"sculpt" poems
Ah yes, the magic of human touch,
Trusting to warm my soul's skin
Tis nature of loves connection, as such.
My body accepts, oh if you only knew
Like an honored guest, I grin
Anticipating the pleasures, one of the few.
Skin to skin, our bodies converse.
Uninhabited, my mind wander
Deep inside, my craving thirsts.
Artful hands sculpt with purpose
Lulling layers open, you're quite the artist
Soothing caress melt my body formless
I'm yours, silently, I surrender.
As my flesh cries out for more
Arching waves of splendor
Rewarded my senses sated.
With newfound clarity reborn
Mind, body and spirit replenished.
I thank you for your gift of touch.
Lovingly, I would return the favor,
as such.
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 11:34 PM UTC
This isn't Rome
I'm standing still because of statutes
Stone grill: I a carved marble statue
not a muscle dares,
Near frozen by the fear,
let it go I hear
over shoulder: perfect pass
if I get shot over a penalty
Is it clear?
my arms are arms?
a load chopper; in his shades,
do those aviators make me even darker?
(if I studied aviation I could take off I can hover, I can…)
Wait.
he's moving closer,
every hair strand an antenna,
I can feel him,
The smell of disdain on his glare,
stained blood on his hands,
another brother,
my brother
Guiltier with every pace so
-- show your hands,
foot mixed with concrete
I take this order serious,
my motions are motive
and mistaken for resist,
Wait.
Is it his stare or am I ******
(Why did I decide to go my friends wouldn't believe this…)
limitations to the thoughts;
am I arrested or caught?
I'm cold on the surface,
Erode so slow is my sediment evidence,
A blue god so I'm pacified,
I'm hesitant,
he calls and I say that I'm innocent,
I'm witnessing
the transitioning from eruption to ocean
-- volcanic
Blue Medusa,
can you only sculpt destruction?
(I'm not 3 dimensional, I'm real and I matter, I'm real and I matter)
I'm real,
But I shatter,
Gravel if determined that I'm rude so I can't breath,
Gravel if My license plate removed I don't leave,
I don't speak,
I don't flee,
I'm not free,
I believe,
That this happen to my mothers, mother
mothers' brother,
Brother from another was granite
and granted he's valuable
but only in a home
-- of course
I'm quartz in the making
A corpse still shaking
Cause a wallet was mistaken
Or I.D. was misplaced
So, I'm on the rocks
since the bar says that I'm a criminal,
velvet rope divider marks my life
and a vigil,
a wake,
or a hashtag,
you choose,
glass house,
Cold Stone’s,
rocky road,
Medusa licks his finger tips
same finger which
petrified me in the first place,
Reminded I'm in Rome
as I'm standing there motionless
a statue for display
or a trophy for the kitchen,
this art is not for sale
there will be no shipping,
With solidarity
through our solidification,
It won't matter if I look back,
I Matter and I’m Black.
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 10:56 AM UTC
'Today, The Jay...'
I open my eyes to see its a new day.
Today, What's the day?
Is it Saturday or Sunday?
The only thing of which I'm certain
Is that its not a weekday.
So, What can I do today?
Without delay,
The first thing I do is get my tray
Light a blunt to take the pain away.
Inhale and exhale,
Through the passageways.
Chill. . . Then, light another, just because its today.
I'm still in bed, but it's already a good day.
I push the sheets and pillows out the way
Then I get up to empty last night's fluids away.
Then to the kitchen, wondering what I can eat today
What can I do, to keep the hunger at bay?
Maybe some rice and filet?
A little something to kickstart the day.
While the food preps, I go back to my tray.
I smile and giggle as I sculpt my one true love, the Jay
With me at any time, anywhere, in any form, on any day.
Even though I'm already high; 'Hooray'.
I still want another hit of the Jay
The Jay,
Hits, Without delay.
Stays,
When everyone goes away.
Fades,
All the pain away.
My worries, It allays.
My happiness, it brings to the fray.
Keeps my mind, from going astray.
Literally, takes my breath away.
Causes, no form of decay
Keeps me, from getting 'ire'
Doesn't negotiate, doesn't parlay.
Just good vibes, all the way.
The love of the Jay;
Isn't just a single foray.
Its a constant exchange,
Everyday.
It's a feeling, that once attained,
Nothing, will ever take its place.
And there goes the tale of my day,
Spent with my true love, the Jay.
Oct 27, 2018
Oct 27, 2018 at 11:26 AM UTC
Your atoms were once a part of the stars and maybe that explains your brown eyes and the shine inside them. The atoms that sculpt your body used to sculpt the ocean and maybe that explains the depths, hollows and dark corners of your mind I've yet gotten to discover. Maybe your rough edges are explained by the solely fact that the atoms forming who I'm deeply in love with were once rocks with gems inside them. It has been a privilege to fall for a beautiful, bright and amazing combination of Earth that is you.
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 8:45 PM UTC
“Have you written about me yet?” you asked.
“I write about things that make me sad, you’re not one of them.” was my response.
But even as you made me sad,
Even as my heart started to crumble.
I never could write about you.
I am a poet I string stars into constellations
And weave words into stanzas.
I need someone whose eyes can be twisted into metaphors
And the mere sound of their voice makes my hands tremble so gracefully
That I can make my magic with a pencil.
I was in love with all the poems I wished I could write about you.
How badly I wanted to sculpt you with sentences into something
Too beautiful to call mine.
But you are not a poem.
Yes, your eyes are quite a gorgeous blue,
And your arms are strong.
I’m sure you would make a beautiful painting,
An inspiration for someone else’s art.
But not mine.
You wanted to believe all of my broken pieces
could fit in a cardboard box.
That's what attics are for, to hide ugly things.
You're beauty was skin deep.
And thats how you wanted me.
I didn't want to be empty.
“Have you written about me yet?” you asked.
“I write about things that have meaning, you’re not one of them.” should have been my response.
Jul 1, 2016
Jul 1, 2016 at 11:14 PM UTC
They will tell you there is a right way.
They will hand you a torch and call it the sun.
They will roll their words in raw linen and whisper:
"This is what poetry is meant to be."
And you will nod.
Because they have made it so that not nodding feels like blasphemy.
But listen—
the ink does not check your credentials.
The meter does not ask if your suffering is organic.
A line does not collapse because it was crafted instead of bled.
They will tell you a poem must be naked, barefoot, aching—
as if there is no beauty in a well-cut suit.
They will decry the temple and build a pulpit in its ruins,
preaching freedom in a voice that allows no dissent.
Good poets are cult leaders,
and the first rule of the cult
is that they are not one.
So write the sonnet, carve the sestina,
sculpt the page in iambic steel.
Or break it, shatter it, scatter its bones—
but let no one call your wreckage untrue.
And if they do,
smile.
Because poetry does not kneel to priests.
Feb 18, 2025
Feb 18, 2025 at 2:11 AM UTC
A bridge from colloquial to courtly fare
A span where idealism and fantasy pair
A railway to the existential realm; celestial lair
A conduit through which rational discourse can flare
Deep medium to: forage, inculcate, and inform
Broad brush to paint rare beauty; sculpt surrealistic form
Incisive scalpel to surgically alter the societal norm
Delicate utensil to educate on civility and decorum
A literary ***** a prosaic construct
A mechanism our syntax to deconstruct
An analytical tool; an observational viaduct
Introspective milieu to reduct; extrovertive sphere to reconstruct
A semantical edifice that aspiring wit, lofty orations implore
An experimental structure gramatical anomalies to explore
A thematic repository in which concrete ideas, abstract notions to
pour
A vernacular cathedral butressed by an idiomatic core
Jul 25, 2012
Jul 25, 2012 at 6:37 PM UTC
Art will come and go
And grow and be bold or ugly
It will transform lives, sculpt beauty
It will capture phenomenal imagination
Lead to new places or people
Change an entire perspective
Open a closed mind,
Expand an eager mind
Art is in us all
So ladies, if the man you seek
Is unapologetic in his art
Be open to all his personalities
Help cultivate the many characters
That he may have shown you
Don't hold them under water
And fellas, be men, be gentlemen
If your woman you hold true
Has bigger wings than your ****
Don't be weary, become nurturing
A woman's fire should burn and burn
Women who are creating art is better
Than the story of creation itself
We owe it to each other to let art live
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 11:17 AM UTC
His home is an orphanage
in downtown Belize.
Triple-decker bunk beds
topped with ***** stained mattresses
fill each room.
An abandoned 10 year old
lies paralyzed on the floor;
"Don't touch him. Nobody ever touches him."
A small child covered in sores
sleeps in a puddle of his own *****
I offer a container of pink Play-dough to a boy
who proceeds to sculpt me
changing the pink to brown
with his ***** hands.
When he is done,
it is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
"What is your name?"
"I'm Allen"
He tells me about his dreams of leaving Belize
and becoming a U.S. soldier.
He tells me of how his mother,
a **** addict,
dropped him off at the doorstep when he was 8 years old
and how he remembers
the look of fear and disappointment in her eyes
every time she looked at him
and saw his father.
His favorite color is blue.
Together, we make bracelets with colorful beads,
and as I stand to leave
he hands me a pinkish-brown heart
warm and sweaty
from his ***** hands.
And in return
I hand Allen,
and every child like him,
my own heart
red and ******
dedicated and passionate,
foolishly and hopefully attempting
to change the world.
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 5:05 AM UTC
***Hear ye!
Hear ye!***
Oh how I love concrete poetry!
Itching to write and sculpt and mould.
Twiddle my thumbs as I thought to myself silently.
Reckon I'd render my musings in italics and in bold!
***Hear ye!
Hear ye!***
30 days of concrete, wouldn't you fancy?!
These poems, they come in various shapes.
Would you consider them "poetic eye candy"?
If I fashioned poems to look like grapes!
***Hear ye!
Hear ye!***
Awashed with excitement!
I can't wait to share!
Fantastical, delicious and ultimately succulent!
A wonderful spread of such wordy fare!
***Hear ye!
Hear ye!***
When is this... GREAT BIG AFFAIR?
On the morrow, I'll dish out the first serving!
Do tune in if you so do care...
30 days of concrete! The shape fest is beginning!
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 9:30 AM UTC
Born a King
Born a Queen
Born a Slave
Born into freedom only to be
Caged
Shackled bound confined
Scared
Caged
Far from the Motherland
A people
Made sculpt molded
In her image
Brown earth
Yellow sun
Mahogany dark
Like the stone unyielding
Proud like the Kilimanjaro
Minds open like the plains
Of the Serengeti
Free
Only to be brought here
Caged
Used abused overwhelmed exhausted
Caged
Thrown away when aged like broken toys
Broken minds broken spirits afraid of our own image
Caged
Here we stand today with all the technology the worlds knowledge at our fingertips
Caged
Brothers’ sisters’ fathers sons’ mothers’ daughters’ families ripped apart
Torn at the seams no village to be seen
Caged
We are at war with violence ignorance rage
A horrible legacy indeed ……Caged
Our once proud people afraid to face the future
We are creating to our shame the same source of fear ignorance and rage
In our most valuable assets our jewels our destiny
Our children
Our vision
In our cage we destroy each other
We are racist in our own race
We defame denounce deplore each other
Are we comfortable complacent satisfied in our cage?
Our history tell us no our descendents tell us we shouldn’t be
They say to us we have no limits boundaries restrictions
They found the keys to the cage
They urge us they encourage us they push us in the direction of the stars
Come out of your comfort zones
Embrace hold tight pull it in
The spirits of Our Kings Our Queens Our history
Teach if you can learn
Learn if you can teach
Open minds hearts souls
Receive your freedom
Unlock the
Cage.
Free! Liberate! Unshackle!
Black history is not a month it’s your life.
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 4:26 PM UTC
His home is an orphanage
in downtown Belize.
Triple-decker bunk beds
topped with ***** stained mattresses
fill each room.
An abandoned 10 year old
lies paralyzed on the floor;
"Don't touch him. Nobody ever touches him."
A small child covered in sores
sleeps in a puddle of his own *****
I offer a container of pink Play-dough to a boy
who proceeds to sculpt me
changing the pink to brown
with his ***** hands.
"What is your name?"
"I'm Allen"
He tells me about his dreams of leaving Belize
and becoming a U.S. soldier.
He tells me of how his mother,
a **** addict,
dropped him off at the doorstep when he was 8 years old
and how he remembers
the look of fear and disappointment in her eyes
every time she looked at him
and saw his father looking back.
His favorite color is blue.
Together, we make bracelets with colorful beads,
and as I stand to leave
he hands me a pinkish-brown heart
warm and sweaty
from his ***** hands.
And in return
I hand Allen,
and every child like him,
my own heart
red and ******
dedicated and passionate,
foolishly and hopefully attempting
to change the world.
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 3:51 PM UTC
I want to say sorry
but there are no words
that carve out my apology
without chiseling at wood
set for the fire in hell
I sculpt with tired eyes
my need for your forgiveness
Sep 17, 2021
Sep 17, 2021 at 8:06 AM UTC
Building up the strength within
In order to do whats right.
Not thinking of the consequences
To sculpt a better life.
Walk up to her and proudly tell
The way she makes you feel.
Waiting for the answer will be the hardest part
But it will set you free and let you make a new start.
If the answer is goo its a joyful day
Where no one can conceal your happiness.
But if its bad you can always say
I had the courage to admit my it.
Jul 29, 2010
Jul 29, 2010 at 5:32 AM UTC
She is seventeen
She heard his wish - the boy who wished upon her at the balcony. She heard his worries. About how he is worried of not passing his examination, about the way his parents treat him and about the way his heart never settles since the day he left his significant other.
"Was it my fault?"
He asked as he buried his head in his palms and stare at the falling stars on that one lucky night. A moment there he felt like the star answered him. A moment there he felt the star is looking at him in hopes he feels the magical feeling she is feeling now that she is seventeen. The magical feeling she felt and how she is too naive that she fell at first sight on the boy who told him his worries. She fell to the earth of her feelings.
She is seventeen.
Was it really hope? Did she really fell in love with hope? Or was it still the boy on that balcony? She felt the presence of faith and she knew faith was always right. By the time she really fell head over heels on hope, faith brought a friend.
Trust.
Was she strong enough to trust?
Was she strong enough to have faith in her hopes.
Yet she still has hopes on waking up the next day with faith by her side and trust in her heart.
So, how does it feels to really felt right?
How does it feels to have the feelings at the right places?
She is seventeen.
"Do I really want to stay like this forever?" She asked herself.
To have no worries and be a child at heart and out. To escape the reality when she really need reality to escape the magical feelings.
Did she really took Peterpan's hand and flew to Neverland and never came back?
Did the sleeping pills worked?
When the clock strikes 6, and the morning came, her mom at her door knocks on thrice.
"Jane, wake up." With a voice as soft as the feelings of her comforters that surrounds her body.
"In a minute."
She took his hand and flew to Neverland but once she saw the mermaids in Mermaid Lagoon, she swam and fell in love with water. She sat on a rock and hold Peter's hand and again she felt those magical feelings again. She kissed Peter's cheek and told him,
"I need to escape this magical feelings."
And so she woke up on her bed.
She is seventeen.
Forgiving was hard.
Forgetting was harder.
Yet, those words seems so easy for her now.
The magical feelings that has long gone, made it harder.
She swam through life and sometimes she would choke on the water and stop. But she knows the ocean is big and she never stopped swimming. She met the dolphins and fishes, she even met a few big waves. But she knows there will be a boat right behind her to save her when she's drowning.
Sometimes she felt it is stupid for her to not sculpt her life before doing anything but she loves the water ever since the Mermaid Lagoon so she continues what she loves. Sometimes she feels someone looking upon her like the boy at the balcony who told her his worries. She felt the pixie dust who tried to help her bit by bit; trying to let her fly and skip the horrendous waves.
Sometimes she used it
Sometimes she told him no and she swam again.
She is seventeen.
Yet she danced on Jupiter, hopped on the rings of Saturn, fell in love at first sight, went to Neverland, met the mermaids, her first love was someone who never want to grow up, and she swam the oceans. Was she still a beautiful aurora?
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 11:49 PM UTC
Of immaterial vision birthed in mind.
Of spirit annihilating the selves,
of calling it plan. The one-
a semblance scattered on deck space
refracts on reflections of the reactions of tokens
of the carnivalesque,
of the hunger artists,
of phenomenon-
which may or may not exist depending on reflective surface of the true self,
of the motion of tides,
mocks motion in body,
of obsession.
The tonality of the "be" and the "is" and the "will be" is deafened by the "I am,"
by the Ohm.
Of shuddering and implanting embraces,
of blessing on every ember of cleanliness that is true self,
of the oneself that exists above selective memory,
not draft of time arrow but the material existence of dream,
not disembodied but embodied.
Of breeding,
of circumstance and forking fourth dimension prison terms,
of crowd control,
of she wolves and their feral children,
of forceps interpolating material reality of conception,
of Dreamtime,
of pain,
of pleasure,
where they are relations-
of skin perversely hanging, dually,
gratifying and sullying-
Fraying beautiful disasters that react to invisible ripples
I, the oneself, implore you to awaken in your utility and then outside of it.
Take those boot straps and bend the bars of confinement with them.
Chisel and sculpt light into a fabrication of quantum of action.
Celebrate the ordinary and expose it.
Of stargazed caustics,
of the early universe.
I stand awake as not the expression of design
and no longer connected to Earth by my roots
but awake inside cocoon,
entrapped behind slits,
of alien cage otherness.
The Akh beseeches ownership of the Ba
I want play dice with god and end in draw.
I am Sekhmet-Wadjet who dwells in the west of heaven,
I am Sahyt among the souls of Of.
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 1:29 AM UTC
I
I am in Cardiff
Where foams pummel the jetty
I am in Cardiff
Where crab skeletons blanch the beach
I am in Cardiff
Where the Pilot Star became a conch
I was in the ruse of age
Where the young kiss
I was in Joshua Tree
Where the mind is thoughtless
I am a grove's wilting
I will be an unbearable urge
And I am shivering in Santa Ana near Bristol and 1st
II
There is intent when the addict mutters --
Estranged in his unhappy gutters --
"Life is cheap and love is free."
Hopelessness's epitome
Sits naked beyond the wall.
There is derision in the dealer's call --
Osmium-heat in an unimpeded fall --
"You can't change who you are."
Greed could tear down a star
To sculpt into a Cardiff shell.
Warrant breeds within a child's yell.
III
I am in Cardiff
Where foams pummel the jetty
I am in Cardiff
Where crab skeletons blanch the beach
I am in Cardiff
Where the Pilot Star became a conch
I was in the ruse of age
Where the young kiss
I was in Joshua Tree
Where the mind is thoughtless
I am a grove's wilting
I will be an unbearable urge
And I am shivering in Santa Ana near Bristol and 1st
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 1:44 AM UTC
I see you everywhere but beside me,
the one place that I need you the most.
I don’t know if you’ve just felt like hiding,
but it feels like I’m being stalked by a ghost.
I think of my life consisting of just time biding,
with parasitic emptiness and I’m the host.
This hits me like waves I am meant to be riding,
and it follows me persistently from coast to coast.
The grass didn’t seem so green back then
I guess all that constant rain did pay off,
‘cause now this little future’s just a casual friend,
and my god looking back the past was soft.
It’s not like I always want to be drenched in sorrow,
I find I look much better in brown, blue or grey,
you know I’d trade in every tomorrow
for just one more yesterday.
I hear every voice but yours in my ears,
the deafening noise has made me forget that sound,
since I’ve heard that sweet melody it’s been too many years,
and every other pitch makes my static brain pound.
I’m always biting my lip but now I’m fighting tears,
I shake my head side to side and around.
I’m quickly losing stamina from battling my fears
and now looking forward to my hole in the ground.
The skies never seemed clear and blue back then,
it turns out that I was the creator of each cloud,
I’m hoarding past calendars so that I can pretend
that I’m back in time and making everyone else proud.
If you’ve got a hour or two that I can borrow,
I swear I’m good for it and whatever price; I’ll pay,
‘cause you know I’d trade in every tomorrow
for just one more yesterday.
I feel you all over, laced in everything,
if it wasn’t such a curse, it’d be a gift.
You’re the peace in winter and the hope in spring,
you’re the summer sun and autumn’s winds so swift.
I’m relieving every memory, looking for a place to cling,
I remember all of the details but the clarity is now adrift.
Side to side, back and forth, I constantly swing,
it pulls and drags me down but it can also give the highest lift.
The sun never seemed to shine right back then,
but maybe I was just too busy looking for artificial light.
I was never one for second looks but I should’ve searched again,
because everything I wanted was already in my sight.
So I plant a seed hoping it will eventually grow
and I sculpt all I wish for with clay,
‘cause you know I’d trade in every tomorrow
for just one more yesterday.
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 1:58 PM UTC
I know why Vincent Van Gogh Cut off his own ear
We are a mad bunch, you see
Poets and painters and playwrights
On the prowl for something to
jump start our perpetual yearnings,
our keen senses and cravings,
on the quest for so much more
than the status quo,
of merely checking off just another day
from our calendars
We are those kinds of people
Who wish to reinvent the world
Often cursing at our failings and insecurites
While obsessively working to shape and sculpt
our view of this planet
To fit our own brand of imagination
To satisfy our starving hopes
and desperate dreams
To foster vivid visions
from the views that are vague
And to wipe away
The nightmares of old
that cry out in us
We believe in make-believe
We who are misfits to "normalcy"
We rarely seem to fit into
The "real world"
Yet we know that this world is
Pure insanity
Stark madness
Sheer perplexion
Yet we are the ones
suffering for the sake
of our art
Often misunderstood
Many times branded as "weirdos"
I can understand the pain
Of not getting my art right
Of not seeing its worth
Because someone sniffed at it
Or scoffed at it
Or blindly passed it by
Many times, we want to break through
And join the world of our works of art
But we can't
We're stuck in the middle of its beauty
And nothingness
Yes
I know why Vincent Van Gogh cut off his own ear
Sep 29, 2011
Sep 29, 2011 at 8:04 PM UTC
________________________
I have a knife
It can sculpt death
Can slash a pulse
Can slit a neck
I have a knife
It can score an anger
Can bring life a real danger
Can cause cursed that stays forever
I have a knife
It can curve peace
Can tear an anger
Can split a fear
I have a knife
It can draw love
Can mark caress in the blood
Can blade hate into a hug
I have a knife
It has an eraser
It can write an emotion to feel
For my knife .... was a pencil...
Written: August 2, 2014 @ 9:00 am
Mysterious Aries
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 6:17 AM UTC
did love sculpt me
into twisted form
she the storm
blasting away bark
to reveal form
or
expectations extreme
beyond the norm
causing the storm?
Jul 18, 2012
Jul 18, 2012 at 11:32 PM UTC
they have my heart in a chokehold.
their rough hands mold it into shape
while I am in a deep, deep slumber.
my eyes are greeted by the sun.
the white-hot pain in my chest
knocks the wind out of me.
when silence is thick, I sculpt my heart
back into its lovely, imperfect shape,
and I let it lead the way forward.
Feb 18, 2022
Feb 18, 2022 at 9:12 PM UTC