"pottered" poems
I set a paper rocket flyin', and it hurtled into space
breaking off gravity - all the way to Mars orbity!
Now everyone's surprised, coz a mere paper rag
flew up high and reached that rarefied lile where
only the costliest of junkets lounge leisurely by.
They said you're stupid, you got a paper twit to beg
and you've wampered even that away: how dares
a hungry haggard send missives down the skies?
I stand staring, starry eyed. This is an old squint,
that I got learning to look the other way as
my brothers starved and pottered on the streets
when cotton and coal funneled to Manchester leets.
But last heard, papa John's makin' paper boats
to swim by them snooty stars and there's a scramble
at my yards to get some ******* to the Moon.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 12:41 PM UTC
I plan on using your shaving mug.
a plan not worth telling
unless you knew of
the many howling adolescent evenings
I spent
jabbing my fingers in the snout
to touch your leftover hair.
It was stuck,
preserved with ancient soap,
cleansed of life, of pigment.
I wanted to touch the filament
that once burnt you
into being.
Yourself entombed
in pottered clay, soft beige
monument. The hands that once
shaped it, like yours;
they tend to me, bring me shape
in a formless world.
The same shoots grow here;
on my crown and over the temples.
I worship your concept,
myself a replication - thin haired
and inadequate. Less loved, more turbulent,
with naught left but life.
It's less than what you have;
idealised memory, a shrine of compliments,
a spotless life of saviour and sin.
How I love you, oh privation,
How I miss you,
dear Father.
now is the time though,
to clear my reflection.
now is the time
to wash you out.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 10:48 AM UTC
Gone be yon melted summer's day
Whilst shrouded in robes of sorrow
That never quill of a bard can portray
Nor years unborn may ever know
When a fair maiden pottered my way,
Gently as drops of descending snow.
Her eyes fairer than burnished gold
Illuminated the vast shadowy night,
Ebony hair upon her seraphic body rolled
With a diadem of reddest roses bedight
That swifter than a gallant knight so bold,
I plunged to Elysium at such a sight.
For she bore beauty of a silvery moon
In lone splendor upon heavens bay,
The pulchritude of sun beams by noon
Against the sea on a fine blazing day.
Now that love casted her novelty boon,
Timidly I gravitated towards her way
And in fables faintly whispered unto her:
"Little maiden, little maiden, little maiden,
O queen fairer than chalcedonic luster;
Are flowers of yonder golden Aidenn
More fair and redolent than thou are?"
This did gladden - I strayed in a garden;
Her garden of ethereal pulchritude
Where no mortal ever walked through
And now doth hearts gambol with glee
'Neath elm leaves bedight with stars above
That the beauty queen calls it balm of Gilead
To visit her garden - a garden of love.
©Kikodinho Edward Alexandros,
Los Angels, California, USA
12th/09/2018
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 5:26 AM UTC
Six assorted buzzards and kites
claimed this sky today,
their joyed metallic calls proclaimed above me
while I pottered slightly mournfully below
in a fecund but disappointing garden
From their strident majesty
I should take inspiration
and bend the land to match their empire
I got as far as picking some crisp packets
out of a hedge
Mar 21, 2021
Mar 21, 2021 at 7:47 AM UTC
Beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder?
For I was torn between the wondrous musing
And the unfaithful, the treacherous verity.
Dad said that it lies in the wit and the wisdom,
Mom believed it to be synonymous with serenity!
I roved in reverie, pottered with presumptions;
What is beauty? From where does it emanate?
But may be, there was no oasis to my quest.
The answer breezed in and out, gusted here and there;
To catch hold of it was a big, big test!
Was it the reflection in the mirror?
The unbearable, the ill-favoured, it couldn't be.
The face that lacked glow, the face sans any sheens,
It longed for glory, for eminence.
I sighed; for was beauty the boulevard to my dreams?
There are the gifts of botany lacking blossoms,
And scads of scars blotching the moon.
But never could they blotch my view:
Splendor couldn't stop itself descending upon my eyes!
Even in murk, even in dim, I could descry hue.
'Twas in my eyes, they could life the lifeless
Like a shore serenading a cove or
The Ocean constantly kissing the shoreline.
These epitomised allure, incarnated love.
For me, it was an emotion 'divine'!
I realised: Not in the skinny legs and the fair hands
It is found in the vivacity of spirits.
Neither in the mascara nor in the mole;
Beauty has never found it's way through these,
It resides in the heart, in the soul.
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 12:10 AM UTC