"crafter" poems
her mouth was sandpaper.
her mouth was sandpaper
and she spoke like
a smooth surface,
words scraped into fluidity
like a wooden sphere,
turned over behind teeth ‘til all friction
is lost.
she spoke like the walls of a birdhouse
in the room of a dead carpenter:
pretty unassembled things.
her mouth was sandpaper
and every kiss chafed,
rubbing raw my lips
and tongue
crafting with each touch
drawing blood like
juice from an apple,
like sap
from wood already cut from the tree.
her mouth was sandpaper
and she told me
*i bite my lips,
rip at
the inside of my mouth,
cannibalize myself cell
by cell.*
bone saws in her mouth.
the only difference between teeth of jaws
and saws
is mercy
(and she swallowed her mercy long ago).
her mouth was sandpaper
and she spoke like a carpenter’s hands:
rough palms,
tough pads,
a utilitarian artist
a crafter of dead flesh.
a mortician for dryads
and kodama.
the art and the artist
in lips
tongue
and teeth.
her mouth was sandpaper
and i brought mine to hers
again and again,
her bitten-rough lips
opening like doors to
purgatory.
less entrapment than addiction -
returning once more to nails and hammers,
hell’s blacksmiths below
heaven’s painters above.
coming back home
to the space between,
to bone saws
and a carpenter’s hands.
her mouth was sandpaper
and her voice was carpentry,
her teeth bone saws
her words
birdhouse walls.
her mouth was purgatory
but her hands
were hands.
her mouth was sandpaper.
i held her hand
and chafed my lips raw.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 12:26 AM UTC
Just as a boy grows into teenager,
he is bound, to one day, grow into man.
I think it's when he is just five years old,
he becomes a demolition fan.
At that juncture, it's all about the tools.
To dismantle what works perfectly well.
They may begin plastic at the start,
but it triggers something in their cells.
A teenager will start with something small,
a lawnmower, dirt bike, then on to cars.
Then as he ages and gains life experience,
the quest for tools is written in the stars.
It starts with a simple set of wrenches.
Then moves on to socket sets and ratchet.
Not just ASE, they need metric as well.
A tool store is a veritable banquet.
Metal worker, wood crafter, mechanic,
Plumber a welder and electrician.
Wrapped up in a testosterone package,
needing a new tool for the next mission.
Watch as his eye light, when reaching for a tool,
that's new to the market, sitting on display.
It's no longer about simple fun in an old cardboard box.
It will be tools from now till his dying day.
Nov 12, 2010
Nov 12, 2010 at 3:27 PM UTC
Oh, how the mighty art fallen
Lucifer, son of the morning star
Behooved by manner of thy own devices
How pompous thou hadst become to refuse to bend thy knee to man
It was pride that filled thee to burst
Had it not been but a few millenia later
Even your knee would have bent to the King of Glory
Whenst He did stoop down to the level of man
Even you wouldst have cried out "Lord, Lord wouldst thou not take upon thyself my raiment of glory? Clothe yourself as a king, not as a commoner."
Were it so much that us being made of dirt and you of fire that your proudness could render thee blind to our beauty as endowed by our shared Creator?
Though our mediums be different, were the Crafter's hands not the same?
Wouldst thou haft only humbled thyself, a different world we could have
I pity and thank thee, oh fallen one
For showing me how not to be
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 6:42 PM UTC
Come bearer of death
oh, carrion crafter
the plains be wrought bereft
oh, we hail forever after!
Be your praise dying cries and blood
you murderer of the weak
raise your armies, a rampant flood
and with ease, crush the meek!
Sire of the end
and vanguard of sin
pray we the world never mend
and light never win!
Jan 11, 2012
Jan 11, 2012 at 9:00 PM UTC
Break me
Oh mighty crafter
A stubborn statue I have been
Though the hardships have weathered against me
Sought to endure through them, I have
But it is not the will of man or myself that seeks me broken
It is Your Will, Lord
Break me, not so I will fall and crumble
Break me, so that I may be rebuilt
Crafted in the beginning so that I might be displayed in your righteous and Holy hall at the end
A darkness was cast upon the world and I was overtaken
Deteriorating, I was
Living in this sinful state, I continued
Why? Just to exist?
When your Son came down, He offered me shelter from the elements
I thought myself forgotten, ready for time to take its toll
Destroyed, I was prepared to be
The corruption went deeper than the surface
No longer fit was I to enter your Holy hall at the end of all
Yet your Son, by Your hand sent, came to restore me
Break me, so that I may be rebuilt in the glorious visage you envisioned
Though the elements will be harsh against me still, I will trust in You to keep me
Break me, Father, so that I may be restored
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 6:59 AM UTC
Imagine your dreams as reality,
one who crafts and shapes how their life will be.
A smith with unlimited skill,
unmatched force inside,
called the strength of ones will.
You carry a charge within you,
A powder keg of potential dreams;
Don't let all these shadows dissuade you.
Light your fuse and burst life at the seams!
There's no need to rein in adventure,
not when the company's true.
Just be sure to take stock and measure,
the loyalty of those close to you.
The message that resonates deep,
that echos within each of our souls is
have courage -- live what you dream up.
No one else can achieve your heart's goals.
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 1:21 AM UTC
*had read some of his poems
but never stood at his statue
a local boy become a famous lad
revered crafter of a shropshire lad
now here i was with my digital camera
knowing full well it was no chimera
being here at the shrine of a wordsmith
whose professorial gaze is wide and sweeping
i tell you straight that for joy my heart is weeping
you will ask if i am a friend of narcissus
that mythical lad with conceit like a colossus
for after i've gone click! click!
i see my image embedded in the shiny black marble
and i feel like a visiting poet embraced by another in stone*
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 4:39 AM UTC
Stop. Breathe.
Feel the earth beneath you're feet
Stay intact, stop the fracture
Everywhere you look there's greener pastures
Have a moment of laughter,
Appealing to no master
In this current moment
You know nothing else could matter
Peace will come full circle like the rings of saturn
You can pull yourself together when you find yourself scattered
You're destiny is malleable, and only you can be it's crafter
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 2:17 AM UTC
I still feel you,
You're tattooed in my soul
I'd still bleed for you,
Pull me up from this hole
Your touch lies just beyond my fingers
I till walk the rooms, where your scent doth linger
Remnants of a time that's gone away
The wildflowers have withered at the doorstep of decay
The photographs are driving me insane
Tears catch in my throat as the frame,
Shatters,
Under my fist, the blood on my knuckles
Brings me laughter
You, the master crafter of my lifes biggest disaster
You were the love of my life,
Burned down to nothing but ashes to scatter
I still hold you in my dreams, but in deaths eyes my pain
Does not matter..
I'll be with you soon, and we can dance,
Out to the moon in a dead lovers wonderland
As this razor glides across my veins
I'll pass through those blackened gates
And hold you in eternal rain
I'm coming back love, today's the day
I feel the rain, disolve the pain,
The pain, the pain,
The pain has gone away
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 12:13 PM UTC
Our childhoods lay out between us,
Like games we pretend to play.
Pieces lost under your bed.
Cards crafter unconsciously into makeshift chaos.
Somehow this was enough.
That was before; when goodnight wasn’t as simple as two words stung loosely together from start to star until it hung silently over our heads.
No, it used to be spelled out in whole solar systems maped out in secret between us.
Escape wasn’t the door you walked out of.
It was a door we swung open and ran into.
I used to watch you blink.
Gusts of wind sending waves
across your blue eyes.
I was convinced that somehow we were pure
I remember sitting on my mother’s lap once.
She whispered
“One say you’re going to outgrow my lap”
I quickly promised back
“We will always fit”
I thought that we were one of those promises.
I waited for you to hang the moon and wake the sun.
Time ran through your veins.
You effortlessly used it.
It echoes through the place I would never belong.
{shoot the moon}
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 12:43 PM UTC
He walks across skies
His footprints leave colours behind
Slowly, steadily, peacefully
He's guiding the stars
The light have always followed Him
The stars are magnetic
He is called "Dazzling"
How could they resist?
They remember He named then
Every one knows where to go
Exactly where He placed them
If you let their light get in your eyes
The intimacy of divinity you'll never miss
He's the one from whom lights come
Crafter of the sun
With lights each night He paints these words
"My children, it's time to come home."
Thousands of years have passed
And if thousands more are to come
He'll still be leaving a light on
To bring back daughter and son
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 4:28 PM UTC
Call me the butterfly maker,
for I the distracted crafter
often carves irregular squares
from changing planes of vision
into visual planes, flying
as monarchs migrating home.
Call me the snowflake cloud,
for I the cold observer
often molds objective droplets
from forgotten formalities
into memorable figures, coveting
as blankets embracing dirt.
Call me the stone sculptor,
for I the traveling poet
often lifts stone castings
from feeble footprints
into familiar portraits, beckoning
as mothers procuring peace.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 12:04 AM UTC
I sit here, it's late at night.
I know I should be asleep but I have a need - I am compelled to write.
I spent all day being hungover, avoidng homework and being useless
So it's necessary for me to burn the midnight oil
In order to create something fruitful out of this lost day.
I also need to push forward now and
Guide the pen across the page
To maintain and foster the habit,
To help it grow and develop,
So that in the end I am a better writer.
There are times when I'm not feeling the words and I fumble awkwardly,
Or that I am too busy to be bothered to pause for a scribble,
But my goal is to make this time of writing and therapy
A daily habit.
If I am honest in my wish to be the crafter of words I envision,
I first must show the drive and determination, the dedication.
For the novice, words will forever remain words,
Only the truly gifted ever form sentences.
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 1:35 AM UTC
Surrounded by beads and notions,
she creates with no hesitation.
She is struck, like lighting,
by the fires of creation.
Mar 7, 2025
Mar 7, 2025 at 6:47 PM UTC
One heart that beats is broken for two
A war wages inside my chest, I don't know what to do
A ruthless, ****** battle does go on
It's painful and hurtful which side has won?
Both present their own tastes that draw me
But only one can makes this heart complete
Nothing is the same and I can't decide
Not choosing could lead to my heart's demise
One is fire for my tongue, but sweetness follows after
The other more like milk chocolate that runs like pleasant laughter
One loses me in the two seas they carry and I would like to be lost and never found
The other morphs my imagination with bright colors like a skilled Crafter
If I fell in love with only one
This torment, this hurt would've never begun
I am stuck in the middle of my torn heart
This heart that beats for two shouldn't be torn apart
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 8:35 PM UTC
✍
a spokesperson of history and
their own language
an adventurer who dare to brave the
unknown jungles and uncharted temples
a student who starts from nothing
and grows by learning more
a listener who can hear and hone
the sound of their own prose
a lover who always leaves their
mark on ****** papers
a waterbearer who pours their soul to make
readers see and feel the beauty of the ripple
one soul that can and will write
their way into multiple lives
a warrior who fights to conquer
their greatest enemy, self-doubt
a drinker who wishes to
forget reality
a crafter who hears, sees, sniffs, feels
and thinks through their fingers
a sadist who loves to whip their
readers with twists, turns, pain and agony
a ********* who revels in the beautiful
agony of words, drafts and revisions
The writer's language is all that and more
It can bring as much agony as well as galore
And a special few truly understand that
the writer's language is anything but bland
The writer's language
The Writer's Language
It truly is second to none
✍
Jun 1, 2018
Jun 1, 2018 at 2:24 PM UTC
What a beautiful tragedy
It just is what it had to be
Either swing with the rhythm or
Sink down into your seat while ya
Snap a cold can of brew open
Take a sip without chockin ya
Seasoned Smith with the motion you
Master crafter, not chosen, I'm
Self made man, I been workin still
Humble, held by my people, high
Dancing round in the isles, bar
Tender pour my potion, I need
A taste of your posion, push glass
Across marble oceans, look past
My eyes see right through you, so clear
The sky says it knew you, back when
We flew to the moon and lost our
Minds in a crater, digging for
Diamond stars, our creators burn
Now play me that sweet musical...
Nov 23, 2017
Nov 23, 2017 at 6:48 PM UTC
Books
Portals to faraway magic worlds
And time machines to the past and present
Gateways to parallel universes
Made from the bodies of long dead giants
That lived and grew as far as the eye could see
Slaughtered by the thousands
And drenched in the blood of liquid night
In strange characters in rows one after the other
We are the hopes and dreams of the crafter
And the living embodiment of the mind of the user
We are the collective knowledge of a civilization
And the collective imagination of them too
We are the storytellers of eras gone by
And eras yet to pass
We paint ourselves with bright colors
In order to attract the eye of the user
We say what we tell on our backs
But we are dying
Our users ignore and abuse us
There’s so few left to share our knowledge with
And when we can't share our knowledge
We die
Once we die so too dies all hope for a better future
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 3:36 PM UTC
There was an old man who was a crafter.
He had a son with a dream,
The son wanted to FLY.
So his dad made him wings out of bird feathers and wax.
And warned him not to fly to close to the sun.
The sun never listened and when he was by the sun,
The wax burned and the wings came off.
So he fell to his death!
What was the crafters name and what was the son's name?
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 4:33 PM UTC
It's lucky I'm a poet;
if I wasn't a crafter of words,
it would be nearly
impossible
to find the words to describe
The swelling of my heart
whenever I think of you
(It's like my chest is about to burst)
The tingle in my stomach
when I know you're near
(It's so odd I really can't describe it,
except to say that it's impatient)
The surge of love and happiness,
warmth and comfort,
that fills me completely
when I melt into your arms
(Oh, it's so perfectly warm)
Oh, how do I describe my love?
It's another world,
attached to my older, darker one,
and only good things are allowed
to enter the sphere.
It's a swelling, like a tidal wave
crashing over me, but
I am not afraid.
It's home.
It's...home.
It's safe and it's warm, and...
It's home, being in your arms.
There is no place I'd rather be.
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 8:27 AM UTC
My brain forgets faster
Than my hands can capture
My heart's cries and laughter
I acted the drafter
A stupid miscapture
This craft from the crafter
Now pale sick disaster
Can't remember it after
CAN'T REMBER IT AFTER
...
But I know it was beautiful
Apr 25, 2018
Apr 25, 2018 at 3:30 PM UTC
Blow my mind speak in divine flowy sub laminate between the lines, eye cut through the body cut through love be raunchy, rhetoric the answers already there I only breath heavy air I'm not a millionaire more like heir to nowhere, master of the barren pasture, salt in wound the morning after sick puppy **** lucky grab chunky crunchy munch the bunch, bunch the rest you know with the radar casters the radio sonic receiver digest the pulpy black and white the combo of lie then excite feed proper postures for pompous up nose president of class Pegasus rider cloud shaper cloud crafter come down cast plaster mold masters mocked by pidgeons sheep dove chickens chicken check the crow rear morrow yesterday's sorrow the future is hollow the present is persistent presence pupil popping places penultimate progression equals one plus two divided by what will you lose loose lip secrets lapping ears too soon big boom drama driven **** man that spoonful of sour truth hurt more than the knife cut of gossip lie lay the toss up on the table listen listen speak to angels or angles figure out the when where why or just taste the night on palate of your soul roll the bones roll the ***** thoughts home grab deep sleep with your dreams kiss em goodnight then let loose a parody of screams one night stand craigslist ad see em again hopeful hopeless hopping ***** home wrecks homogenize energize heavy drive crash core kick door boot scoot root shoot dug up what luck food truck nation street of treats get groovey gravy with the spicy enticing lacy noodle mood lighting . Uh yeah man
Jun 5, 2017
Jun 5, 2017 at 10:46 AM UTC
The headless lady was radiant; her ***** rested on a lightbulb, a silhouette not unlike that of a bee, yet too sturdy to be bothered by the wind. Her arms and head were replaced by a glowing coat hanger, hinting at some tragedy. She must be sought after for all the wrong reasons, by the most depraved of people. How much pain did she have to endure to be so confident in her superficial image? I’d like to see her face one day, when the light shines not on her body, but her mind.
The hand, the crafter, the smith; surely she, too, shares the pain of her image. Oh she is radiant herself, absolutely. I wonder if she feels like the lady of the painting; her body a fluorescent attraction, her head a household tool. I hope she doesn’t feel shallow and ordinary. She is one of the most vibrant people I’ve traded words with. She is a sight to behold when she wields her mind, and with it, pries open the crevice to her soul.
Jul 18, 2019
Jul 18, 2019 at 8:25 PM UTC