"joinery" poems - Hello Poetry

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.

0

Feb 26, 2018

Feb 26, 2018 at 1:00 PM UTC

metanoiac

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.

24

*come back to bed walk my hallways, upon my shoulder sleep, rest in my nooks soft, well worn, cosy crannies, let your face go slack, get back jack, to where you always belong I know too well what ails thee, know no answers easy to be found walking around an old creaky house's groaning discordant mystery sounds do come back to bed I'll call you babe, kiss those temples rock 'n rolling, soothing them with adagio classics from the 1950's and 60's I'll think of something just back, bed bunk, mate, with me your roommate of the sole ****** sunset years let you write poems on my tummy, gurgling with the pleasure of skin and words tender entwining, just come back to bed, pillow deep, fund the sleep your desperate need, from my countenance and body, yours, no needy for asking, just the just taking what you're needing, be my human, be my child, and come back to bed, my very own* ***still crazy man after all these years,*** *before leaving me sleepy smiling, from a job well done with the fluids of our co-joinery that ease, however brief, thy tempested brow one less line, one less worry*

0

Jan 10, 2015

Jan 10, 2015 at 2:33 PM UTC

stillcrazyafteralltheseye

come back to bed, walk my hallways

*come back to bed walk my hallways, upon my shoulder sleep, rest in my nooks soft, well worn, cosy crannies, let your face go slack, get back jack, to where you always belong I know too well what ails thee, know no answers easy to be found walking around an old creaky house's groaning discordant mystery sounds do come back to bed I'll call you babe, kiss those temples rock 'n rolling, soothing them with adagio classics from the 1950's and 60's I'll think of something just back, bed bunk, mate, with me your roommate of the sole ****** sunset years let you write poems on my tummy, gurgling with the pleasure of skin and words tender entwining, just come back to bed, pillow deep, fund the sleep your desperate need, from my countenance and body, yours, no needy for asking, just the just taking what you're needing, be my human, be my child, and come back to bed, my very own* ***still crazy man after all these years,*** *before leaving me sleepy smiling, from a job well done with the fluids of our co-joinery that ease, however brief, thy tempested brow one less line, one less worry*

60

*whatever we speak, it's hardly going to be spoken of.* which means two kettles... mind you: target practise or as i mind the 2.4 of said: superman in Iowa... do i care to mind? well, **** me! they verse in acronym i.n.d.i.a. & c.h.i.n.a. akin to a billion... i'm tongue tied and heaving, das bōt... this doesn't help the aesthetic... with prolonging dies the excess o... kaiser schweizer min took! whatever that means, they say funny accents in **** to **** a thought of a zeppelin... yhwh: or the hollowing-out, awaiting the god to lift us out... Pythagorean umlaut into a macron joinery... depending on your aesthetic... Kreisler schisser... twins anti avid, interchange s and z... Charlotte and sharpening, shearing and cheering, and so many excuses... the chard and the sh and the charcoal and the shattering of, of the chatter: cheap and sharp or the acute variations of śarp & ćeap... or what the first H represents: an upper punctuation marking, above the letter, Y or gamma γ vs. Υ (upsilon) in latter phrasing comma... or what's pinpointed with Y and what's later replicated in trigonometric W of sine and cosine, as is Y the tan divergence... excesses bound to later and latter... how to differentiate? the lay'ter from the latté of not mopping up the surd h and the vocalised h that's asphyxiating within catching breath asthmatic? people forgot punctuation in the same way they forgot diacritical markings but at least they got a pretty picture and dyslexia, and iconoclasm, and modern illiteracy; as said modern conspiracy theory: far **** away from 1990s cartoon network... everything you just said: doesn't prop a need for me to buy things; which is why, i guess, you need a drugs trade that's the alternative of consumerism.

0

Nov 23, 2016

Nov 23, 2016 at 10:36 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

dāß gelb bōt

*whatever we speak, it's hardly going to be spoken of.* which means two kettles... mind you: target practise or as i mind the 2.4 of said: superman in Iowa... do i care to mind? well, **** me! they verse in acronym i.n.d.i.a. & c.h.i.n.a. akin to a billion... i'm tongue tied and heaving, das bōt... this doesn't help the aesthetic... with prolonging dies the excess o... kaiser schweizer min took! whatever that means, they say funny accents in **** to **** a thought of a zeppelin... yhwh: or the hollowing-out, awaiting the god to lift us out... Pythagorean umlaut into a macron joinery... depending on your aesthetic... Kreisler schisser... twins anti avid, interchange s and z... Charlotte and sharpening, shearing and cheering, and so many excuses... the chard and the sh and the charcoal and the shattering of, of the chatter: cheap and sharp or the acute variations of śarp & ćeap... or what the first H represents: an upper punctuation marking, above the letter, Y or gamma γ vs. Υ (upsilon) in latter phrasing comma... or what's pinpointed with Y and what's later replicated in trigonometric W of sine and cosine, as is Y the tan divergence... excesses bound to later and latter... how to differentiate? the lay'ter from the latté of not mopping up the surd h and the vocalised h that's asphyxiating within catching breath asthmatic? people forgot punctuation in the same way they forgot diacritical markings but at least they got a pretty picture and dyslexia, and iconoclasm, and modern illiteracy; as said modern conspiracy theory: far **** away from 1990s cartoon network... everything you just said: doesn't prop a need for me to buy things; which is why, i guess, you need a drugs trade that's the alternative of consumerism.

62

In frustration he sat down on the bench outside the closed down railway station and wrote of his dissention. But in a moment that was lit by pure genius and invention He decided there and then to make a statement of his intention. In fits and starts he penned those parts that appealed to his sense of duty but true to form and as sure as I was born on a Wednesday I knew there was no way the statement would ever be made. This case is laid to rest. A stocktaker takes no stock A paradox? Point duty can be blunt when hiding or when on the hunt but shunting these random thoughts aside I train myself to pay attention to the statement that details tales of an unpaid rental. But no mention of me being mental or unsound. No sanitoriums for me or phychopaths that come for tea. Just peace and the bobbing of a broken time that floats in brine a hat that doesn't fit my head a statement that I've never read intentions that I never made not laid to rest at all but instant recall is what sets me apart and makes me the best. Test me Test me Testing, testing two three Just checking in To check that you've been listening.

0

Apr 17, 2013

Apr 17, 2013 at 5:05 AM UTC

john-edward-smallshaw

The joinery

In frustration he sat down on the bench outside the closed down railway station and wrote of his dissention. But in a moment that was lit by pure genius and invention He decided there and then to make a statement of his intention. In fits and starts he penned those parts that appealed to his sense of duty but true to form and as sure as I was born on a Wednesday I knew there was no way the statement would ever be made. This case is laid to rest. A stocktaker takes no stock A paradox? Point duty can be blunt when hiding or when on the hunt but shunting these random thoughts aside I train myself to pay attention to the statement that details tales of an unpaid rental. But no mention of me being mental or unsound. No sanitoriums for me or phychopaths that come for tea. Just peace and the bobbing of a broken time that floats in brine a hat that doesn't fit my head a statement that I've never read intentions that I never made not laid to rest at all but instant recall is what sets me apart and makes me the best. Test me Test me Testing, testing two three Just checking in To check that you've been listening.

38

I have been too long in the world. I am frayed at my edges chipped cracked and broken in places I have been too long in the world. Have listened too long to the THOU SHALT NOTs the I WANT IT ALL MY WAYs the IT'S MY RIGHTs and I have let them dry the lake of my soul with their drains and siphons I have been too long in the world. I shall use the golden joinery of the Japanese art to honor my frayed edges weave a golden, or silver, or platinum thread through them fill my cracks and broken places with lacquered metals I have been too long in the world. other edges, smashed to smithereens, will be left as they lay jutted, stiff while the softened, smashed powder from them I'll keep in a medicine bag and mix it, as needed, with my blood stirred into a salve, a queen of healing I have been too long in the world. my thousand-times-broken heart repaired and repaired and repaired and re-paired I will wrap like the gift it is with the gold of Love while laughter falls from it salve regina c. 2017 Roberta Compton Rainwater

0

Oct 6, 2017

Oct 6, 2017 at 9:40 PM UTC

roberta-compton-rainwater

salve regina

I have been too long in the world. I am frayed at my edges chipped cracked and broken in places I have been too long in the world. Have listened too long to the THOU SHALT NOTs the I WANT IT ALL MY WAYs the IT'S MY RIGHTs and I have let them dry the lake of my soul with their drains and siphons I have been too long in the world. I shall use the golden joinery of the Japanese art to honor my frayed edges weave a golden, or silver, or platinum thread through them fill my cracks and broken places with lacquered metals I have been too long in the world. other edges, smashed to smithereens, will be left as they lay jutted, stiff while the softened, smashed powder from them I'll keep in a medicine bag and mix it, as needed, with my blood stirred into a salve, a queen of healing I have been too long in the world. my thousand-times-broken heart repaired and repaired and repaired and re-paired I will wrap like the gift it is with the gold of Love while laughter falls from it salve regina c. 2017 Roberta Compton Rainwater

37

The door needs to be kicked in. No gentle open and whispered hello It needs become of splinters and dust. The glue of its joinery to shatter and crumble. The latch which would open smoothly With the simple request of a raised hand Needs to be driven shattering through wood Sending formal wooden trim embellishments flying. The myriad of small retaining nails will be extracted Reversing a collective hold they held resolutely, Pinned by hammer blows so long ago. That door needs to come down. To lower hinge will give way completely, Leaving some screws still biting desperately Into a fragment of the wooden frame. The hinge at eye level will twist apart from our blow One side remaining stuck in place on the frame The going with the door as it disintegrates. The pin that held it together in smooth harmony Soon will dangle pointless on half a binding hinge, Still now – the mechanism prised-apart. The door shall be destroyed. Our collective force irresistible – it will fragment. Once trees were felled and sawed into planks, Smoothed and shaped and joined in the build. Now we need to render it all into firewood. And where once stood a blank, heavy door There will be light and air flowing through. And the only hint of the barrier that was before, Will be a final clear, metallic note From the pin that finally falls Upon the smooth stone floor. A single note will ring out And lead into a song of freedom.

0

Nov 26, 2014

Nov 26, 2014 at 11:40 AM UTC

ottaross

It Must Fall

The door needs to be kicked in. No gentle open and whispered hello It needs become of splinters and dust. The glue of its joinery to shatter and crumble. The latch which would open smoothly With the simple request of a raised hand Needs to be driven shattering through wood Sending formal wooden trim embellishments flying. The myriad of small retaining nails will be extracted Reversing a collective hold they held resolutely, Pinned by hammer blows so long ago. That door needs to come down. To lower hinge will give way completely, Leaving some screws still biting desperately Into a fragment of the wooden frame. The hinge at eye level will twist apart from our blow One side remaining stuck in place on the frame The going with the door as it disintegrates. The pin that held it together in smooth harmony Soon will dangle pointless on half a binding hinge, Still now – the mechanism prised-apart. The door shall be destroyed. Our collective force irresistible – it will fragment. Once trees were felled and sawed into planks, Smoothed and shaped and joined in the build. Now we need to render it all into firewood. And where once stood a blank, heavy door There will be light and air flowing through. And the only hint of the barrier that was before, Will be a final clear, metallic note From the pin that finally falls Upon the smooth stone floor. A single note will ring out And lead into a song of freedom.

34

A groove Cut too Shallow A shoulder Too high Unsupported Raw layers Veneers Exposed Rocking Back And forth Till something Splinters And cracks No amount Of glue Will hold this Together Rabbet Rout Remove even More of The material Myself Repeat until The pieces Hold fast

0

Mar 4, 2016

Mar 4, 2016 at 9:04 PM UTC

john-reilly

Joinery

A groove Cut too Shallow A shoulder Too high Unsupported Raw layers Veneers Exposed Rocking Back And forth Till something Splinters And cracks No amount Of glue Will hold this Together Rabbet Rout Remove even More of The material Myself Repeat until The pieces Hold fast

28

He comes a trip trap tapping sometime rapping at my door, the labour party spokesman and he wants to tell me more, holding hands with the conservatives what gives? Is it love that's on the go? No, just another quite cute coupling on the latest manifesto.

0

Feb 1, 2015

Feb 1, 2015 at 11:43 AM UTC

john-edward-smallshaw

Invisible joinery

He comes a trip trap tapping sometime rapping at my door, the labour party spokesman and he wants to tell me more, holding hands with the conservatives what gives? Is it love that's on the go? No, just another quite cute coupling on the latest manifesto.

11

The Japanese have a method called Kintsugi, or golden joinery which is the art of repairing broken pottery with gold. She is a Russian doll, shedding her old self for a new one each time she looks in the mirror and hates what she sees. She is porcelain, cracking with every gesture, every comment, word, every snide remark. But that's the beauty of Russian dolls. Every time she shatters, a new her steps out timidly, squinting her eyes at the bright bathroom light, mesmerised by the yellow of it, wondering how she's never come across it in her dark chrysalis of abuse. How could something be so beautiful and guiding yet pierces her sight with every glance? The remnants of the old-her cuts her skin as she picks them up and pieces them together with pure gold acting as cement. A thin smile is plastered onto the dolls's newly-repaired face as it is picked up and placed onto a shelf with all its old selves and they are ready to comply.

0

Sep 2, 2019

Sep 2, 2019 at 11:24 AM UTC

myhatisstuck

she's just golden

The Japanese have a method called Kintsugi, or golden joinery which is the art of repairing broken pottery with gold. She is a Russian doll, shedding her old self for a new one each time she looks in the mirror and hates what she sees. She is porcelain, cracking with every gesture, every comment, word, every snide remark. But that's the beauty of Russian dolls. Every time she shatters, a new her steps out timidly, squinting her eyes at the bright bathroom light, mesmerised by the yellow of it, wondering how she's never come across it in her dark chrysalis of abuse. How could something be so beautiful and guiding yet pierces her sight with every glance? The remnants of the old-her cuts her skin as she picks them up and pieces them together with pure gold acting as cement. A thin smile is plastered onto the dolls's newly-repaired face as it is picked up and placed onto a shelf with all its old selves and they are ready to comply.

31