poppy,
placed with care into the English soil.
One hundred years ago you were a soldier,
a frightened teen in a chaotic world.
You’d been sent, by King’s command, into the battle-
A mindless melee John French thought he’d won.
Perhaps some yards of France had been reclaimed
at a mind numbing cost of mothers’ sons.
You were one of those shot, gassed or burned.
Hit by a shell and blown to kingdom come.
(In ‘fourteen they had funerals for the fallen.
Mass burials became the norm before Verdun.)
That’s how you went from the playing fields of Eton
to an unmarked grave somewhere in Northern France.
So now you are a red ceramic poppy,
a symbol of an Empire, now passed.
Placed in English soil by teenaged hands.
one of nine hundred thousand home at last.
England is placing nearly 900,000 red ceramic poppies in the dry moat of the tower of London to commermorate her war dead from world war one.
Matthew Mar 2014
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
uncannysoup Feb 2010
Sadness loomed
over me
spread loving yarns
around me
hiding my flesh
below warp and woof
Needles from on high
***** my stingy pocket
feeling all Shanghai
Hang um up
Consequential bannners
for Count Ceramic Time
Marie-Chantal Oct 2015
You threw a stone down the wishing well
And put your faith in a ceramic shell,
As the rock disturbed the water
You thanked the Lord, your Father.

Your ceramic shell is full of sand,
And you must obey every command.

In this I mean no disrespect,
But it has to be what you expect
For centuries you've tortured souls
Claiming it will save your own

If I don't believe in him,
That must be the greatest sin,
Worse than denying human beings
Of their own instinctive feelings

Can you blame me for my hate?
When you stole, murdered, lied and *****?


.........."But all that you need is Faith"
Sure it won't be popular but this is how I feel growing up in a previously hugely catholic country, which still affects Irish people's lives today.
The amateur poet Jun 2014
A ceramic cup pressed to my lips
Hot tea steaming below my tounge
A breath of warm summer air fills my lungs soon followed by green tea
The season is joyous
The cicadas sing
And the lightning bugs mate
But my throat is tight
I grip my tea and take another sip
Three months of relaxation by the pool
Yet the only thing I can worry about is the looming fall
68, 67, 66, 65... And the numbers continually drop with every sunset
Fall draws closer everyday
But instead of the warm welcome of school time once more
The changing of the seasons also changes my life
Senior
I sip my tea as the anxiety grows
College college college
That's all I can think of
All of my friends will leave but it's alright
My cup is empty
He's leaving.
I have to face real world problems alone and worry about what his school will bring at the same time
He's changing for his own good. He's following his dreams
I'm happy and envious of him
But I cry because it's all too much
It's summer and I can't even enjoy the night sky
He's going to find someone else
It's okay I tell myself
It's okay he tells me
What will happen will happen
But memories of all the good times shared burn my mind
And the tears stream down my cheeks
It's okay he says
We can make it he says
Part of me wants to believe it, he and I have talked everything out
But another part of me says to break it off now.
Why risk getting hurt when he leaves you for someone else?
No other college relationship works, you're just a stupid high school girlfriend

My conscious fights over this endlessly but he still tells me it's okay
I just want the anxiety to end
The lightning bugs fade
And the cicadas go silent
Tortured sleep comes to me once more under the beautiful night sky
karen dannette Jan 2013
CANT SEEM TO GET THINGS RIGHT
OVER AND OVER AND OVER AGAIN
I LOVE YOU AND WANT TO SEE YOU HAPPY
BUT HE THINGS I DO DONT SHOW ANYTHING, BUT PAIN

AT FIRST, I SEEMED ALRIGHT AND YOUR SMILE WAS BRIGHT
LITTLE BY LITTLE, THE APPEARANCE OF JOY SHOWED FALSE
YOU SAW RIGHT THROUGH ME AND IT SCARED YOU.  
I SAW EVERYTHING AS IT WAS HAPPENING, BUT THEN IT WAS TOO LATE.

DON'T YOU SEE I'M DAMAGED GOODS AND YOU CAN'T FIX ME
CAN'T YOU UNDERSTAND THAT I'LL JUST DESTROY YOU IN THE END..
FOR AFTER ALL, MISERY LOVES COMPANY.
EXCEPT, I'D RATHER NOT HAVE COMPANY THAT FEELS LIKE THIS.

ITS LIKE IN A MOVIE WHERE YOU SEE THE ACTRESS WALK TOWARD HER DEMISE
EVERYONE, BUT HER, KNOWS SHE IS GOING TO DIE
YET, SHE WALKS ON IN TOTAL IGNORANCE
IN TOTAL AND COMPLETE SURREAL STUPIDITY

INSANITY IS LIKE A TINY WORM
EATING AWAY FROM THE INSIDE OUT
YOU KNOW ITS THERE, BUT YOU CAN DO NOTHING TO PREVENT IT.
INSANITY IS MEETING ME AND THINKING YOU CAN CHANGE WHO I'VE BECOME.

SLOWLY, THE PICTURE FINALLY FOCUSES IN ON THE REALITY THAT IS...
BUT, NOW IT'S TOO LATE TO FIGHT.  
I HAVE TO RUN.  I HATE TO CAUSE PAIN.  BUT I HAVE NO OTHER CHOICE
SO, THERE IT IS.  YOU KNOW MY SECRET AND YOU PROBABLY WISHED YOU WOULD HAVE KNOWN BEFORE.

**** ALL THE ROTTEN, SICK AND TWISTED INDIVIDUALS THAT MADE ME THIS WAY
**** ALL THE SADNESS AND PAIN THAT POURS OUT OF MY SOUL LIKE A TSUNAMI
EATING AWAY MY FLESH, LEAVING EVERLASTING SCARS OF MISERY
**** ALL THE WHIRLWINDS AND DUST DEVILS THAT MAKE MY BRAIN UNABLE TO THINK CLEARLY

SO HERE I AM AND YOU ARE TOO
IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DESERT, TOO EXHAUSTED TO CONTINUE MY JOURNEY
TRASH IS A NAME THAT COMES TO MIND WHEN I THINK OF MYSELF
LOVE IS ONLY SOMETHING YOU CAN FEEL WHEN YOU CAN LOVE YOURSELF

THAT ISN'T POSSIBLE FOR ME ANYMORE
TOO MANY MISTAKES HAVE CAUSED ME TO HURT MYSELF AND WANT TO HURT OTHERS
THAT ISN'T THE WAY IT IS SUPPOSED TO BE, IS IT?
FORGIVE ME, GOD, FOR I CONINUE TO SIN AGAIN AND AGAIN

MAYBE TO NUMB THE PAIN FROM BEING TOUCHED WHEN I DIDN'T WANT TO
MAYBE TO NUMB THE AGONY OF FAKE *** ******* THAT BEAT ME DAILY... AND THOUGHT IT WAS OKAY.
MAYBE JUST TO TRY TO SURVIVE IN THIS COLD, TWISTED WORLD THAT EVERYONE ELSE THINKS IS NORMAL.
MAYBE, I'LL NEVER GET ANY BETTER AND THIS IS THE BEST IT WILL EVER BE FOR ME/??

I SKIM THE **** FROM MY GLASS WITH A CERAMIC STRAINER
IT BARELY CATCHES THE TOXIC POISON THAT SHOULDN'T BE CONSUMED
I CHANGE THE CHANNEL A MILLION TIMES TO A MILLION DIFFERENT CHANNELS
BUT ALL I SEE IS RACISM, LIES AND THE LATEST GADGET A FAMILY HAS TO BE IN DEBT FOR.

WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO OUR RACE.... TO OUR PLANET?
IS THIS REALLY THE PLAN THAT GOD DEVISED FOR US?
CAN THERE REALLY BE A PLACE CALLED HEAVEN
AND WILL ALL THE PAINFUL MEMORIES BE ERASED WHEN AND IF WE CROSS OVER TO THE OTHER SIDE?

I GUESS WHAT I'M TRYING TO SAY IS I'M SORRY FOR WHAT I'M ABOUT TO DO TO YOU
I'M SORRY THAT OUR PATHS HAVE CROSSED AND YOU HAVE TO ENDURE WHAT I HAVE COME TO KNOW
I HOPE THAT YOUR SCARS AREN'T NEARLY AS DEEP OR EXCRUCIATING AS MINE ARE
I DO LOVE YOU, AS MUCH AS I CAN POSSIBLY LOVE SOMEONE WITHOUT EVER REALLY HAVING SOMEONE TRULY LOVE ME.
A PLAY


BY



ALEXANDER   K   OPICHO









THE CASTE
1. Chenje – Old man, father of Namugugu
2. Namugugu – Son of Chenje
3. Nanyuli – daughter of Lusaaka
4. Lusaaka – Old man, father of Nanyuli
5. Kulecho – wife of Lusaaka
6. Kuloba – wife of Chenje
7. Paulina – Old woman, neighbour to Chenje.
8. Child I, II and III – Nanyuli’s children
9. Policeman I, II and III
10. Mourners
11. Wangwe – a widowed village pastor

















ACTING HISTORY
This play was acted two times, on 25th and 26th December 2004 at Bokoli Roman Catholic Church, in Bokoli sub- location of Bungoma County in the western province of Kenya. The persons who acted and their respective roles are as below;

Wenani Kilong –stage director
Alexander k Opicho – Namugugu
Judith Sipapali Mutivoko- Nanyuli
Saul Sampaza Mazika Khayongo- Wangwe
Paul Lenin Maondo- Lusaaka
Peter Wajilontelela-  Chenje
Agnes Injila -  Kulecho
Beverline Kilobi- Paulina
Milka Molola Kitayi- Kuloba
Then mourners, children and police men changed roles often. This play was successfully stage performed and stunned the community audience to the helm.













PLOT
Language use in this play is not based on Standard English grammar, but is flexed to mirror social behaviour and actual life as well as assumptions of the people of Bokoli village in Bungoma district now Bungoma County in Western province of Kenya.

























ACT ONE
Scene One

This scene is set in Bokoli village of Western Kenya. In Chenje’s peasant hut, the mood is sombre. Chenje is busy thrashing lice from his old long trouser Kuloba, sitting on a short stool looking on.

Chenje: (thrashing a louse) these things are stubborn! The lice. You **** all of them today, and then tomorrow they are all-over. I hate them.
Kuloba: (sending out a cloud of smoke through her tobacco laden pipe). Nowadays I am tired. I have left them to do to me whatever they want (coughs) I killed them they were all over in my skirt.
Chenje: (looking straight at Kuloba) Do you know that they are significant?
Kuloba: What do they signify?
Chenje: Death
Kuloba: Now, who will die in this home? I have only one son. Let them stop their menace.
Chenje: I remember in 1968, two months that preceded my father’s death, they were all over. The lice were in every of my piece of clothes. Even the hat, handkerchief. I tell you what not!
Kuloba: (nodding), Yaa! I remember it very well my mzee, I had been married for about two years by then.
Chenje: Was it two years?
Kuloba: (assuringly) yes, (spots a cockroach on the floor goes at it and crushes it with her finger, then coughs with heavy sound) we had stayed together in a marriage for two years. That was when people had began back-biting me that I was barren. We did not have a child. We even also had the jiggers. I can still remember.
Chenje: Exactly (crashes a louse with his finger) we also had jiggers on our feet.
Kuloba: The jiggers are very troublesome. Even more than the lice and weevils.  
Chenje: But, the lice and jiggers, whenever they infest one’s home, they usually signify impending death of a family member.
Kuloba: Let them fail in Christ’s name. Because no one is ripe for death in this home. I have lost my five children. I only have one child. My son Namugugu – death let it fail. My son has to grow and have a family also like children of other people in this village. Let whoever that is practicing evil machinations against my family, my only child fail.
Chenje: (putting on the long-trouser from which he had been crushing lice) let others remain; I will **** them another time.
Kuloba: You will never finish them (giggles)
Chenje: You have reminded me, where is Namugugu today? I have not seen him.
Kuloba: He was here some while ago.
Chenje: (spitting out through an open window) He has become of an age. He is supposed to get married so that he can bear grand children for me. Had I the grand children they could even assist me to **** lice from my clothes. (Enters Namugugu) Come in boy, I want to talk to you.
Kuloba: (jokingly) you better give someone food, or anything to fill the stomach before you engages him in a talk.
Namugugu: (looks, at both Chenje and Kuloba, searchingly then goes for a chair next to him)
Mama! I am very hungry if you talk of feeding me, I really get thrilled (sits at a fold-chair, it breaks sending him down in a sprawl).
Kuloba: (exclaims) wooo! Sorry my son. This chair wants to **** (helps him up)
Namugugu: (waving his bleeding hand as he gets up) it has injured my hand. Too bad!
Chenje: (looking on) Sorry! Dress your finger with a piece of old clothes, to stop that blood oozing out.
Namugugu: (writhing in pain) No it was not a deep cut. It will soon stop bleeding even without a piece of rag.
Kuloba: (to Namugugu) let it be so. (Stands) let me go to my sweet potato field. There are some vivies, I have not harvested, I can get there some roots for our lunch (exits)
Chenje: (to Namugugu) my son even if you have injured your finger, but that will not prevent me from telling you what I am supposed to.
Namugugu: (with attention) yes.
Chenje: (pointing) sit to this other chair, it is safer than that one of yours.
Namugugu: (changing the chair) Thank you.
Chenje: You are now a big person. You are no longer an infant. I want you to come up with your own home. Look for a girl to marry. Don’t wait to grow more than here. The two years you have been in Nairobi, were really wasted. You could have been married, may you would now be having my two grand sons as per today.
Namugugu: Father I don’t refuse. But how can I marry and start up a family in a situation of extreme poverty? Do you want me to start a family with even nothing to eat?
Chenje: My son, you will be safer when you are a married beggar than a wife- less rich-man. No one is more exposed as a man without a wife.
Namugugu: (looking down) father it is true but not realistic.
Chenje: How?
Namugugu: All women tend to flock after a rich man.
Chenje: (laughs) my son, may be you don’t know. Let me tell you. One time you will remember, maybe I will be already dead by then. Look here, all riches flock after married men, all powers of darkness flock after married men and even all poverty flock after married. So, it is just a matter of living your life.
(Curtains)
SCENE TWO

Around Chenje’s hut, Kuloba and Namugugu are inside the hut; Chenje is out under the eaves. He is dropping at them.
Namugugu: Mama! Papa wants to drive wind of sadness permanently into my sail of life. He is always pressurizing me to get married at such a time when I totally have nothing. No food, no house no everything. Mama let me actually ask you; is it possible to get married in such a situation?
Kuloba: (Looking out if there is any one, but did not spot the eaves-dropping Chenje).
Forget. Marriage is not a Whiff of aroma. My son, try marriage in poverty and you will see.
Namugugu: (Emotionally) Now, if Papa knows that I will not have a happy married life, in such a situation, where I don’t have anything to support myself; then why is he singing for my marriage?
Kuloba: (gesticulating) He wants to mess you up the way he messed me up. He married me into his poverty. I have wasted away a whole of my life in his poverty. I regret. You! (Pointing) my son, never make a mistake of neither repeating nor replicating poverty of this home into your future through blind marriage.
Namugugu: (Approvingly) yes Mama, I get you.

Kuloba: (Assertively) moreover, you are the only offspring of my womb             (touching her stomach) I have never eaten anything from you. You have never bought me anything even a headscarf alone. Now, if you start with a wife will I ever benefit anything from you?
Namugugu: (looking agog) indeed Mama.
Kuloba: (commandingly) don’t marry! Women are very many. You can marry at any age, any time or even any place. But it is very good to remember child-price paid by your mother in bringing you up. As a man my son, you have to put it before all other things in your life.
Namugugu: (in an affirmative feat) yes Mama.
Kuloba: It is not easy to bring up a child up to an age when in poverty. As a mother you really suffer. I’ve suffered indeed to bring you up. Your father has never been able to put food on the table. It has been my burden through out. So my son, pleased before you go for women remember that!
Namugugu: Yes Mama, I will.
(Enters Chenje)
Chenje: (to Kuloba) you old wizard headed woman! Why do you want to put    my home to a full stop?
Kuloba: (shy) why? You mean you were not away? (Goes out behaving shyly)

Chenje: (in anger to Namugugu) you must become a man! Why do you give your ears to such toxic conversations? Your mother is wrong. Whatever she has told you today is pure lies. It is her laziness that made her poor. She is very wrong to festoon me in any blame…. I want you to think excellently as a man now. Avoid her tricky influence and get married. I have told you finally and I will never repeat telling you again.

Namugugu: (in a feat of shyness) But Papa, you are just exploding for no good reason, Mama has told me nothing bad……………………
Chenje: (Awfully) shut up! You old ox. Remove your ears from poisonous mouths of old women!
(Enters Nanyuli with an old green paper bag in her hand. Its contents were bulging).
Nanyuli: (knocking) Hodii! Hodii!
Chenje: (calmly) come in my daughter! Come in.
Nanyuli: (entering) thank you.
Chenje: (to Namugugu) give the chair to our visitor.
Namugugu: (shyly, paving Nanyuli to sit) Karibu, have a sit please.
Nanyuli: (swinging girlishly) I will not sit me I am in a hurry.
Chenje: (to Nanyuli) just sit for a little moment my daughter. Kindly sit.
Nanyuli: (sitting, putting a paper-bag on her laps) where is the grandmother who is usually in this house?
Chenje: Who?
Nanyuli: Kuloba, the old grandmother.
Namugugu: She has just briefly gone out.
Chenje: (to Nanyuli) she has gone to the potato field and Cassava field to look for some roots for our lunch.
Nanyuli: Hmm. She will get.
Chenje: Yes, it is also our prayer. Because we’re very hungry.
Nanyuli: I am sure she will get.
Chenje: (to Nanyuli) excuse me my daughter; tell me who your father is?
Nanyuli: (shyly) you mean you don’t know me? And me I know you.
Chenje: Yes I don’t know you. Also my eyes have grown old, unless you remind
me, I may not easily know you.
Nanyuli: I am Lusaaka’s daughter
Chenje: Eh! Which Lusaka? The one with a brown wife? I don’t know… her name is Kulecho?
Nanyuli: Yes
Chenje: That brown old-mother is your mother?
Nanyuli: Yes, she is my mother. I am her first – born.
Chenje: Ooh! This is good (goes forward to greet her) shake my fore-limb my
daughter.

Nanyuli: (shaking Chenje’s hand) Thank you.
Chenje: I don’t know if your father has ever told you. I was circumcised the same year with your grand-gather. In fact we were cut by the same knife. I mean we shared the same circumciser.
Nanyuli: No, he has not yet. You know he is always at school. He never stays at home.
Chenje: That is true. I know him, he teaches at our mission primary school at Bokoli market.
Nanyuli: Yes.
Chenje: What is your name my daughter?
Nanyuli: My name is Loisy Nanyuli Lusaaka.
Chenje: Very good. They are pretty names. Loisy is a Catholic baptismal name, Nanyuli is our Bukusu tribal name meaning wife of an iron-smith and Lusaaka is your father’s name.
Nanyuli: (laughs) But I am not a Catholic. We used to go to Catholic Church upto last year December. But we are now born again, saved children of God. Fellowshipping with the Church of Holy Mountain of Jesus christ. It is at Bokoli market.
Chenje: Good, my daughter, in fact when I will happen to meet with your father, or even your mother the brown lady, I will comment them for having brought you up under the arm of God.
Nanyuli: Thank you; or even you can as well come to our home one day.
Chenje: (laughs) actually, I will come.
Nanyuli: Now, I want to go
Chenje: But you have not stayed for long. Let us talk a little more my daughter.
Nanyuli: No, I will not. I had just brought some tea leaves for Kuloba the old grandmother.
Chenje: Ooh! Who gave you the tea leaves?
Nanyuli: I do hawk tea leaves door to door. I met her last time and she requested me to bring her some. So I want to give them to you (pointing at Namugugu) so that you can give them to her when she comes.
Namugugu: No problem. I will.
Nanyuli: (takes out a tumbler from the paper bag, fills the tumbler twice, pours the tea leaves  into an old piece of  newspaper, folds and gives  it to Namugugu) you will give them to grandmother, Kuloba.
Namugugu: (taking) thank you.
Chenje: My daughter, how much is a tumbler full of tea leaves, I mean when it is full?
Nanyuli: Ten shillings of Kenya
Chenje: My daughter, your price is good. Not like others.
Nanyuli: Thank you.
Namugugu: (To Nanyuli) What about money, she gave you already?
Nanyuli: No, but tell her that any day I may come for it.
Namugugu: Ok, I will not forget to tell her
Nanyuli: I am thankful. Let me go, we shall meet another day.
Chenje: Yes my daughter, pass my regards to your father.
Nanyuli: Yes I will (goes out)
Chenje: (Biting his finger) I wish I was a boy. Such a good woman would never slip through my fingers.
Chenje: But father she is already a tea leaves vendor!
(CURTAINS)


SCENE THREE
Nanyuli and Kulecho in a common room Nanyuli and Kulecho are standing at the table, Nanyuli is often suspecting a blow from Kulecho, counting coins from sale of tea leaves; Lusaaka is sited at couch taking a coffee from a ceramic red kettle.


Kulecho: (to Nanyuli) these monies are not balancing with your stock. It is like you have sold more tea leaves but you have less money. This is only seventy five shillings. When it is supposed to be one hundred and fifty. Because you sold fifteen tumblers you are only left with five tumblers.
Nanyuli: (Fidgeting) this is the whole money I have, everything I collected from sales is here.
Kulecho: (heatedly) be serious, you stupid woman! How can you sell everything and am not seeing any money?
Nanyuli: Mama, this is the whole money I have, I have not taken your money anywhere.
Kulecho: You have not taken the money anywhere! Then where is it? Do you know that I am going to slap you!
Nanyuli: (shaking) forgive me Mama
Kulecho: Then speak the truth before you are forgiven. Where is the money you collected from tea leaves sales?
Nanyuli: (in a feat of shyness) some I bought a short trouser for my child.
Kulecho: (very violent) after whose permission? You old cow, after whose permission (slaps Nanyuli with her whole mighty) Talk out!
Nanyuli: (Sobbingly) forgive me mother, I thought you would understand. That is why I bought a trouser for my son with your money!
Lusaaka: (shouting a cup of coffee in his hand, standing charged) teach her a lesson, slap her again!
Kulecho (slaps, Nanyuli continuously, some times ******* her cheeks, as Nanyuli wails) Give me my money! Give me my money! Give me my money! Give me my money! You lousy, irresponsible Con-woman (clicks)
Lusaaka: Are you tired, kick the *** out of that woman (inveighs a slap towards Nanyuli) I can slap you!
Nanyuli: (kneeling, bowedly, carrying up her hands) forgive me father, I will never repeat that mistake again (sobs)
Lusaaka: An in-corrigible, ****!
Kulecho: (to Nanyuli) You! Useless heap of human flesh. I very much regret to have sired a sell-out of your type. It is very painful for you to be a first offspring of my womb.
I curse my womb because of you. You have ever betrayed me. I took you to school you were never thankful, instead you became pregnant. You were fertilized in the bush by peasant boys.
You have given birth to three childlings, from three different fathers! You do it in my home. What a shame! Your father is a teacher, how have you made him a laughing stock among his colleagues, teachers? I have become sympathetic to you by putting you into business. I have given you tea leaves to sell. A very noble occupation for a wretch like you. You only go out sell tea leaves and put the money in your wolfish stomach. Nanyuli! Why do you always act like this?
Nanyuli: (sobbing) Forgive me mother. Some tea leaves I sold on credit. I will come with the money today?
Kulecho: You sold on credit?
Nanyuli: Yes
Kul
this is a manuscript of a play, please guys help me get any publisher who can do publishing of this play
i  will appreciate. thanks
Nigel Morgan Oct 2012
Ah the persimmon, a word from an extinct language of the Powatan people of the tidewater Virginia, spoken until the mid 18th C when its Blackfoot Indian speakers switched to English. It was putchamin, pasiminan, or pessamin, then persimmon, a fruit. Like the tomato, it is a ‘true berry’.
 
Here in this postcard we have a painting of four kaki: the Japanese persimmon. Of these four fruit, one is nearly ripe; three are yet to ripen. They have been picked three days and shelter under crinkled leaves, still stalked. Now, the surface on which these astringent, tangy fruit rest, isn’t it wondrous in its blue and mottled green? It is veined, a ceramic surface perhaps? The blue-green mottled, veined surface catches reflected light; the shadows are delicate but intense.
 
You told me that it troubled you to read my stories because so often they stepped between reality and fantasy, truth and playful invention. When you said this I meant to say (but we changed the subject): I write this way to confront what I know to be true but cannot present verbatim. I have to make into a fiction my remembered observations, those intense emotions of the moment. They are too precious not to save, and like the persimmon benefit from laying out in the sun to dry: to be eaten raw; digested to rightly control my ch’i, and perhaps your ch’i too.
 
So today a story about four kaki, heart-shaped hachiya, and hidden therein those most private feelings, messages of love and passion, what can be seen, what is unseen, thoughts and un-thoughts, mysteries and evasions.
 
                                                                            ----
 
 
Professor Minoru retired last year and now visits his university for the occasional show of his former colleagues and their occasionally-talented students. He spends his days in his suburban house with its tiny non-descript garden: a dog run, a yard no less. No precious garden. It is also somewhere (to his neighbours’ disgust) to hang wet clothes. It is just grass surrounded by a high fence. He walks there briefly in the early morning before making tea and climbing the stairs to his studio.
 
The studio runs the whole length of his house. When his wife Kinako left him he obliterated any presence of her, left his downtown studio, and converted three rooms upstairs into one big space. This is where Mosuku, his beautiful Akita, sleeps, coming downstairs only to eat and defecate in the small garden. Minoru and Mosuku go out twice each day: to midday Mass at the university chaplaincy; to the park in the early evening to meet his few friends walking their dogs. Otherwise he is solitary except for three former students who call ‘to keep an eye on the old man’.
 
He works every day. He has always done this, every day. Even in the busiest times of the academic year, he rose at 5.0am to draw, a new sheet of mitsumatagami placed the night before on his worktable ready. Ready for the first mark.
 
Imagine. He has climbed the stairs, tea in his left hand, sits immediately in front of this ivory-coloured paper, places the steaming cup to his far left, takes a charcoal stick, and  . . . the first mark, the mark from the world of dreams, memories, regrets, anxieties, whatever the night has stored in his right hand appears, progresses, forms an image, a sketch, as minutes pass his movement is always persistence, no reflection or studied consideration, his sketch is purposeful and wholly his own. He has long since learnt to empty his hand of artifice, of all memory.
 
When Kinako left he destroyed every trace of her, and of his past too. So powerful was his intent to forget, he found he had to ask the way to Shinjuko station, to his studio in the university. He called in a cleaning company to remove everything not in two boxes in the kitchen (of new clothes, his essential documents, 5 books, a plant, Mosuko’s feeding bowl). They were told (and paid handsomely) to clean with vigour. Then the builders and decorators moved in. He changed his phone number and let it be known (to his dog walker friends) that he had decided from now on to use an old family name, Sawato. He would be Sawato. And he was.
 
His wife, and she was still that legally, had found a lover. Kinako was a student of Professor Minoru, nearly thirty years younger, and a fragile beauty. She adored ‘her professor’, ‘her distinguished husband’, but one day at an opening (at Kinosho Kikaku – Gallery 156) she met an American artist, Fern Sophie Citron, and that, as they say in Japan, was that. She went back to Fern’s studio, where this rather plump middle-aged woman took photographs of Kinako relentlessly in costume after costume, and then without any costume, on the floor, in the bath, against a wall, never her whole body, and always in complete silence. Two days later she sent a friend to collect her belongings and to deliver a postcard to her husband. It was his painting of four persimmon. Persimmon (1985) 54 by 36 cm, mineral pigment on paper.
 
‘Hiroshi’, she wrote in red biro, ‘I am someone else now it is best you do not know. Please forgive’.
 
Sawato’s bedroom is on the ground floor now. There is a mat that is rolled away each morning. On the floor there are five books leaning against each other in a table-top self-standing shelf. The Rule of St Benedict (in Latin), The I-Ching (in Chinese), The Odes of Confucius, The Tale of the Bamboo Cutter (10th C folk tale) and a manual of Go, the Shogi Zushiki. Placed on a low table there is a laptop computer connected to the Internet, and beside the computer his father’s Go board (of dark persimmon wood), its counters pebbles from the beach below his family’s home. Each game played on the Internet he transcribes to his physical board.
 
He ascribes his mental agility, his calm and perseverance in his studio practice, to his nightly games of Go in hyperspace. He is an acknowledged master. His games studied assiduously, worldwide.
 
For 8 months in 1989 he studied the persimmon as still-life. He had colleagues send him examples of the fruit from distant lands. The American Persimmon from Virginia, the Black Persimmon or Black Sapote from Mexico (its fruit has green skin and white flesh, which turns black when ripe), the Mabolo or Velvet-apple native to Philippines - a bright red fruit when ripe, sometimes known as the Korean Mango, and more and more. His studio looked like a vegetable store, persimmons everywhere. He studied the way the colours of their skins changed every day. He experimented with different surfaces on which to place these tannin-rich fruits. He loved to touch their skins, and at night he would touch Kinako, his fingers rich from the embrace of fifty persimmon fruits, and she . . . she had never known such gentleness, such strength, such desire. It was as though he painted her with his body, his long fingers tracing the shape of the fruit, his tongue exploring each crevice of her long, slim, fruit-rich body. She had never been loved so passionately, so completely. At her desk in the University library special collection, where she worked as a researcher for a fine art academic journal, she would dream of the night past and anticipate the night to come, when, always on her pillow a different persimmon, she would fall to ****** and beyond.
 
Minoru drew and painted, printed and photographed more persimmons than he could keep track of. After six months he picked seven paintings, and a collection of 12 drawings. The rest he burnt. When he exhibited these treasures, Persimmon (1989) Mineral pigment on paper 54, by 36 cm was immediately acquired by Tokyo National Museum. It became a favourite reproduction, a national treasure. He kept seeing it on the walls of houses in magazines, cheap reproductions in department stores, even on a TV commercial. Eventually he dismissed it, totally, from his ever-observant, ever-scanning eyes. So when Kinako sent him the postcard he looked at it with wonder and later wrote this poem in his flowing hand using the waka style:
 
 
*Ah, the persimmon
Lotus fruit of the Gods
 
Heartwood of a weaver’s shuttle,
The archer’s bow, the timpanist sticks,
 
I take a knife to your ripe skin.
Reveal or not the severity of my winter years.
Ceramic white, wood richly brown
Smooth liquid....touching buds of taste
Lips chasing chatter, slithering slogan sentences
Arm reaching, lift off, exposing the pit, selecting
Combination to the gestured shape, proposing
Enlivening, trickling conversation tripping
To my left.  A phone, pressing snugly, ear
Tuned up, alerted, filtering the microwave
Throng.  With welcome warmth, thaw began
Icy film packaging a heart temporarily beat
Free, playing, fraternising.....roulette with Russia
Colt Jul 2013
for Those who eat ramen by choice, or not.*

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by disillusionment,
lacking egotistical sold, dragging themselves through the hip streets at dawn
looking for a socially self-aggrandizing fix.
Poets, as they sit in desks and discuss discourse
about discourse about discourse about discourse,
who fear that thinking itself was buried with Vonnegut,
who are lost in forests of brick walls,
inviting, because they block the wind of dying fall,
who swim in cesspools filled with academic sewage, yearning for freedom,
for truth, as they always have,
mining their minds for images, and searching for words to describe
-a reality which is virtual at its core and each act, another chore./
-a scene of life which reflects all that is poignant and sacred.
Poets seek musicians while musicians seek poets.
and the dog chases its tail, endlessly
and the dog chases its tail, endlessly
and the dog chases its tail, endlessly

These poets who search aimlessly for the feeling of feeling,
who are overwhelmed with meaning to the point where meaning
has no meaning in itself.
Who claim this poem as their own and continuously write themselves into it.
It is those who suffer in truth that live the poetic.
Those who sit in front of space heaters eating peanut butter sandwiches in winter,
who sweat unknowingly in summer, comforted in each’s odor.
Those who open Macbooks while squatting in empty flats.
Signing up, logging in and zoning out, forever disengaged.
Those who type prophecy on keypads and let keyboards gather dust-
stratification, signs of long nights spent in century-old homes still not renovated,
ceilings sinking at the sides while those above pogo to punk rock long dead,
or grind genitals to old soul, simulating all that is sensual.
Those who play archaeologist to their own layers of makeup, grimed on the sink.
Those who share their food with the roaches and the mooches who all have keys,
who use the books as shelves to hold ceramic mugs, stained with a single drip-drop,
who, with arms crossed, watch bands in basements play noise.
Those who replaced their nu-metal records with folk but kept the unkempt beards.
Those who drink stale beer on stranger’s rooftops.
Those who live with bags under eyes, themselves asleep, lacking a body,
sleeping naked together to stay warm,
sleeping naked together to stay sane,
sleeping naked together to stay touched.

Those who leave coffee in unplugged automatic pots, decaying rapidly.
Those who eat pizza for breakfast, cold or microwaved, as an act of ultimate indulgence.
Those who prance about in un-matching socks
from hardwood floors to vinyl floors to tile floors, all under the same popcorn ceiling,
dancing to the sound of rhythmic silence.
Those who fight with lovers about acts, but never once mention the act of love itself.
Those who don flannel plaid in springtime color, constructing Williamsburg,
who consider gentrification a new form of landed gentry,
who live in poverty as if it were a novelty,
capitalist martyrs sacrificing employment to hide being non-hirable,
who shop in online surplus department stores for unique vintage.
Those who, who, who hoot like the owls framed on their walls, eyes wide but beaks small.
Those who are oppressed by nonexistent kings ruling in imaginary suits.
Those who crave something new, not tired-as the form of this very poem-
something which is not-yet auto-tuned.
Those who, faux-hawked and shredded, rock and bop to Bowie doing Lou
on Sunday Morning from Station to Station shooting ******,
who walk swiftly with denim skin on their legs and refuse socks.
Those who, in their rightest mind, are the wrongest-minded.
Those who can reject privilege only because they are privileged,
who, in their uniform whiteness, denounce racism,
who, in their uniform straightness, claim immune to homophobia
who, with their ***** ***** in a row, claim to be feminists.

And those who search for revolution in a time when rebellion is conformity.
Listening to the  pounding sound of blog-protesters typing n o w.
who, in claiming to accept, don’t accept the unaccepting,
who got veggies tattooed on their sides while snapping bacon in their teeth,
who ironically infiltrated asylums and performed madness until the shocks came
and they were maddened, for good, eaten alive by volts resounding
ka-ching, ka-ching, ka-ching.
Who sleep naked together to be together but end up being alone,
exchanges from lips that move in pretentious drone,
and the dog chases its tail, endlessly.
When the abnormal is normal and the whole structure is inverted and
heaven is here and flames under the soil are no longer hell burning for soles of the
Converse, Adidas, and Nike sneakers on the bicycle pedals of poets who ride at night,
listening to the sound of owls that question:
who?
whoo?
whooo?
Ella Alvarez Feb 2018
She
She’s beauty, she’s grace.
With blood in her veins and heat circulating through her frame,
You could compare her to a furnace.
Carrying energy throughout her body and distributing it evenly where it’s needed.
It’s the pressure, the turbulence, the years of experience that molds and forges her heart into the form it takes.
Her heart is made of ceramic, shaped into a wide-mouthed or funnel-enclosed hollow and glazed with painted flowers, or abstract patterns, or tales of wars and legends featuring holy beings and storybook beasts.
Her heart is the fortune of archaeologists and antiquarians alike, the field of study of historians, the apple of poets’ eyes. They seek to wipe every speck of dust that obscures every stroke, every detail, every scar and fracture they seek to decode.
Because as beautiful as ceramic can be, it is brittle and delicate and easily fractures as hearts do. Because if there’s one thing ceramic and hearts have in common, they can only withstand a certain amount of stress for so long.
Because every scar tells a story. No visible fracture can be just a fantasy.
A scratch from heartbreak, a mark from rejection, a line from quarrel. A scar from unrequited love, a scar from a failed test mark, a scar from falling over while biking. A breakage from inner demons.
We are the same. We suffer the same.
Yet the painted flowers, the abstract patterns, the murals telling tales of wars and legends featuring holy beings and storybook beasts, they all elude us, because we’re inclined to focus on the debris before us.
We’d rather walk around the debris, walk over the debris, avoid touching the debris when we’re well within our ability to repair and mend the debris.
Gold for recovery, silver for hope, platinum to mend her broken pieces.
Gold to crown her a winner, to declare her triumph.
Silver to ease her troubled mind, to give her hope anew.
Platinum to strengthen her, to enlighten her, to remind her that she can rise up again.
Golden joinery, or kintsugi, as the Japanese call it — it’s the art of repairing broken pottery with gold, or silver, or platinum, holding its fragments together by a tight bond. It’s meant to treat breakage and repair as part of the history of the object, rather than something to disguise.
She’s beauty, she’s grace.
Her heart is made of ceramic — and gold and silver and platinum intertwined, a story of heartbreak, rejection, and quarrel conquered by recovery, hope, and strength, and proof that she is more than her heartbreak, her rejection, her storms and trials and tribulations.
She is, quite literally, the cloud with a silver lining.
Her heart is art.
But it need not be displayed in a museum case, or in an antique shop window, or a gallery chamber.
Because she, in all of her beauty and grace, she is the museum case, the antique shop window, the gallery chamber.
dedication for a friend who was turning 16!
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
.english black humour is peppered with sarcasm,
english humour is sarcasm...
watching the gaelic version
is like watchings the irish try to be subtle by being rude,
doesn’t work... normas proved it defeating the saxons...
and subsequently the celtic brides roared in encore!
it really doesn’t work... the polish fraction of me still intact
to remind me of the biology that still works served
the reminder: polish history is still orientated
on the european continent, eastern europe
is not a segregated "continent" that might contend
with england and france being ante-antarctica...
never engage a celt with british humour for guy fawkes or anyone
else in the missing ditto;
celtish or cultish... i never quiet know...
enter the celtish brides... encouraging the advent of copulation
and the excesses of tax to build linear ceramic imprints
of broken bricks, that made it into ratio of
the chiseled brick worth a heavyweight contention with
heated mortar dough; oh right, pooh bear you're offended...
deal with it! unless your uncle is denoted as
adolf ****** and you want him resurrected!
shakespeare never wrote the play: the merchant of mecca,
did he? poor shylock... i was almost caught in admiration
of what english students at 16 thought of that national pride...
known as the *****-bride to **** for an A at a-level.


they still sound out of breath,
out of anything,
esp. words...
they all sound to totem no animal
rather than an ****
which in ceramic wilderness
sounds like wild ****...
where’s the monochromatic monotone
of the drunken sailor going by the name
of st. peter?
fisherman turned sailor... that’s a first...
why didn’t jesus pick barabbas rather than judas?
was it cain that got in the way?
i bet it was. well nox awaits both thief and murderer...
those engaged with rabbanic arts
tend to treat dreams less seriously...
and those that don’t tend to treat dreams more seriously...
those that treat dreams seriously endear the sole
escapism of reality quite seriously...
and for those that don’t... well... there’s the zodiac algebra
and that’s right for a mummified expression
that was bandaged into a circumcised *******.

p.s.
rhyming poetry has spawned the most pointless
ibhibitions of rhythm poetics,
all the current poets sound
    verärgert... exasperated...
    is everyone seriously a ******* goldfish
catching their breath a second time?!
you want to know the most fun thing
i've ever did, today?
i started to tickle my maine ****'s
inner ear with a chicken's egg...
he raised his paw,
he tried to scratch himself...
"something" there was a schizophrenic
violing playing in his cranium,
rather: the temple of his ear...
i was lucky in having to: kitzteln (titillate)
him with an egg...
a chicken abortion i'd probably
consume come tomorrow's breakfast
hour...

             he felt it, the giggles...
the giggles from annoyance being rubbed
the "wrong way"...
so much to say about a woman
whom i attempted to pick a nose
in earning affection of seeing:
the "green fairy" take a ****,
take to farting, breaking the magic of
the feminine persona of "unfathomable" /
unfailable...

            genius: an egg inserted
into a cat's ear to tickle... eating an abortion
the next morn...
                                    all the woes
of the world seem so insignificant when
you buy into feline idiosyncracies...
after all... there's no leash...
no kaganiec...
             there is no stipend associated
with the timing of walkies...
cats are perfectly disorientated by
their own selves: or rather,
their senses...

              you learn atheism from people,
but?! you learn solipsism from cats!
you learn atheism to sound
intellectually superior, sound,
"sensible"...
solispsism you learn from cats...
god or no god...
you are first, you are the last,
while god? "someone" in the middle...
can god be associated to pronouns?
or is god a pure noun: excavation
machina pro grata?
well... if god was ever a person,
being, anti-tool...
wouldn't "he" be a persona non grata?!
well then!
  machina pro grata:
                the noun spin "mr."...

man was never in search of god:
the objective reality remained true as
it always remained...
man was forver bound to the search
of god: via the subjective
personification of said "object"...

      how do you think the muslims
deal with this conundrum?!
they think they are gratifying everyone
else with an objective reality
of god, while they themselves,
with the polytheistic splinter of the gods,
are themselves searching for
the subjective reality of their god...
a person, a personality...
to the muslims their god speaks
the same objective truth as the sort
of truth a pagan might adhere to...
they want to know: a person to speak to,
rather than an object they can throw...

modern poetry when performed is ****,
it all sounds the same...
that overtone of exasperation...
me? i'm not speaking...
itchy finger-tips: idle hands:
the devil's due...
      i'm not speaking among these
youths... it's like that h'american beauty
quote...

ricky fitts: but it helps me remember...
i need to remember...
sometimes there's so much beauty in the world,
i feel like i can't take it,
     and my heart is just going to cave in.

lester burnham - whatever he said
about the balloon not being filled with helium...
but with all the bureucratic custody
via custard like some zeno paradox
of a tortoise outrunning achilles...
               the beauty can remain...
to enchant the easily impressionable...
after all: you "only live once"!
the beauty will always remain...
hence the seasons...
               but there's only one
impressionable aspect of this reality...
the thought you leave with...
the thought, implying:
the lost aspect of a moral (th)ought
to be envisioned in it not being
sentenced to a maxim
    or a proverb...
                       or a lesson...
after all... once man grows old:
he's no longer fond of learning,
but overtly eager to teach...
         i'm neither... 33...
who am i to learn from or teach for?
teaching by mistakes?
       no one really teaches by example...
unless on a pure technical canvas
associated with a trade or a tool...
which life is neither!

what is the west selling as their... "capitalism"...
their next ponzi scheme of "made in... chi'nah?!"
this, this is capitalism?!
i remember days when gap shirt
lifted the words: made in canada....
quality... would last you 20 years...
the wool wouldn't thin, the colours
wouldn't fade...
                    capitalism my ***, these days!
i came to the promised land,
i remained: with broken bones
            and ****** make-up tutorials....

for all the belief in man,
and this, non-existent fear of god,
savvy,
      upon the sacred altar of
the debauchery of prometheus,
upon the sacrifices of a.i. atlas...
upon: will electricirty ever replace fire...
who stole the rod of zeus
beside promothian thief who came
back with the eternal fire of Odin?
who?!
my kindred: alas!
                     and to what end?!
to the end without any surprise...
for the cosmopolitan cul de sac:
screaming at a brick wall pretending
to talk to one one but brick!
    
  i too visited: Krzyżtopór, in the village of Ujazd,
   Iwaniska commune, Opatów County...
how... the categories congregated
with implosions to make a ground:
specific...
  what would be the categorical imperative
for the congregative consumate
orientation of said narrative?

     even my grandfather remembers
the famous debackle concerning
Alfried Krupp von Bohlen und Halbach...
i do come from a family
of metallurgy... or coal-mining...
  both as true as these coal-riddle hands
supposing ink in pixel...
  
come on... the Schwerer Gustav?
the gun of all guns?! the one with the sort
of recoil that demanded train lines
to incubate the impact?!

modern, spoken, poetry, bores, me...
it's simply exasperated...
  exasperated by rhyme,
exasperated with rhyme,
exasperated outside of rhyme...
i'm listening to clones...
i don't won't to write modern poetry,
simply because:
i will not recoil with a take
on modern poetry...
  i don't do exasperated...
as much as i adore olivia gatwood's:
manic pixie dream girl...
yes, a ref. to the garden state movie...
the shins: new slang...
yeah... i did that **** in edinburgh...
climbing the scaffold...
erected around new college...
dancing on the roof with myself at night...
watching the *****-bank fluoride
white above the firth of forth one night...

but that's what i find really evil...
you know how in the movies,
the actors and actresses brush their teeth...
but never rinse?!
instead? keep that toothpaste in their mouths?!
******* never rinse!
that's evil... i'll tell you:
brush witha  pea-sized dollop, then rinse...
all the movies you see will never show you
a person rinse their teeth after brushing...
you should look into rinsing...
and? you'll never lose weight by going
to the gym...
you'll get stretch-marks, for sure...
there are only two ways to lose weight:
bicycle or swim...
swim or bicycle... better... both!

going to the gym will not help you...
you'll need plastic surgery!
but hollywood movies are evil this way...
they portray people washing their teeth
without spitting out the excess toothpaste
and not rinsing their mouths...
with water...

            who does that?!
hollywood is the next dentistry monopoly?!
pea sized amount of paste,
at the end of the day will do,
and then please spit,
then rinse with water...
don't just do what hollywood bad teeth
brigade do...
keep that paste in your mouth
like car battery acid / fluoride!

   pea sized brush once a day,
spit, rinse... slide your tongue over
your teeth to feel the sheen of
           ivory mingling with glass.

i hate modern poetry, why is everyone pretending
to be asthamtic, exasperated, out-of-breath?
with the same punctuation "all of a sudden"?
**** if i'm going to speak,
i'm not speaking...
             not in this climate...
edinburgh 2006...
  that's when i wanted to speak...
but then my eyes stole my tongue and told me
to listen.
i've been listening every since...
and...
i haven't even registered one hearing
of an echo since then.
RA Apr 2014
Years later, and the smell
hanging inside the latrines,
the stench
that twists your instincts,
has not
gone away. One thousand
two hundred
people every morning in
these latrines
sitting on concrete blocks
with the
round holes, so filthy that even
the murderers
won’t walk in, and I have
just walked
in from a ceramic and porcelain
shrine to
cleanliness.
Birkenau, Poland
Sunday, March 23, 2014
11:53

From my collection, Poems from Poland
Elle Hermes Mar 2015
Charge forth into Dis-topi
Ah, City of Kanye-esque antics and Oxford commas looking for lovers
Bliss-ful dive and conquer in Shakespearean soliloquies thus
Learned to romance on the breast of Juliet and *** ******* despite plaque
Toe the line, Lady Macbeth, let your murderous rhythm sing harmonic
Matthew 18 rendition on the dias of Gatsby, 1920
Thousand and fifteen we still age inappropriate
Lee, Spike jump rage against God Hates **** yet black lives live without crack
******* Kublai Khan to the sanctified Amazons.
Deb Jones Oct 2017
I carried you for almost 7 months.
A small person in
My small 14 year old body.  
I loved you with passion and fire.
I would whisper songs to you
Because I was not allowed to sing.
I would hold pillows as practice.  
To holding you.
I would read to you in a whisper
Because he was illiterate.
And was jealous I knew how to read.  
I lost you in a bathtub.  
It was the place I crawled to when
I saw the blood.
We didn't have a phone
I couldn't call anyone.
I screamed for my mother
As I clawed at the porcelain.  
I screamed to God
As I clawed at my swollen stomach.
The blood flowed.
I watched it pool at the drain.  
Light at first, watery
Growing darker by the minute
Then begin to flow heavier.
The pressure to push was immense.
I wasn't even knowledgeable enough
To know my ******* would be in the way.
Until I felt your head inside them
I tore them off.  
And you slipped out
Like a little eel.
You were perfect.
I held you and threw my head back
And screamed at the spotted
Rain damaged ceiling.
When I delivered the placenta
I thought my insides were falling out.
I knew before you even came into the
World that you would never see it.
You had stopped moving 5 hours before.
My little girl child.
Who was killed.  
Stomped out of me by her
Own 19 year old father.
Because I refused to iron a shirt for him
To go out on a "Date"
He came home the next morning.
Still high.
I had wrapped you in one of the two
Baby blankets I had.
After I washed both of us in the tub.
Where I marveled at the beauty of you.
All of your tiny fingers.
All of your tiny toes.
The way your legs were a froggy pose.
The roundness of your tummy.
The softness of your palm
Which is where I whispered
I love you over and over again.
I sobbed how sorry I was
Over and over again too.
As I cradled you naked
In my arms.
In that old bathtub
I begged him to bury you.
He refused and left for work.
Ran really. He ran out the door.  
I didn't know it was ******,
I didn't know it was illegal.
So I buried you like I would
A beloved pet.
In my favorite purse.
With you in a diaper
Swaddled tightly in that baby blanket.
Under a tall palm tree.  
Away from the scorched side
That I had burned the month before.
I only had boys after you.
I think you would have
(Loved life) Loved them.
You are only 10 months older
Than your oldest brother.
I still have your baby book
All the notes I wrote for you.
I stopped writing in that book
The day before I had you.
There are no words to say
Nothing that could've been writ
That I haven't said a million times
In my mind and heart daily.
Mine were the only arms that ever held you
Mine were the only eyes that seen you
I will carry you with me every day of my life

I hate ceramic Cherubs.
They remind me too much of you.
You never had a chance to live.
You didn't have a proper death
Beneath the rain stained ceiling
In that ramshackle shack.



I have lost 2 babies. One was stomped out of me at 7 months. One that I miscarried.  

I personally would not have an abortion but I feel that every woman has the right to choose. I will never judge.

I have seen too many women have spontaneous abortions. One memorable one is a 13 year old who delivered a baby at approximately 20 weeks. I intubated and used a resuscitation bag between her legs because the baby was only half delivered. The umbilical cord was wrapped around the child's waist. She didn't survive.

The fetus starts developing the heart, spinal cord, kidneys etc... at about 5 weeks, at 6 weeks the heart starts beating, the baby can have hiccups, **** on their hand and grow fingernails.

I feel very sad that some women don't carry to term. I have had a lot of patients with Down syndrome. They are filled with happy love. And give the most loving hugs. But most also need lifetime care. (Unless extremely high functioning) who will love and protect them after the mother is gone? These are valid thoughts we women have. Not just about the wellbeing of the young baby but the adult child.

I have also supported women who via ultrasounds/sonography find that the baby has Anencephaly. This is not such a rare thing as people think. No brain or the skull is open. The prognosis for a baby like that is typically less than a day after they are born. Some women want to carry to term just to hold their baby. Some women choose to abort.

My sister had a Anencephalic baby. She found out at almost 6 months. She was injected with seaweed to widen the ****** and to absorb the moisture in the ******. Basically killing the baby with salt and suffocation. Then the baby was removed in pieces. I did not tell her the details of what was happening to her body. She would have been traumatized more. And honestly? She wouldn't have wanted to know.

I think the majority of women that choose abortions mourn their child. Your body is  forced into thinking it had a baby. And most women go through a period of postpartum feelings including depression.

I worked for years in NICU. A neonatal intensive care. Some babies were born at 1 pound or less. The thing about working with pediatrics, neonate in particular, is that you see some horrific births. Chromosome anomalies that don't survive to even childhood. And the traumatized parents are heartrending.

Sorry for writing a book. I feel passionate about this subject. I will stop here
I was married at 14. A choice my mother made to emancipate me from the courts as a foster child.
Four girls sit cross-legged
On cold pitted concrete
It’s always cold here
Their rear-ends frozen
Bare ankles growing sore
Pouring over textbooks
Finishing today’s homework or
Tomorrow’s.

Hope there’s no pop quiz.
They nod
In unison
I didn’t study
Neither did I
The other two stare
At their books nonplussed
Their papers scattered, a ruler and a pen

Out of the library and into the cold arrives
The fifth
She looks about and sees
A grey curl
A long head
A heavy tail
It’s soft, someone thought, as she saw the raised leg

Which came down fierce like lightning,
A defiant, queerly polished white saddle-shoe
One of two strange shoes
That looked like no one else’s but why?
Flattened the entirety into the cold, cold concrete
The meteorite that destroyed a species of one.
Conjoined twins, now dead

There’s no way we can repair it
Can’t even peel it away
The custodian will have to scrap it off with a blade and wash it down

We laughed
All but one.
r Aug 2016
There was a girl
I used to swap paperbacks
and spit with, once
I fixed her wiper blades,
I remember the soft dead wings
on the windshield,  pretty
as you please

She was alone in her shoes
listening to something
that kept getting darker
and glowing like morning
on the oil spilled under her truck,
she was drifting through
the rosewater of her soft red hair

She only wanted to be rolling
off a swollen river, sliding
out of a clean slip, turning
over in a deep sleep, trailing
a shimmering thread, hiding
under a pile of wet leaves

Then there she was sailing
in her river of blood,  going
white and smelling like smoke
from a struck match behind
closed blinds on a ceramic floor,
a white blouse red as a sharp knife
collecting the light of mourning.
Clayton Woolery Dec 2010
Empty humans echo when tapped
Ceramic heartbeats crunch through riverside air
BETWEEN IGNORANCE AND WORTHLESSNESS TRAPPED
Their senses vaporous, impaired.

Those which melancholy cannot reach
Across the Styx with curling hands
DO NOT EXIST; THEIR WALLS WERE BREACHED
With icy fingers, buzzing bland.

Empty humans echo when tapped
With icy fingers, buzzing bland
FROM THE NIGHT BREEZE WHICH LAPPED
Across the Styx with curling hands.

Those which melancholy cannot reach,
Their senses vaporous, impaired
ARE A MIASMA ON THE BEACH
Ceramic heartbeats crunch through riverside air.

*Pottery people are all appearance
And their hollows are touched rarely
By their own sentience
While waiting for the ferry--
recycling lines.
King Panda Oct 2015
we are monsters
from the boutique to the
embroidered throw pillows the
pen dashed around the neck
stage 5 bone cut
sawing ossification to the
hollow core

we are monsters
hooting in tunnels lined
with bats coming out to feast
creation
to scrape the streets
shimmy the walls
bust the coffin and
succckk

we are monsters
who can't enter under the
doorframe
fearful of being burned by
the sun silver stake
rat poison holy water sickle
and windmill ash

we are monsters
sewed stapled dead meat
skin hair plugs ceramic
teeth tested and tasted by
rats

we are monsters
jumping high over white
fences frenzied explosion
running through corn
angrily bled in a field shot and
hunted like embarrassing
waterfowl in the jaws of
mammalia

we are monsters
of flaming brilliance flashing
in your inbox
read us and gnaw
braised
roasted
grilled limbs
watch
as we watch you
be scared and
stab
I promise we don't die.
betterdays Apr 2017
In a ceramic concave
Take one cluckfart and beat
Add a cup and a half of moojuice
mix with a whirlpool motion
Then find beaten crushedvwheat
add two cups
mix with a whirpool motion
discover sweet cyrstals add 1cup
mix with a whirlpool motion

find and turn on heatslabtop source
put metal pool on heatslabtop source
add a dab of solid yellow moojuice
allow to liqiufy

pour in a measure of whirlpool mix
to create a babylake,
add some bluejuice spheres
or some monkey smilebars
listen for sizzle, watch for bubbles
take a babylake flipper and flip
the babylake so both sides cook evenly

place babylakes on ceramic circle
and repeat the process
dab of yellow moojuice
pouring the babylake mix
so on and so forth,
until ceramic circle is full or
you run out of whirlpool mix

sit at eating tree, with ceramic circle.
if you wish, add the juice of the maple
or tears of the sour yellow leather fruit
to your share of the babylakes
and then consume......and feel
your tummy muscles  smile
Napowrimo2017.Day 2...write a recipe poem....I think I twisted this one a bit...I am blaming it on the toothache medicine I am taking....(going to detist tomorrow) Some one just ssked for translation: Think pancake recipe written with Dali-esque twist....
Third Eye Candy Jun 2018
The mug stains leapfrog a linoleum asphalt countertop, sunbathing in the breakfast nook.
A magazine proofreads a hole in a bagel. Scanning for clues to the whereabouts
Of a Jewish heart. Beads of Oolong tea archipelago from a resting kettle
All the way to the 'good ' China. A cup on a pearl, laying flat… ear to the ground.
Listening to the stories only Formica can tell. Deciphering the steam
Rising from a steep. Curling whiskers into omens, embroidered upon a shaft of light
Heaven sent. Postage dew. Gilding quaint luxuries, tucked in a cozy roost
Smelling of oak musk and slow roasted dreams, evaporating before memory may lay claim
To the riddles of Morpheus. There’s an aire of Return.  
It molts in the bacon fats hovering in the strata unique to kitchen islands lousy with active volcanoes that shuffle in stocking feet and terry cloth bathrobes. Restless and foggy minded.
Looking for the keys. And...
Chewing a thumbnail. Staring out the window. Where there used to be a car in the driveway. But the officer flagged a taxi. Explains the migraine, like a Vulcan; stoically flipping switches in a fuse box wired to a vague recollection of a soiree.
All the while holding a pitchfork and today's horoscope.
For irony and street cred.

{ But out of cream cheese. }

Concurrently... This part of the house still has the rustic naivete of a celibate beatnik picking teeth with a signature pen presenting an Hawaiian girl with a vanishing skirt; blinking in and out of Vaud-villainy, like Erwin Schrödinger’s Cat. A kind of hole in a barge with an ornate cubby; loitering with sugar cubes and a bendy plastic fern.
Like the foyer to a room, still under construction.
      A busy little metaphor, lounging around the east wing of a humble abode… like news clippings in a mason jar… it’s superfluous handle threading a ceramic eye.
Like a stainless steel joke under a refrigerator magnet, pinned to a plate in your forehead. As any lamp-shade with ambition.  
      Playing to a rough Cloud, hung over an ashtray; that has seen Better Days - envy the baroque occlusion of monotony and routine, merging a hangover - into morning traffic. Replete with modest gains.
And Horizons that stab bleary eyes that would know a gypsy
By the weight of her purse…
     When the day begins, it gains a foothold by the spine of an overdue book, reclining adjacent runcible spoons and antique kitche. As a bathroom light squeaks between a door and a frame.
As ancillary and precise as a beacon for a blindfold.

Like turpentine palming a brick. And Wagner.
Marge Redelicia Dec 2013
I pull open the door
And hunt for food in the dim orange light.
"There's nothing inside"
Well, actually,
There is something:
Months old cream cheeses precariously stacked atop each other,
Several mysterious bottles of brown sauces,
Dried out leafy vegetables,
But nothing
This lazy *** can eat without preparing.

I push close the door,
Leaving my stomach rumbling and empty,
But filling my mind with
Dreams

Three-fourths of the dull gray door is covered
With colorful ceramic magnets
From my dad’s corporate adventures
To Batangas, Bohol, Bacolod, Davao,
Hong Kong, Singapore, Malaysia, Macau,
Nepal, Vietnam, Sri Lanka, China,
Dubai, Pakistan, Saudi Arabia
Sudan, Egypt, Ethiopia,
Canada, Greece, and Australia.

I examine each magnet’s contour and shine,
Letting its foreign dust seep into my fingers.
I dream that soon
I will return all those dusts to their lands
And bring home more magnets of my own.
I wrote this when I was in the 9th grade. And she would be really happy now because her dreams are starting to get fulfilled. I've added several cities in the States now to the family collection.
Oona Sep 2016
Your greatest fear is of someone yelling
Fire! in a crowded theater, of the cries of children,
the way popcorn would be dropped, scattered.
Perhaps—if there were a fire, that is—
your body would lock into place,
like ceramic, like a doll,
and you would be able to do nothing except sit there,
heart pounding, blood flowing; perhaps you would press two
fingers to your veins, let the sound of your
adrenaline overpower the way smoke that
doesn’t exist floats through the air, into your lungs,
suffocating you.

Maybe if you try hard enough,
there will be a Fire! in a crowded theater. Maybe, sickeningly,
you want to watch the way mothers would
throw their children over their shoulders, race to an exit.
Maybe you’d rush to an exit, too. However, there’s a chance that
you’ve just normalized death, that you’re afraid of
fear itself, the crackling of flames,
the smell of burning plastic, the color
red,
Gwen Whitmoore Oct 2013
“I can’t make bricks without clay,” you said
but you had me walking into walls
with eyes wide open,
unbuttoning my pants in public to some
maenad beat in the foreground of your chest.

(You know, I've felt your calloused hands
Decades of times, molding my bone-dried shape.)

more than once I saw my looking-glass self
reflected in your hundred yard stare onyx eyes
ones made from medieval, fire-forged steel
bent back on itself thousands of times.

To me, you’re living proof that it’s not just the depths
of some ocean, where darkness can create.

we love each other like we don’t exist,
so I’m not sure if I do.
Hewasminemoon Jul 2014
It was almost February and winter still hadn’t hit. I was beginning to
think that it wouldn’t arrive, and that spring was here. One evening as I was walking down the streets of the city I looked up to see a single snowflake falling down to meet my face. It was tiny and looked lonely, but a few moments later, it was followed by several more snowflakes. Sooner than later, the ground was covered in a white sheet of snow. and I was stuffing my hands in my coat pockets and pulling my hood on to brace myself against the bone-chilling wind. I made my way into a small coffee shop that was still open and was greeted by a short stocky man in his mid thirties with a dark, curly mustache and sleeves of faded tattoos.
“Hello” he said, his voice sounding deep and smooth. I pulled out my headphones that were burning in my ears, pressed pause on my phone and shoved them carelessly in my messenger bag.
“Hello”, I replied back with a slight smile, pulling my hands out of my
pockets and making my way to the counter.
The shop was small, but it had a staircase leading upstairs with more room for seating. The man who stood behind the counter continued to unpack small plastic covered packages, putting them away in cupboards and freezers. I pulled out my wallet from my bag and plopped it on the counter, feebly attempting to pull out my card with my hands shaking violently from the cold.
“What a night”, the man said, his eyes still focused on his duties.
“Hmm.” I said, nodding. “Can I get a 12oz mocha, please?” The man looked up from his package, and giggled coyly.
“Sure you can, sweetheart." He put the package that he was holding down below him, and began making the drink I had just ordered. My credit card held tightly in my hand, still shaking. There was awkward silence between us and I got the feeling the man understood I didn’t feel like talking. He finished my order, filling a small, white ceramic mug, and pushed it across the counter towards me.
“Anything else?”
I shook my head, implying no and handed him the cold card. He swiped it and handed it back to me, along with a receipt and a pen to sign. I signed the receipt, grabbed my coffee and headed up the stairs to my right. Upstairs, there was a large room with a dining room looking table and several chairs, and to the left, and a small hole in the wall with several cushions. I smiled at the welcoming spot, and took a seat. Pulling a small table up next to me, I set my coffee down, and rested my bag on the floor below me. The upstairs was completely empty. In fact; the entire shop was empty besides the man working downstairs. I took a deep breath in and let my head rest on some of the cushions behind me. Closing my eyes, I let out my breath and felt the warmth and the vast history of the shop run envelop me. I grabbed at the cup beside me and sipped at my coffee. It was still too hot to drink comfortably, so I set it down. Out of my bag, I pulled out my phone with the headphones still attached and scrunched into a tight tangled ball.
Untangling them, I placed each bud in my ear, and pressed play, continuing the song I had stopped when I had entered the coffee shop. I felt my eyelids grow heavy and I sunk deeper and deeper into the pillows around me, the smell of old books seeping into my skin. Finally, I closed my eyes, and after a few moments, was sound asleep.
When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was a man’s face, unfamiliar but comforting.
“Excuse me…” he said, with a wide grin.
I jumped with embarrassment; ripping my headphones out of my ears, although they were no longer playing anything. How long had I been asleep? And who was this young man? An employee of the shop? A customer?
“Sorry!” I yelped.
The man chuckled as I swung my feet around to the floor and pulled out my phone to check the time. Realizing it was dead, I scanned the room for a clock and with no success I asked the stranger “What time is it?”
He rolled up his sleep, and checked what to be a rather expensive watch. The man was dressed nicely, but nothing too formal. A clean pair of black jeans, a plaid shirt and a sweater over it. His hair, a dark brown looked thick and slightly curled. He ran his fingers through it as he responded. “It’s quarter past.”
“Past what?”
He blinked at me. “Eight…” he paused at my confused look. “A.M”
I gasped at the time. It was just past nine at night when I had dozed off.
Why did the short stalky man not wake me? Did he forget I was upstairs?
Maybe he assumed I had left, and just missed me doing so.
“I…I…” I stumbled upon my words. I wasn’t quite sure what to say, still
unsure who this man was.
“My boss told me you’d be up here.” He lifted my cup of cold coffee and
handed it to me. “I can get you a warm cup if you’d like. We don’t open for another half hour.”
I nodded, and with the cup in hand, the man turned and headed down the stairs. I gathered my things, smoothed out my shirt, tossed my hair to one side and followed the man down the stairs.
“My names Elliot” he shouted from behind the counter and the noises of the coffee machine.
“Ellie.” I shouted back.
A door swung open and in Elliot’s hand was a new cup of coffee.
“That’s a coincidence.”
I smiled nervously and took the cup from the man.
“Sit.” he said, nodded to a table.
I followed his instructions and set my cup down and pulled out a chair.
He stared at me for a moment as I stared at my coffee. After a long moment of silence, I started.
“I am so sorr-”
He stopped me and reached out, resting his hand on top of mine.
“It’s alright Ellie…really.”
I had a few questions but didn’t know where to start. So I let the silence
continue.
“My boss figured you needed a place to stay.”
I wasn’t homeless. Did I look homeless?
“Do you...have somewhere to go…?”
I nodded. “I’m not homeless…” I proclaimed. I couldn’t help but stare at
his hands. There was something different about them from the rest of the
man.
“I figured. You’re too well dressed to be homeless.” He smiled, and his
hands moved up and through his hair again.
“So, if you’re not homeless then what’s your story?”
My story? I didn’t have a story. I was a young single girl. Lonely. Living
on her own in the city. On her way home when a snow storm hit. I just stopped into the coffee shop to get warm, not to spend the night like some refugee.
“My story?”
“Yeah, your story.” he continued to grin at me.
I paused to think of an answer.
“I was just on my way home. Stopped in for a cup of coffee. Guess I didn’t
drink enough of it.”
He laughed at the comment, showing a set of pearly white teeth.
“Maybe it wasn’t a very good cup of coffee.” He glanced at the cup in front of me. I lifted it and took a sip.
“This cup’s better.” We both laughed softly, then found each other staring
for long while at one another.
“I’ll make sure not to tell my boss you said that.”
I took another sip. “I should probably go…” I said, standing up.
“Go where?”
“Home.”
He shook his head chuckling slightly. “Hang out. I’ll open late.”
“I don’t want to be more of an inconvenience than I already have been.”
Elliot reached out and took my hand in his, squeezing it softly.
“Ellie.”
My eyes grew wide, and I felt my heart beat quickly within my chest.
“Let’s not play games with one another. Stay.”
I pulled my hand away, and bit my lip.
“I can’t. I’m sorry Elliot.” I grabbed my bag from under the table, and thew
it across my shoulder. “Thank you…” I said, thinking of his hands but
staring at the blue in his eyes. I turned around, and pushed the door open.


---------------------------------------------------------­--------------------------------

It was Valentine’s Day (or as I like to call it “Singles Awareness Day” ) and my friend had dragged me out to this terrible bar in the suburbs  titled “Distraction” My friend, who was newly single and “ready to mingle” laughed when she saw the big blue sign with the name.
“That’s an ironic name” she said, snickering.
I nodded my head and groaned as we headed inside. She was right. What was this bar distracting me from? If anything, it was drawing more attention to the things I was supposed to be distracted from by just existing with such a name. My friend walked up to the bar, leaned against a stool and ordered something sweet. She asked me if I wanted anything, but I shook my head no. After a few minutes of small talking with her, and watching her sip at her watered down drink, I noticed a young man walking towards us. The bar was dimly lit, and I couldn’t quite make him out but I sighed and turned towards the bartender.
“*** and coke” I hollered out to the man. “Pour heavy!”
I stayed facing the shelves of drinks, the different bottles organized by color and type. Whiskey, Tequila, *****. Suddenly, I felt someone tap me on the shoulder and with a deep inhale, I turned; expecting some man with sleeked back hair and a bad tan to be facing me.
Instead, it was Elliot. Staring at me, standing inches from my face. I took a step back into a bar stool, and fell into a seat.
“Ellie” he said, smiling.
I couldn’t help but smile for a moment too, but then I quickly wiped it away as the bartender slid my drink to the right of me. Before I could do anything, Elliot placed a few dollars on the counter.
“You don’t have to -“
“It’s fine”  He continued to smile widely.
I looked around the room for my friend, she was across the room playing darts with some broad shouldered man. I took my glass, placed the straw on the counter and gulped down about half of it in one drink.  
“Happy Valentines Day” he said, almost sarcastically following the statement with a slight laugh.
I felt myself smiling again and took another gulp. The bartender definitely poured heavy. The liquid burned as it slid down my throat, and I clenched my teeth. I could tell Elliot was trying hard not to laugh.
“Would you like to dan-“
I bursted out laughing.
“Dance? Oh god, please. Don’t do this Elliot.”
He stared at me widely for a moment. “What are you so afraid of Ellie?”
I scoffed, and shook my head, taking another drink I responded
“I’m not afraid of anything”
He blinked at me, then ran through his fingers through his hair and breathed out loudly.
“Is it me?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer this, or what he was really even asking. I stumbled on my words, stuttering. I finished my drink, and set the glass down on the counter.
“Another?” he asked.
“No...” I paused. “Thank you”
He stared at me for a moment, his brows furrowed. He reached out to touch me, and I pulled away.
“Ellie...Let me-“
I interrupted him and shouted out “space!”
He looked puzzled, then chuckled.
“What?”
“I’m afraid of space”
“Space....? Please elaborate.”
“Like the sky, and the planets and the stars and ****”
He laughed softly. “And ****...”
“Think about it. We have no idea what’s out there. We have no idea what’s coming for us. We are so small, comparatively.”
“So you believe in aliens?”
“I believe in possibility”
“Anything could happen.”
“Exactly! Right now, as we speak, the sun could explode.”
“Or, aliens could invade!”
“You’re really stuck on the alien thing.”
“It’s a possibility”
We both sat in silence for a moment, his eyes felt heavy on me. I stood up from my stool, our bodies were almost touching.
“I’ve got to go see if my friends OK.” I said, glancing over at her. She was still playing darts with the broad shoulder man. He had his arms wrapped around her, ‘showing’ her how to hold the dart now.
“She looks like she’s doing ok to me” Elliot said with a snicker.
I didn’t argue.
“What’s your last name?” he asked.
I shook my head violently. “Look, Elliot. You seem-“ I stopped and thought of how I wanted to finish my sentence, but before I could, Elliot grabbed my hand and held it tightly.
“Ellie. I’m just a man. I’m not some comet coming down or some alien race a million light years away. You don’t need to be afraid of me.”
I took a few shallow breaths, my heart was pounding. I tried pulling away, but Elliot just pulled himself closer to me.
“You said you believe in possibility. You can’t deny the possibility of you and me.”
“I...”
He reached up, and tucked a hair that was falling down my face behind my ear then stepped back, letting go of my hand.
“I have an idea.”
“What’s that?”
“I want to help you conquer your fear”
“Oh?”
He grabbed my hand again and pulled me towards the door, I looked over to my friend, but didn’t fight him.
“She’ll be okay.” he said, still tugging me.
I followed him out the door and down the street. We stopped and hailed a cab, as one pulled up, he opened the door for me.
“Get in.”
“I don’t even know you. You could be taking me to some wear house to **** and ****** me!”
“Ellie. Don’t be so dramatic. Get in”
“Where are we going?”
“To the moon.”
“And back again?”
“We’ll see. Maybe once you get there, you’ll never want to leave.”
“It’s a possibility”
I stepped inside the cab, and so did he.

------------------------------------------------------------­--------------------------------


Once we were in the cab, the rush of excitement I was feeling in the bar and in the street had faded. Elliot handed the man his phone, which had an address written on it. The cabbie put the address into his GPS and started the meter as he drove on.
“So are we taking the cab to the moon? Or are we just taking the cab to NASA and then a spaceship to the moon?” I said sarcastically, my voice breaking from nervousness. Elliot put his hand on my leg, and sat back into his seat without saying anything.
“Who’s paying for the cab Elliot?”
He continued to be silent. I turned at stared out the window, I noticed the cab was taking us out of the city and I began to get a little worried.
“Can you please tell me where we’re going?” I asked quickly. I looked back at Elliot, he was sweating.
“Elliot? Is everything OK?” His eyes were shut and his breathing was heavy.
“I’m afraid of things in motion.” he muttered softly.
“Isn’t everything in motion?” he opened his eyes, raised his brows and then smiled at me.
“I mean, the world is always turning and we’re walking, or breathing. So we’re moving, no matter what-“
“Can you be quiet please?”
I looked back out the window again for what felt like a long while. Finally, the cab stopped in front a large abandoned dome like building in a town I had never been in. Elliot was quick to exit the cab, and circle the car to open my door. I stepped out, Elliot paid the driver and the cab drove away.
“So you ARE going to **** and ****** me?”
Elliot looked at me, and took my hand.
“I’m sorry about in the car. What mean by things in motion is like, cars and trains and planes and...” he paused, “and ****...”
We both laughed.
“I knew what you meant. I’m sorry if I was being difficult.”
He gave me a look and I nodded at him. He took me by the hand and led me closer to the building. We reached a door that had been boarded up.
“This doesn’t look like the moon...Or NASA...”
“Ellie. Do you trust me?”
“I...I don’t really even know you so-“
Elliot pried back at the board, slipping into the building through a small space and pulled me inside with him. The room we stepped into was a circle, and in the center; a large telescope.
“Does that even work?”
He squeezed my hand, then let go. Approaching the telescope, he stepped up a small set of stairs to a control panel. He pushed a few buttons and a few moments later, I heard a whirring and a low rattle followed by a deep sound. I felt a slight vibration and suddenly the roof was opening above me, exposing the night sky. On this night, the stars were bright, and the moon was full.
“Come here” Elliot called out from near the telescope.
I started to shake only slightly at the sight of the sky above me, I felt frozen and tense, as if I couldn’t move. Elliot made his way down the stairs and towards me.
“It’s okay Ellie.” he said, reaching for my hand and guiding me towards the telescope. We stepped up the stairs, and he stood next to me, still holding my hand as he adjusted a few things, looking in the telescope, then at me, then back through the telescope. He turned towards me, nudging me.
“Go ahead.”
I looked at the giant metal telescope, and shook my head.
“I really appreciate what you’re trying to do here but-“
He put his hand on my lower back, and pushed me towards the telescope.
“Just look.”
I put my face close to the telescope, an
liz Oct 2012
We have romanticized the idea
of a large ceramic bowl

an area
to potentially suffocate

lay until water drops body temperature

sticky humidity
is this sweat or water

cinnamon scented
and flavored
snafu: flames
singe my nostrils with your desserts

naked
and vulnerable
but completely content
I am stewing
in ceramic bowls
When I was a child, the hallways stretched for miles
Mahogany and ceramic floors, polished bookcases
A mansion for fictional paperbacks
All neatly tucked under fluorescent lighting

The librarian would wait behind her desk
She reigned silent
besides the tapping of her fingertip to her glasses
I can’t remember her ever looking happy

Until the day I noticed the chirping
Sang somewhere between the realistic & historical fiction,
a bird cage sat next to the woman’s desk
It was an unexpected visit

I should have brought a better dressed book to check out
Mine was bound by yellowing pages
But I met the canary and heard her song
As I watched the librarian smile
Nikki Tinebra Apr 2015
I can hear you. You whisper to me.
Like a midnight vesper with your voice
cloaked in darkness, aching to be seen.
You are intangible. I reach and yearn
but you are lost.

I imagine you sometimes in the eyes
of the Lladro figure on my bookcase
the last thing you left to me
because no one else ever loved it the way you did.

She still feeds her swans, you know
that Lladro with her bright gaze
and tiny archaic smile.
She reminds me of you.

Sometimes I wonder if you’re there
and that’s why I hear your little voice
or smell your sweet perfume,
the twirl of her porcelain umbrella
wafting it through my bedroom’s stagnant air.
Dane Perczak Dec 2013
You'll never know
how much it meant
that you pieced my
caterpillar
back together
piece by piece
the time
the f r u s t r a t i o n
You must have put into
each delicate detail
the thin fragments
the spontaneous glue
I never had the words
at such a young age
to express any form of gratitude
or understanding
and I barely do now
I can only say
I will never be more excited
for show-and-tell
for
the
rest
of
my
life.
Elizabeth Burns Jul 2017
You're in your own ceramic bubble
And you can't see the world outside
The petty scene you're making
You see your own painting before your eyes
You see what you want to see
You see the adoring crowd
And their cheers
Oh so loud
At your frantic mess
But you, you are alone
In your own
quiet
Lonely
passionate
*Ceramic bubble
Jeff Barbanell Oct 2013
Still alone
We are not
Maybe Titan
All we got
Mine our way
Barge ore back
Build a bridge
Plutonium tack
Ceramic sails
On solar wind
Terminal shock
Butterflies pinned
On orbital ellipses
‘Gainst starry drops
Spun light and dark
Like judgment tops
Spendthrift starfish
Regenerate limbs
From primal screams
That eat our sins
Leafy ferns and little frogs
Toads live in the garden
Weeds and grass and daffodils
And ****...I beg your pardon

Yes **** is in there from the cat
That roams around the houses
Just pick it out or grind it in
It should be full of mouses (meeces or mice)

There's ceramic figurines in there
Little deers and little dogs
To go along with little stones
And plastic little logs

But, beware  the garden gnome
A treacherous beast is he
With evil eyes and long white beard
He is plotting after thee
The garden gnome looks daffy
In his jacket and his hat
But, look deep in the gnomey eyes
And you'll see just where he's at

There's ******* blown from up the road
Candy wrappers and old tins
The neighbor kids are lazy so,
They never throw it in the bins

The cat lies sunning lazily
Beneath a summer sun of gold
With it's job of chasing meeces down
For a while, put on hold

There's ivy, climbing everywhere
And things you can not tell
They got there from the squirrels
But you keep them for the smell

But, beware  the garden gnome
A treacherous beast is he
With evil eyes and long white beard
He is plotting after thee
The garden gnome looks daffy
In his jacket and his hat
But, look deep in the gnomey eyes
And you'll see just where he's at


You tend the garden lovingly
Moving figures in and out
You never move the gnomes too much
Too much trouble, I won't doubt

You transplant flowers, move some trees
Cut the weeds back, till the soil
You head inside, the whistle blows
The kettles on the boil

While you are gone, something goes on
The gnomes attack the cat
You come back out, and wonder why
The gnome has lost his hat

yes, beware the garden gnome
A treacherous beast is he
With evil eyes and long white beard
He is plotting after thee
The garden gnome looks daffy
In his jacket and his hat
But, look deep in the gnomey eyes
And you'll see he's looking at the cat!!
Brycical Jul 2011
Some are almost shattered.

They’re pieces,       scratching         tearing  grinding 

     wearing 
down.
You can tell something       isn't
       right.


Like a ceramic         vase         dragged      across                 gravel. 


Their moods are brief flashes 
of—           mommy's hugs

and strangers—kicking the **** 
      out  of     their bowels. 


They aren't even w  h  o  l   e,

merely p i e c e s         of ceramic and clay.

Some are smooth, held in a gentle hand.


But others are jagged reminders of being hurled into a wall.

I often wonder if it's my responsibility to mend these pieces,
or just let them be
as I've grown to admire the individuality
of these shattered personalities.
Henry Daniels Jun 2012
It takes about
    two hours
to make it through

   airport security
nowadays.

    If they catch you with
a pair of nail clippers
they beat you
               with a rubber hose
in the back room.

    Yet in every terminal Ive been in
they sell ceramic mugs.


      You ever broke a ceramic mug?
That **** is crazy sharp.
    
      I mean they make those Japanese
super sharp chefs knifes outta the ****.

     And I cant bring a ******
disposable razor with me.


     Security my ***!
**** the FTA! :)
Graff1980 Sep 2018
I’m just a fading echo
of my younger self,
an empty shadow
who performs
a preordained
ballet
with a broken leg
red and inflamed.

I’m just a broken
ceramic figurine
that is beautiful
but barely seen
and seldom
appreciated
for the quality
I bring.

I’m just a Poe
and Van Gogh
tragic
romantic
poet
longing to connect
to world
that forgets
its humanity
constantly.

I’m just tired.

— The End —