"kilns" poems
Worn glass vase on window sill
Thin yet steady
Tall and still
Empty, no substance within its seams
I wonder dear vase, does the emptiness make you scream?
Does it bother you, vase, that you have nothing inside?
No emotion, no flowers, with nothing to be eyed?
I understand dear vase, you have been through much
Through firey kilns and rugged hands touch
Perhaps if I had been through that, it would be my preference too
It is easier, vase, to remain empty and untrue
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 12:42 AM UTC
Tuesday's wallet brandished its spoils
National Express to Stoke again
to partake in oatcakes and
dreams of smoking Embassy No 6 ****
as tall as bottle kilns.
On Wednesday we will meander
to Trentham Gardens
next to Monkey's World
for a roll of cheese and pickle,
washed down with English Breakfast Tea
and later by the canal's edge
unearth some seasonal pottery.
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 4:54 PM UTC
Unfinished
Emptiness a question enrobed in nothingness stillness cries across the void in its intolerable
State you stand the will wilts the eyes portray defeat and sorrow a searching longing is plainly evident
This powerful demanding current must be appeased chaos screams the idle continues his dreams
Faltering movements are all that is known a stationary seizure pervades the deadliest image an old
Amusement park dead and deserted a mocking sign proclaims thrills inside the torment rushes like
A stampeded herd it threatens sure death your own plaintive dead voice is heard in this arena of
Dispirited dashed hopes a mauling traumatized and once energetic hope filled spirit that trouble
Assailed Then fell back and then with the genius touch as you reeled it simply fell away your steps to
Recover Also ceased with the careless and deadliest words of all what is the point this has become your
Standard if titled in great black letters it would read lackluster lying in the dirt whipped defeated
Disgusted exiled in oblivions nowhere hope has had the first letter changed to D yes Dope in capital
Letters little do you Realize this is the very act of reconstruction the best military force in the world
Engages in this kind of training someone who has potential is the tried and true diamond in the rough a
Superior force is needed take the outward restraints off by reducing the individual to his base when you
Have destroyed the unfavorable elements then begin the renewing process that is clean and absent of
Impurities build with tried and true methods that produce heroes from fired kilns the blaze flared and a
New form emerges pure as refined brass but the man or woman is steeled into purity and honor and is
Made ready to pass into combats immortal glory whether it be military, business, or sacred duty of the
Church know this before just a nameless conflicted person little thought of will do exploits he will put
New building Blocks in societies ever increasing wall and maybe ultimately he will fulfill the words of
Jefferson and by blood sacrifice his patriotism will cause the tree of liberty to flourish because the call to
Fight for peace is never finished
Jan 29, 2012
Jan 29, 2012 at 6:19 PM UTC
Blue and blonde
Blonde and blue-eyed baby
A hair full of bliss- Blonde
And head and heart learning their ways in the race- Blue
Innocence
Jewish possessions in ruins
Camps with poisonous flames
And burning hands
Burning in
Brick kilns meant for glass
Prurient Anti-Semitists dancing to their tune
Wie spaß
Oct 23, 2018
Oct 23, 2018 at 10:43 PM UTC
She’d lived alone since her husband left
Just after the fall of Rome,
Deep in the forest she’d kept herself
In the tangle of trees called home.
He’d left with one of the Legions, they
Recalled to defend the State,
Leaving Britain with Roman roads
And her people, left to their fate.
Aeronwy came from a Druid clan
From a mixture of kings and gods,
She’d never age in the forest glade
Where she lived with her hunting dogs.
She lived on berries and lived on fruits
And the **** that the dogs brought in,
But knew she never must see herself
Reflected in any spring.
‘For if you do,’ said a holy man
‘You will see that the years are fraught,
Your spells and philtres won’t help you then,
You’ll lose what the ancients taught.
The years will tumble over your breast
In a wave, and take your breath,
As long as you live in this vale of trees
You will be immune to death.’
She wept for the loss of her husband then
For he never came back home,
She didn’t know he’d been taken off
With his Legion, back to Rome.
They’d met when a hunting party came
To slaughter her Druid clan,
But she was spared, for her beauty there
Would entrance most any man.
He’d stayed with her in the forest glade
For a month of making love,
She prayed that he’d never leave her, in
A plea to the gods above,
She little knew of the world out there
Of the waning Roman’s might,
And so she wallowed in bitter tears
In her loneliness, each night.
Her time was not as the time for us,
Her minute was like our day,
The years would fly in her restless nights
As she dreamed her life away.
But she woke as fresh and as beautiful
As she’d been the night before,
While scores of agues and deadly plagues
Swept on, in a world at war.
The forest began to shrink as men
Fed wood to their kilns and fires,
What once had been a forest became
A wood, in the sight of spires,
She heard the clang of hammers on steel
At the factories rise and rise,
And soon her trees were surrounded by
New roads, and telephone wires.
Then men came into her forest glade
While cutting a new canal,
She hid in the corner, in the shade
As her trees began to fall.
One day she woke and the cut was there
With a little hump-backed bridge,
She mounted slowly, up to the top
And balanced over the edge.
She gazed down into the water that
Was still as a mirror’s sheen,
And saw the face that began to race
Through the thousand years she’d seen.
Her hair flew wide, and before she died
She muttered a weary moan,
‘I’d be content if it only meant
That my husband came back home!’
David Lewis Paget
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 6:08 PM UTC
Desperate
cry! The Sapiens
climb out of molded
couch cushions,
fake forms of
human clay flesh burnt
by kilns and flaming
flash fiction.
Electric!
Eel-slippery, fat
fingers plug socks on
hide arches,
Yellow Ems ™
where stems meet ground and
grease the pure dirt with
perspiration.
Be, oh! BE! –
please? Be ‘fore the tail
forks its tip against
fine china,
‘fore the lungs,
with their breath, blacken
all that’s left of Gran’s
good silver.
“Gold though!” – sweet
leaf tea that glides smooth
down dry throats and helps
soothe, herbal
chamomile
confection that calls
the tailor in for
noose and suit.
“Spades!” I say –
so we dress for death,
not life; we mold and
rot in ‘tumes.
Give me my
birthday garb, unstarched,
wrinkled on its frame –
dusty then,
I will be happy then.
Jul 3, 2010
Jul 3, 2010 at 10:33 PM UTC
The moonlight,silvery,garnishing the sand
and
I
working at the lime pit
hands caked white,
a negative in a night of negatives and
wondering about the
what if's and if I might
flow,
like the lime in the kilns flow,
hot and steam through a tropical dream.
Breakfast,
an ordeal of a meal when my
mind
already full
can take no more.
I want to be under the moonlight
on the silvery sand
on a tropical shore.
Is that
too much to ask?
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 4:38 AM UTC
Amphorae, beautifully crafted,
Delicate, exquisite, fire-glazed,
Heated in jumbo kilns,
Lovely molded necks,
Opaque pigments,
Quartzite residue-
Symbolic, timeless, utilitarian
Valued- with xanthic yellow zirconium
Oct 23, 2019
Oct 23, 2019 at 7:26 PM UTC
What did you see in those birds that
made you want to travel the world?
Was it the way their wings let them
leave for wherever they wanted?
Because you did just that, you left
after school and traveled the world,
capturing the beauty of the wild in
still-framed glory, meeting the love
of your life, studying the kilns of the
artistic gods where silicon, chlorine,
sulfur, and iron ran red like the blood
in your veins and as hot as the passion
in your heart. You lived as a child of
the forges of the earth.
Apr 25, 2012
Apr 25, 2012 at 4:54 PM UTC
There are fingerprints burned
into these kilns, leather hands
held waists of women
with wide hips, who gave
birth to gaunt-faced children;
now, the bricks lay across
America’s streets,
forgotten.
Jan 5, 2017
Jan 5, 2017 at 7:05 AM UTC
Bows & Arrows
Kilns & Blow Torches
Fabrics & Patterns
Bead & Bobbles
Costumes & Wigs
Books & Important Papers
Pictures of the Kids
Things I have packed up
Things that can wait
I am moving On
You are Not my Pending Fate
Bring Me More Boxes
Keep Working Late
I am still packing
As this cannot wait
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 7:42 PM UTC
I've lived loyal lies,
And since moving,
They're in storeage,
Under lock.
I've forgotten where,
But if revealed,
I'm not fearful of discovery.
Should someone assemble
My dissemblings,
Parse the pieces
And make a small announcement,
I'd agree.
I chose lies for themes;
Well-motivated intentions,
Yet carefully selected words
To hurt.
Demons bang on firewalls
With lost love.
I am aging in oaken barrels
Bound with rings,
Dried in kilns,
Soaked as silk yarn
And bowed with
Honest lies.
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 1:19 PM UTC
Take the light away,
take your rites of passage through the day
and tell me what you see.
The shining of the tear filled eyes dabbed
dry with tissues full of lies.
The enameling of state, where in kilns the poor can wait
in poverty.
The clamouring aboard the trains to get to offices and
workmens brains were not so used as the more abused that
they became.
Pay for pain and pain for pay it's just the darkness when
you take the light away.
There's darkness all around me,put on the lights so I can see
or let me be.
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 7:08 AM UTC
On our terms, through our eyes,
For us to realise
The gorilla on camera,
Signalling and signing the scripted message, knows not what she speaks,
But anticipates the treats.
We see not the eyes, if the tongue is not in our ears.
As a result, they let loose their
scythes
on the wide-eyed plants in Oz before the 1960s.
They believed the pottery were their own lost property,
Until they realised the kilns were the same in Bechuanaland.
Someday, such museum specimens, can be translated.
Allowing our selfish eyes,
To X-ray through such veils.
I would never wish it on anyone,
But I ache to see through your eyes
The person who smiles
In the age of the internet’s pythonesque wonderland,
Seeing the joke of the world, but remaining in hysterics.
In the corner of the class,
I get hints of this friends other side,
An impossible voyage for all foreigners there.
To see tinted in such pain
Just to try and understand,
To somehow
help.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 8:14 AM UTC
The tyrant built his tower tall,
set straight to work a-cutting through
the golden threads that join us all
to hoard them in his mental zoo.
Its bricks were baked of stolen clay
in his kleptocratic kilns’ cracked moulds.
Their stench of sulfurous yellow stays
as mockery of our cords of gold.
He covets the gleaming ties we share
to gild the cavern in his tower.
The pit that’s fed with his charm’s snares
cannot be sated with this gold of ours.
His true name is as it ever stayed,
be it Xerxes, or Julius, or Wilhelm, or Don,
this ******* hybrid of hubris and hate,
who feeds on sycophantic fawns.
But despots have their own red thread,
a truth of iron wrought long before:
Each one will end encased in lead,
entombed beneath time’s deepening ****
The tower topples, his memory fades.
He takes his place with Hades’ shades.
Nov 12, 2024
Nov 12, 2024 at 9:20 AM UTC
it is a long time since the sun shone in long and low like that. does this mean it is spring soon?
i did not know you, yet when i saw that you were gone too, i felt sadly.
i stood and looked at the blackthorn trees.
black bird sings early, the same bird calls late . drown darkness.
&
small things shelter. there is much to research, decide to believe or not.
there are so many stories, re-enacted with a hyphen. there are watermarks left.
the lime kilns are empty now, yet the mass remains, the wonder at the shape. ( spring
will.)
sbm.
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 12:40 AM UTC