Petal Jan 2017

We pick up words, and love them
Pennies from a wishing fountain, picked up by hobos
Crafted into beauty, like a sun set on a summer day
Words bleed, You know
They leak feelings,
Dripping love, hate, anger
All things real,
Yet not real at all
Dreams, hopes, fears
Crafted from discarded thoughts,
Discarded people
Loved by the "no ones"
By crafters of the unseen
Only felt,
Misunderstood by the masses
Understood by the few who see
Crafters of the unseen
Ringing the feelings out of words,
Like water, out of a rag
Seeing things, unseen

emily m Aug 2011
infinitely flexible, malleable
in every way imaginable;
sprinkled in magic with a taste that can

2. complicatesimplifyconfuseand

3. a compass with which castle crafters
map their masterpieces, built from layers of
similes and metaphors and symphonies of sound,
of memories and apologies and everything bound;

4. a reel of delicate threads which
fervently await a seamstress of words to
weave them together;

*impressionable when you don’t mean it,
fleeting when you do.
Jon Elfers Oct 2014

the cries of the dead whisper,
through the cracks of the city-scape,
they pause...then fade,
into wailing sirens,
of deaths love march,
the dead's eyes lie,
in the avenues,
separating skyscraper,
limited in height and width,
by hands of ghosts,
extending bloody hands,
to raise the crafters,
above the city wall,
separating  the enlightened,
the damned

Jacob Traver May 2013

Where echos bound off cavern walls
Thundering, spacious water falls
Giving power to the ember furnace
Crafters work with full earnest

Our clang of metal forming metal
Our  laughter around the stew-filled kettle
Lacboring long into the night
Carrying lanterns for our light

A golden tint in the arenose air
A rich man's delight, deep in this lair
A cornucopia of jewels and stone
Picks and axes spark on the hone

Melted metals with tools of the trade
Upon the anvil are ceremoniously laid
To be shaped and formed into desires
By light of the blazing, crimson fires

Where we find sweat and danger as one
And rarely journey out into the sun
Have amity with our fellow men
And all write to loved ones with one pen

The cavern echos, the rays of gold
This ancient house of tales untold
To find this place, a costly fee
For a way of  escape will never be

On old mainstreet, sits an old café,
Where home-town-grown musicians play.
Sometimes they like to change its name,
But the clientele stay just the same.
When times are tough down in the town,
You know you can’t get the Black Dog down.

Rednecks and faux-necks and used-to-be-loggers,
Crafters and rafters, and activist bloggers,
And poets and hippies and mystics and fools,
And outcasts from the secondary schools,
And gypsies too: you’ll find them here,
Drowning in local, hand-crafted beer.

At night, locals sip organic tea,
And turn up the menagerie
Of lights and mics from another age,
Pieced together to make a stage.
And there, the guitarists waste their breath
Beating the Same. Four. Chords. To. Death.

There are some new lyrics, there and here,
But all of them memories of yester-year:
A year spent in the same damn space,
With others who’ve never left this place.
They sing of their dear loves and pasts,
And how much longer the wandering lasts.

And on they wail, and on they moan,
And twang the antique, rustic tone,
But their faces show they like it here,
This breaking haunt of yester-year,
And after the set, they carouse with cheer,
And smile contentedly to their beer.

On old mainstreet sits an old café,
Where home-town-grown musicians play.
Sometimes they like to change its name,
But the clientele stay just the same.
When times are tough down in the town,
You know you can’t get the Black Dog down.


Written for The Black Dog, Theatre Black Dog, and Isadora's, which are all really the same place under time's sneaky aliases.

It is a world of wonder and delight
because of this love we call poetry

With sisters and brothers
and friends and lovers
and novice and poets to see

There are poems to be crafted
and humor to be laughed at
but sadness is not to be spared

With nightmares to be spoken
as they are put out in the open
and hopes and dreams are shared

We all gather together
to put down with letters
that, which makes us who we are

From near or from far
this is what we are
the crafters of poetry


Brent Kincaid Mar 2016

Waddley bimbely
Nothing is new.
Sometimes I don’t know
What I should do.
Walkily talkily
Human kazoo.
I have learned better
Than trusting in you.

Whiffily sniffley
Embezzle and lie
Authority snority
Let it go by.
Cheatum and beatum
If they complain
Skim from the top
Buy a new plane.

Hoppity boppity
Games of chance
Always let poor people
Pay for the dance.
Scrappity snappity
Selling their wares
Bitch about usury
Nobody dares.

Slippity slidery
Constant rendition.
Use public money
To buy politicians.
Graftery crafters
Buy media too.
Make some more billions
To see their way through.

Kiri Nells Jun 2011

Sleeping hearts
And dormant souls
Beauty hibernates
Many years fold

Shattered reflections
Eras unseen
Generation: Perfection
Of them, are you keen?

Undiscovered peoples
Obscured luminescence
Shadowed by life’s steeples
Hidden is its presence

Great- their advances
Ignored- their passion
Will cause today’s trances
Lost- intelligence enough to ration

Underground spirits
Nightlife astounding
Colors like parrots
Such a city, hear the pounding

Learn to listen with your hands
And feel with your eyes
The masters of oneness can
All connected are their lives

Together, in unison
Sleeping and knowing
Waiting to show their Sun
And love that is flowing

Wisdom consuming people
Swallowed in thought
Outpouring in emotion
And flawed they are not

Crafters of the stars
And admirers of Animalis
Networking nature afar
That family of causes

Protectors of innocence
Harboring lovers
Defense for our weakness
Strength shared like brothers

Who are these creatures
Forgotten and lost?
Crazy, awe worthy features
And what is their cost?

Who sings this song
Of grace and ability?
Who could play to this music
And not feel so guilty?

Aasim Le Roux Aug 2015

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?

As crafters craft and artists art
all things Beautiful were once apart.
Brought together by Work and Pain,
Perfection is sought again and again.

But it is only through Agony and a convoluted sense of Direction
that Man and the Universe can create Perfection.
Accidental masterpieces brought daily into being,
Beauty is not only Seen through seeing.

Tears that cloud our jaded sight
make that once unclear terribly bright.
One view of the World is never enough,
it is the Visions of others that make our Works tough.

All labours of Love, do not always Love find,
but that is because to Love we are blind.
Love is an ability that colours our emotion,
thus, a single man can move an ocean.

A river, an ocean, a dam of time
each human is given his Voice to rhyme.
A wave, a ripple, a tsunami effect
that changes in magnitude only in what we expect.

These clashes and crashes, shatter and break.
It is not our Strength that determines how much we can take.
It is our Determination and Perserverance alone
that distinguishes a boulder, a pebble, a stone.

The cracks and tears,
the pleasures and cares,
mean that Beauty through Perfection sought
with Tragedy and Imperfection is wrought.

Justin Howerton Oct 2015

Hatred is the thing that is bred
Brewed heated until boiling
But indifference is crafted
By the most skillful hands
Whose tools are the best at building walls
Walls stuffed with dads money and ever growing in height
By the crafters who work nonstop to
Prevent the privileged private pricks from dispersing from their depraved desolate destinies
Yes the walls are bad
But that cant be helped
When a generation of mindlessness has not yet been awakened
Consciousness lying dormant
And authenticity being sought out anywhere
Any by everyone
So walls are erected
To protect those who are alive
And can see the death of others
And is it really such a bad thing
To save those who can be saved
And are indifferent to the hopeless masses

CK Baker Apr 2017

pear leaves strum the high wire
fern roots claw a sun drenched bank
creep vines mount the hedgerow
sow bugs jump a grated worn step

picket wall stain on cedar
mountain stream brisk at lush green pass
four legs down the foot path
biscuit brown trailers fill the pipe

spiders march on dew web
knots and rivets cut hard at the seam
maples cover the forest floor
sap balls ping the front gate

dandelions drift on west breeze
blue berries plump at shepherds grove
wood sill holds a stained glass
letter box lined above the scrub

delft ware on the mantle
(with petals and script for a promised guest!)
junior poised with mouth agape
birds and squirrels whistle jovial tunes

goldfinch darts the sea ranch
tabby cat rests in a white wicker chair
a crafters window in the alpine
follies await the summer task!

queen bee on the flutter
airedale set on a woven grey mat
watchmen of the hollow (+ earwig and mite!)
scurry, under rustled moist leaves

frogs leap at trickle creek
shutter bugs mount on gryphons lair
still water ripples in the shaded pool
folding fingers on corner bridge

foragers cut the high shelf
silver fish come to life
whiskey jack sings on indian green
elijah and xavier pause...
at a long days end

As you draw in the warmth from the blistering ember
you will travel a road that I know you'll remember.
Make sure you're comfy in your night-time attire
as you open the book beside this open fire.

You sit here alone reading by candle's glow
your design on this journey that these pages will show.
You flick through the prologue so ready to start
Unknown roads stand before me, so now I depart.

I relish, these words that are so well designed.
Passing such crafted visions into embracing mind
and so were away, as I follow the text,
full of anticipation at what to expect.

What is it I cannot see, it hovers vaguely up ahead, shadow stalk, lingering round, vanishing with words un-said.
Uncertain, I do forge ahead, my passage-way remains un-blocked
a beating heart is all I hear and fear is certainly unlocked.

Expeditions must proceed as I try hard not to sway.
With words un-aired but swiftly told with handful gesture as I pray.
I want so much not to be afraid, such horrors keeps my mind engrossed
Reluctantly I turn the page, clinging to this paper host.

Continuing through this written course, what must I cater for ahead,
from words that I cannot divorce. Is Shelley's monster still un-dead.
Standing just outside the grasp of shadows moving through the night
with Frankenstein will I relapse? Shall Dracula cause early flight.

Has Jeckyll change into his Hyde? The only way to surely know,
Is carry on till journeys end, continue forth and watch the show.
Should I force this cover shut or should I just continue on.
My fear maybe sounds absurd as I escape from Chapter one?

How can I be afraid to read?
They're merely words from someone's mind.
Fictitious lines from crafters pen,
why then am I in this bind?

This fear I have is very real
as images do start to brew.
So curious I have no choice,
my course is clear- Chapter two

Painful Endurance....
It seems so long ago to me since first I opened this
Cover up and looked inside to see things I don't want to miss.
I've travelled through such horrors in the Chapters I have delved.
If foresight was ahead of me this novel would be shelved.
This truly was not on my mind when this work I did desire
but I worry that I shan't get back home to sit beside my fire.

26th April 2013
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