"handcrafted" poems
Dont you feel like
Life is easier emotionless
We try to seize the moment
But in the end its always "goodbye"
And forced to face reality
Because we're all going to die
My fake smile is all you see
Because we all know the
Tears are real, the smile's not me
Do we truely know whats inside of us
That deep down we are nothing but
our broken hearts and lost parts
Fallen glass and broken shards
We try so hard to realize our strengths
So we can mask our greatest weaknesses
But in our heart and souls
We know what we are...
-Terracotta soldiers;
A hollow shell
Of handcrafted beauty
Hidden from a world
Ignorant enough
to forsake our existance-
Jan 25, 2019
Jan 25, 2019 at 11:37 AM UTC
My hooded head casts a shadow
across the overflowing ashtray.
My exhaled smoke is silhouetted on the
handcrafted clay.
In the shape of an oyster,
painted with the colors of
rebellious 21st century youth:
Red. Gold. Green.
With a flare of "originality."
Breeze, light, cold
escorts winter across my
aged face and I see all that my life is:
Tar. Work. Tar. Tar. Sleep.
Work. Tar. Eat. Work. Tar.
Tar. Work. Eat. Work.
Drink coffee.
Tar.
Sleep.
Die.
Is this equation what I am
reduced to?
Simple formula, obsessive compulsive
DREAM.
The exponents of my life,
variables and names:
Tar. to the power of X.
Tar. to the power of M.
But exponents and powers
mean little to drowning men.
Can a man suffocate on
his own routine?
Can a man fashion a noose
from the fibers of his
"adult life?"
Look, Ma!
I'm all growed-up.
I have murdered adventure
and the youth that lives
inside it.
I snapped one too many thin branches,
fell through the thin ice,
and now I am addicted to solid ground.
I will stand on the banks,
watching the children
ice-skate around my ashtray
that overflows with
every "yesterday" and
half-smoked "this one time"
that comprise my
former life.
I am a grown-up now.
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 2:01 AM UTC
She is a work of art
The epitome of beauty
Covered in her African butter
She wears a crown handcrafted by God
When her foot touches the ground even the devil bows down
She was happy with her perfect imperfections
Till you came along and made her feel like absolute trash
Playing mind games, you're really good at that
Threatened by her crown, you told her to take it off
"Straighten that Bush over your head"
Told her that her berry was not sweet enough
" Bleach your skin, light is the new beautiful "
When you were out with your peasant till 2am
She started reconnecting with the God within her
And He restored her confidence
When you least expected it, she packed her bags
Put her crown back on and went back to owning her throne
You and your cheap peasant didn't even last after her
You can't enjoy your side dish without your main meal
Now tell me....
How on earth do you even sleep at night?
Jan 24, 2017
Jan 24, 2017 at 10:24 AM UTC
Back in those days
when I was young and strong.
Pristine, Noble,
as pure as you'd long.
White as a dove,
handsome as a king.
I'm a token of love,
far greater than a ring.
My making contained
both good and bad.
My maker being
a hot headed lad.
Blood as blue
as the skies and seas,
I stood along the riverside
enjoying the occasional breeze.
My history is both
wonderful and morbid.
My beauty-spoken of,
I'm known by each kid.
Lovers cherish me,
write songs of my presence.
create tales of their own,
activate every sense.
And now when I speak,
when I look at my current state
I'm sad, deeply sorry
at my distressing fate.
Handcrafted marble
whiter than milk.
Quality as such,
smoother than silk.
Today has eroded,
decayed and died.
It matters not
how much I've cried.
For it all falls on deaf ears
while factory noises expose my fears.
My white is no more,
I'm a deepening gray.
I see pity in the eyes
where once admiration lay.
The pride of India,
its biggest glory.
The life of Agra,
this is my story.
Being the crown of the nation,
the jewel of its eye.
A wonder of the world,
I feel like a lie.
For what I am today
isn't me at all.
I've lived at great heights
survived a great fall.
It is my request
sincere and deep.
Give me no reason
to further weep.
Awaken. Arise.
the time is here.
Preserve your glory,
keep the pride near.
I am none other,
than your beloved Taj Mahal.
this is my story,
one I ought to tell.
Now my life
is in your hands.
the choice is yours
as are the lands.
Choose wisely,
The devils or me?
Perish with them
or rejoice with me?
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 6:45 AM UTC
I lived my half dictionary life before I could
comprehend compulsory compromises.
Collectors arise, disguises and devices beeping,
chastising my blindness.
Gather geography from Afghanistan and Myanmar
graciously growing gold gilded gift horses,
gleefully gloating about floating far away.
My hoof beats above concrete match my heart’s defeat
across borders and mountains
embroidering cardboard cut-outs
calling deserts, decorating front covers.
Exhaling handcrafted letters for my missing half,
half demanding highest caliber commanders and half commanding completion.
Jade jays joyfully lay arrays of bouquets
fragile flowers decay faraway
in jawbones and jail cells.
Begging farewells in a hotel’s lobby
began my hobby,
early morning coffee and carbon copies
concurringly cocky around his dead body.
Gang ciphers for cartels are
Christmas bells hissing at collars,
half dollars embellishing bar crawlers
godfathers hollering at car haulers.
Atrocities across cities attack,
attachable atrophies audibly ambush arthritic anthologies.
Anomalies begin apologies between apostrophes,
advancing autonomy arousing ancient animosities.
All eluding Antarctica,
giant frozen crests, multi-coloured ice
hidden in my illustrations
anxious for my distant half.
Friday cassettes and cigarettes
deliberately making bets following “M”.
Breaking bindings and finding “beta” in alphabet,
may feasibly end in debt.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 1:51 PM UTC
You and I, handcrafted in lust,
borne of sea and blood -
you, of Aphrodite,
and I, of Ares.
The violence of your love
destined to be matched only
by the tenderness of my violence.
And my hands, war-given, strong,
made for battle,
grow soft at your hips, and
softer yet at the cliff of your thighs,
as they crash softly in the bay in-between.
And how these hands long for you, my child of goddess,
long for you like the armor of my chest longs
for your sweet mouth,
longs for your gentle fingertips
in the calm before the storm.
The passion of your tenderness a momentary reprieve
before I go to war;
and when I go, oh, the power that overcomes me,
and the weapons I will bring,
and the blood I will draw.
In the fashion of my father, as he tied Aphrodite's hair
in his fist, and
as he broke down her barriers, claiming her city,
her temple,
her soul.
The lullaby of her moans
reminiscent in your voice,
my favorite sound and
my chosen battle cry.
Jun 16, 2020
Jun 16, 2020 at 10:10 AM UTC
When you come to my thoughts
You are none other than the billowy embodiment of a reminiscent memory
and also a current everlasting longing
You are the memory of a being or idea
one can feel and remember vividly
but can not zero in on,
for you are the intangible
the winding wind
You are those spiraling twines that place intermittent along grapevines
You are the ancient scrolls from wise days before paperback
You are the spin in the reaching center of a handcrafted wreath
And within all these
individualities and collective,
Lies your scent comprised of multiple scents
You are the mighty togetherness
Your arrival to earth escaping from birth
gave these words to the minds of the kind
You are the winding wind who spins and twines, wreathes and scrolls who lands from time to time and when you do drop for a spell
This location of harboring landfall
is a day of new tradition,
the first step you take on new land on that new day
Becomes the origin of a new holiday
In my thoughts you are the mortar of the earth
Dec 19, 2018
Dec 19, 2018 at 9:21 AM UTC
*A Door's Rusty Hinges Screeched As It Is Opened,
Though The Outside Of This Hall Is Ugly,
Paint Chipping,
The Scars Of Screams Entwined In Eggshell Trim,
The Room Which Lays On The Other Side,
Is Full Of Beauty,
Is Full Of Tubes Of Paint,
Some Which Lay On The Floor,
Which Kisses Oak Furnishings,
Some Lay On An Abandon Easel,
Next To A Canvas,
Half Completed,
Created By Shaky Hands*
*Empty Vases Sit On A Window Pane,
Which Await,
For The Return Of Freshly Picked Wild Flowers,
Awaiting The Return,
Of The Soft Glow Of A Candle,
A Lanturn Perches On A Bookshelf,
Full Of Stained Pages And Ripped Covers,
The Stale Scent Of Memories Cling To Each Chapter,
A Small Handcrafted Stool,
Sits In This Ancient Home,
In The Artist's Heart*
*The Ancient Smell Of Paint,
Is No More,
Though The Stains Of Blues And Greens,
Are Now Grey As Clay Upon The Floor,
Yet Paintings Dwell On The Off-White Walls,
Some Brilliant,
Others A Hot Mess,
Self Portraits,
Redish Hair Cascading Like A Waterfall,
Down A Slim Collarbone,
Some Of Them The Women Smiles,
Others She Frowns,
Landscapes Of Rolling Hills,
And The Moonlight Leaking Through Coniffer Forests,
Are Stacked Ontop Of Eachother,
And A Mirror Which Stared At The Artist's Face,
And Who Saw Her Take Her Last Breath,
Climbs Motionlessly On The Wall*
*If You Looked Close Enough,
You Could See Perfectly Preserved Fingerprints,
On The Cracked Glass Of The Window,
As If She Were Longing To Be Free,
As If She Were A Prisoner,
In A Colorful Cell,
A Prisoner In Lockless Cage,
A Prisoner With Flushed Cheeks,
Yet A Face Still Pale,
One Who Longed To Express Herself,
To The Monarchy,
Imprisoned For Creativity,
She Lay In This Room,
Breathed This Air,
Painted These Pictures,
Yet Where Is She Now?*
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 7:47 PM UTC
Dear Alyssa,
I am trying to say your name, but it is so foreign to me I cannot believe I once called it my own. It is stiff and uncomfortable, and sticky and sad. I cringe every time I hear it, it was never my home.
But I will never not envy the fact that our mother handcrafted it for you while Avery was never touched by her beauty. When you think beauty, I know the only thing you think of is Montana Walker. The girl in your English class with the freckle by her smile who plays chess with you at lunch. But when your father thinks beauty, Alyssa is still his first thought.
Dear Alyssa,
When you were in sixth grade, you dreamt about me. I wore a pullover hoodie and a backwards hat with one arm slung around Montana's shoulders. You were afraid to touch her, but me, I wasn't intimidated by her. She was quiet and tall, I was taller and loud, my chest was open and breathed proud. You never believed you would get there, and you aren't. I am miles away from loud. I am unable to speak up for you. Even when I was called a ****** my first day of public high school. Even when I was called a ******* ****** *** **** by a member of our own community, someone who shares so much of our journey. I didn't speak up for you or me. I'm sorry.
Dear Alyssa,
I'm sorry I tried to tear you open to see if I was hiding underneath. I'm sorry. I was not underneath. This is no woman's body because it belongs to me. I was not underneath.
Dear Alyssa,
Mom and dad are right. You are beauty. You are pretty and feminine and sweet. Alyssa, you are the prettiest boy you'll ever meet, because frankly, there is no girl I used to be. We are inherently male because we are supposed to be.
**** biology.
**** transphobic members of the LGBT community.
**** that at 15, you've reached half a trans* person's life expectancy.
**** that you will never be allowed to join the military.
**** the life that they want you to lead.
You are me.
You are the boy I used to be.
Dear Alyssa,
I'm sorry.
Sincerely yours
P.S. I should've loved you more.
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 12:46 AM UTC
The pretty lass
moved fawn-like
behind the counter,
her thin flowered sun dress
grasped her sleek-form
so delicately,
grinning behind glasses,
she mesmerized me
completely.
A bit sassy,
with an
air of confidence,
her craft spoke volumes.
She had
a keen eye for detail,
her quality
was impeccable,
burnished ancient coins,
Apollo & Diana the huntress
hung near iridescent colors,
Macaws & Amazons
blazed their vibrant hues.
She sold me Roman glass
wrapped in Sterling,
handcrafted by
her beautiful hands.
If she only knew
how much
it truly touched me.
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 11:04 PM UTC
Remember the sandcastle
that we used to build?
It took some time
but little did we know
we have handcrafted our future
it was a hard work and patience
Passerby's liked it, others did not
but what do they know?
We had fun building it!
We were diligent to fill
it with sand
Sand that was formed
into an art of love
A castle that we both own
Yes, you will be the king,
and please, call me 'milady'
We will rule the kingdom
No negativities shall come in
Not until when we came back
Those sands of promises and memories
become pain
Everything was ruined
when the waves washed
our dreams away.
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 7:09 PM UTC
Today I bought a square plate
it's not for me, but for an enemy
that I could do worse things to, if I was a less noble person
as the things they've done I will not speak.
The plate is porcelain and quite finely made
elegant and excellently finished for how not so pricey it was
hints of history seems to hide in it's shell--
as seams are weaved into
what has probably lived a long and unused existence
this handcrafted masterpiece.
Separately painted by some fancy artist
to whom I do not recognize the name of,
although it is said he may have done something wrought with his ear
or did this man's uncle make this plate, oh well, I am unsure.
It is these very details to why,
I am now in possession of this piece of the past
that will be priceless to those who know more craftsmanship,
at least more knowledgeable than the man who sold it to me.
From the gleaming in your eyes
I can tell this plate may even mean a great deal to you
is this true my good friend?
oh well, I guess I can give the plate to you
instead of the devil I spoke of before.
*As I handed my prize to them
it began to feel heavier than any ordinary plate should,
gravity granted the greatest reprise I've ever sought
as the demon's face whelmed with depression
and mine satisfaction--
for being such a convincing storyteller.
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 5:33 AM UTC
At first her mind may seem to be a clutter of astronomical objects
with planets sprawling all over,
nebulae birthing everywhere,
stars tossed in random directions.
But in truth, it is not.
Staring into her eyes is like drowning in the vast galaxies,
suffocating due to the lack of air,
but doing so voluntarily.
Her mind is a beautiful collection of constellations falling into place,
with perfect planetary alignments,
completed with the most beautiful nebula that God handcrafted himself.
You see, she is just that fascinating,
you just need to look a bit closer.
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 10:04 AM UTC
Little Florence, nightingale,
Spread your wings and let me see
How you float above the sea
On your handcrafted, flight-sustaining
Self-containing
Instruments
Of self-inflicted repression.
Let me see you fly above,
Wounding all you think you love
With self-obsessed dependency
The need to be
Protector with your poisoned shield
Of selfish "good intentions."
Little Florence, little bird,
Though you think my words absurd,
Spread your wings and show to me
All you wished and hoped I'd be
When you shattered both my legs
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 4:42 PM UTC
In Kogelo,
The Sun burns closer to Earth
Challenging native melanin
And the will of villagers
And Zebu herds
To persist...
At dusk,
Obsidian clouds descend
And kerosene lamps flicker
Through open windows
Of handcrafted homes...
There,
The father of a famous senator
Was born...
Transforming her trajectory
From the annals of obscurity
To the front pages of Times...
Soon,
Power lines upstaged the flickering lamp
And street signs were changed
Extolling her new-found fame
As history was made across the Atlantic...
In Kogelo,
Hope thrives in the eyes
Of every student
At Senator Obama Secondary School...
Sourced with native pride
From a White house
On the other side
Of the world.
~ P
(#Kogelo)
3/11/2014
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 8:48 AM UTC
she is catastrophic
handcrafted delicately
she is lovely
she is everything all at once
she is angry waves crashing
she is peace,
she is air
she is madness,
rage,
horrid
she is love
she is hate
she is shattering windows and
when light hits glass
like a thousand exploding galaxies
Mar 22, 2021
Mar 22, 2021 at 5:04 PM UTC
Hey, hey, gather around,
ashes went cold and the wind blows!
Of toads and kisses, green peas and geese
i bring you no news, but of the fair lady
hidden in closure, cinderella her given name!
We all know how dazzling
in the ball she showed;
his hand in her waist,
oh, they could have danced
all night and a life!
Here is the true story yet untold:
the charming prince, you see,
left with a single shoe,
soon found another fit
for standardised shoes
- just that size! -
walked by in all feet.
And so the blond cinderella
turned grey and his gown
lost the diamond gloss;
her heart was handcrafted
- oh, but not easier than a shoe
to be shown as the true one!
The prince grew into a king,
his wife launched a fashion
shoe line (CEO the godmother!),
cinderella kept being... cinderella,
in all lights and nights; maybe
you've seen her, wandering in wonder...
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 3:22 PM UTC
Tiny feathers.
Of black, white,
and softest brown.
Tiny wings fluttering.
With quiet sound.
Loud voice.
Of sweetest song.
Which can be heard.
From miles around.
"Swee, swee,"
calls the chickadee.
Handcrafted by God above,
the little chickadee
is a tiny miracle.
Of His love.
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 5:29 PM UTC
America.
Oregon.
Eugene.
***** hippies,
Homeless kids,
Handcrafted knickknacks
For sale at Saturday Market.
Rain
Rain
Rain
Rain some more.
These tourists cannot
Perceive how happy
The rain makes me,
When their droplets of
Life fall and surround me.
They do not have
That Oregonian Blood.
I have ducks in my heart,
And rain water
Courses through my veins.
I am a Country Fair girl.
I am a Eugene Girl.
I will be an Oregonian forever.
Portland may not be
As quaint,
As *****
As close knit.
But,
When it rains,
I get chills.
I kick off my shoes,
And I dance in the
Glorious lifeblood
of my home.
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 4:44 PM UTC
It was the summer of 2005. I remember being 16 and packing my suitcase with my sister. We were getting ready to leave for San Diego the next morning. That's where the cruise ship departed from by the way. We were going to visit the warm beaches of Mexico, and walk along the golden sands.
Families selling handcrafted goods neatly stretched on the stands of Mazatlan.
Then there was the forest. Everything in the rain forest comes alive before you and the air was wet like one of those Korean spas you never want to leave. The other travelers we'd meet on the boat were like us, and we were like children experiencing the magic of Disneyland for the very first time.
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 2:33 PM UTC
the cascading sunlight folds
itself over the tables and chairs
making the bland beautiful
as she sits with smiles
ever-present spoken exquisiteness of words
she is the guardian at the gate
she is the handcrafted perfection
spun out from the threads of heartstring
sewn into her fiery love of rock n roll
into her gentle quiet lover's restful adoration
the cascading sunlight flows
over the chipped tile floor
like a slow flood of cool waters
inked into the deluge are the images
of days shared here
of the worlds within the music that plays
of the moments where her happy eye captured me
the cascading sunlight rushing
up the far wall as sunset inhales all the day's joy
and then exhales all our gathered loves
like purity
like beauty
like her sweet heart
the cascading sunlight renews us all
this is the birth of my new world
this is the journey that i never knew
till after i had taken its first steps
© 2018 mark john junor all rights reserved
May 8, 2018
May 8, 2018 at 11:36 AM UTC
Don't ever tell me that
I need a man to ground me,
To stable me, to protect me,
To reign me in;
A man to be the bit in my mouth,
The collar at my throat,
The bars of a cage
Like I'm some wild animal.
If I did need a man,
I don't need to feel
The weight of his control
Crushing down on my ribs,
The incessant ticking of his
Calculator mind
Playing overhead like muzak.
For the love of all good,
Do not suffer me
The cautionary tales told from a lover's lips.
They slither down my throat
With their false slimy sweetness,
"I tell you this for your own good,
Baby, I promise, I love you."
But their faces twist with the words
And their hands clench,
And you know they're really just
Waiting for you to shut the hell up,
You're making a scene.
You can't pair a poet
With a grounded man,
The same way you can't pair
A lily with a flytrap,
A rhinoceros with a lapdog.
I was not meant for the life
Of a housekeeper,
Bound hands and feet
To the homestead,
My sole purpose in life
To cook and clean,
To serve and produce
Squealing piglets succeeding
In his pigheaded line.
I need more than that, so
Don't try to force feed me my "man,"
Mr. Sensibility, Mr. Every Woman's Dream,
Mr. Right,
I don't want him.
Give me a man who writes,
Ballads and sonnets and epics
With words handcrafted
By decadent Grecian gods,
Who spends his nights bent
Over an antiquated typewriter,
Rushing to get the mid-dream thought
Down on paper.
A man who paints his soul,
Turns a blank canvas
Into an emotion,
Raw and real and ravaging,
Who will wait patiently
While his model fidgets
Just so he can get
The slope of her neck just right.
A man who plays music
Sweet and soft and slow
Serenading me to sleep
When the night is cold,
Who hears songs in
The rustle of rabbit's feet
And the whisper of slumbering breath.
I don't want a man to hold me down,
To show me how to act.
I want a man to create with,
To fight with and play with,
A man who loves with encouragement,
And not reprimand.
I am not a mistake to be corrected,
And I don't need a man
That will convince me otherwise.
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 12:43 AM UTC
Borrowed Time
I wouldn’t say I am one for sitting on bar stools
in empty ***** bars studying time, but here I am/
all alone/ staring out a stainless glass window
watching life happen and wondering about
the sublime.
So many heartbeats out there strive for greatness;
so many dreams colliding while searching
for possibilities hidden inside shells of moral
capabilities. Some lead with eyes wide open/blind
to the finely crafted ******** of rhetorical motivation
and some are the followers who waggle
just slightly behind inspired by historical innovations
and there are some, who drink alone/like me,
who search for truth in a half empty glass
of optimism slightly buzzed.
It’s funny how when you are drinking everything
makes a little more since.
Sometimes you need the alone time
to hear what your thoughts are saying. Sometimes
you need to be away from everything out there
to understand the true ideals of individualism
because we are fascinated by difference
even when we think we are afraid
of not fitting in. We seek shelter in handcrafted
cliques just to delay the inevitable of standing
on our own.
We all embrace that maybe tomorrow entitlement
of procrastination, that daily hesitation that makes
everything around us happen….eventually
and maybe I’ve just had too much to drink/swirling
around ice in a empty glass once filtered by Tanguary
and a twist of tonic while still studying the sobriety
of a drunken society of hopeful prosperity.
Life makes a nice drink
because it is a bunch of nonsense we intake
until we’re intoxicated in the mind and stumbling
just to stay on our feet/stuck in time; a time that ticks
slowly when we’re in pain
and fast when we’re entertained
but at times, like now, it does pause
reminding us that we are on borrowed time
sipping on life with imitations of the sublime.
© 2012
Tarringo T. Vaughan
http://www.tarringovaughan.net
Jan 16, 2012
Jan 16, 2012 at 11:59 PM UTC
not a morning person
she’s content to hide in leafy shadows
wildly overgrown purple and green vines
surround and ensnare her
beneath a canopy of pink antique tea roses
she stands inside a maple platform
designed and handcrafted with care
three asymmetrically positioned 2 by 4 risers raise her
about a foot off the ground
two golden plaster cherubs hover above her on either side
fine grayish wood grain, like carpenter’s fingerprints
peek out through faded cerulean backboards
a painted backdrop made translucent by exposure
fresh cut miniature roses in miniature vases
brighten the stage like foot lights
behind the platform, at the back of the cave
clumps of ferns intermittently reveal
mud swirls splashed on a mint colored wall
up front, a row of marigolds and strawberry plants
embank a retaining wall border
of cabana-like sculpted brick
glistening white quartz stream before her
like a river of rocks at her feet
completing the grotto
she comes alive as the afternoon sun
brings out the color in her cheeks
she steps out from the shadows
and stretches her arms out close by her sides
palms facing outward
fingers pointing down
as if something were emanating from her hands
while she blesses us with peaceful contemplation
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 5:19 PM UTC