"sculptured" poems
In love they wore themselves in a green embrace.
A silken rain fell through the spring upon them.
In the park she fed the swans and he
whittled nervously with his strange hands.
And white was mixed with all their colours
as if they drew it from the flowering trees.
At night his two finger whistle brought her down
the waterfall stairs to his shy smile
which like an eddy, turned her round and round
lazily and slowly so her will
was nowhere—as in dreams things are and aren't.
Walking along avenues in the dark
street lamps sang like sopranos in their heads
with a voilence they never understood
and all their movements when they were together
had no conclusion.
Only leaning into the question had they motion;
after they parted were savage and swift as gulls.
asking and asking the hostile emptiness
they were as sharp as partly sculptured stone
and all who watched, forgetting, were amazed
to see them form and fade before their eyes.
19.9k
Her sculptured body
Strong thighs
Under a canopy
of Branches
She's comes alive
With her Ballerina pose
She Reaches out
For the night sky
While she dances
In union
with the breeze
The beautiful Ballerina tree.
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 7:41 AM UTC
*as winter acquiesces to the blazing sun
a soothing breeze softly grazes tips of aspen
gently shedding past liaisons
a perfect panacea
allowing wild freedom for summer’s dawn
healing from the ominous night
a flower gingerly releases its grasp
leaning into golden rays of summertime
keenly aware of newfound vulnerability
it yawns into the light
a rousing essence induces
a silhouette of life once thought lost
prodding river’s rigid ice blue crystals
to melt and flow with buoyant wonder
kaleidoscopic-like waves
having weathered near annihilation
a sculptured consciousness remains
painting summer clouds with soft-hued wisdom
all awakens from the dream
and should the cold return once more
the sun will shine again
©2016janetaylor
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 3:23 AM UTC
Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
In a strange city lying alone
Far down within the dim West,
Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best
Have gone to their eternal rest.
There shrines and palaces and towers
(Time-eaten towers and tremble not!)
Resemble nothing that is ours.
Around, by lifting winds forgot,
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
No rays from the holy Heaven come down
On the long night-time of that town;
But light from out the lurid sea
Streams up the turrets silently—
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free—
Up domes—up spires—up kingly halls—
Up fanes—up Babylon-like walls—
Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers—
Up many and many a marvellous shrine
Whose wreathed friezes intertwine
The viol, the violet, and the vine.
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
So blend the turrets and shadows there
That all seem pendulous in air,
While from a proud tower in the town
Death looks gigantically down.
There open fanes and gaping graves
Yawn level with the luminous waves;
But not the riches there that lie
In each idol’s diamond eye—
Not the gaily-jewelled dead
Tempt the waters from their bed;
For no ripples curl, alas!
Along that wilderness of glass—
No swellings tell that winds may be
Upon some far-off happier sea—
No heavings hint that winds have been
On seas less hideously serene.
But lo, a stir is in the air!
The wave—there is a movement there!
As if the towers had ****** aside,
In slightly sinking, the dull tide—
As if their tops had feebly given
A void within the filmy Heaven.
The waves have now a redder glow—
The hours are breathing faint and low—
And when, amid no earthly moans,
Down, down that town shall settle hence,
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
Shall do it reverence.
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In this fRaGmEnTeD cage,I hear checkpoint moans;
anticipating our prone-positioned
brothers and sisters held
Prone positions against walls
Prone positions against fences
Prone positions against vehicles
Prone positions against buildings
Prone positions against prone positions
Slam-whacked, bloodied, occupied
like our great nation; like our souls
I remember a prophet's call, " love your neighbor
as yourself "
I hear Palestine weeping from Jenin
to Hebron, from Jerico to Gaza seized
I hear lamentations about blood tales
I see only FrAgMeNtS of our land
I see FrAgMeNtS of our proud people
Lo and behold my Palestine quakes as an earth quake
Doves scatter skyward as a prophetic omen
Blue skies and Sun momentarily claim victory
Then inhumanity's ugly face:
America to its Indians, America to its blacks,
America to women, America to its gays,
America to Mexicans,
America to South and Central America,
America once to Southeast Asia,
America to Islam, America with its war crimes,
America and Israel both innocence died
So, we pray Koran's verses upon our prayer rugs
We gesture all hope
The apartheid surrounds us
The dead talk to us
The smoke surrounds us
Perhaps better days we say
Entwined with bizarre everydayness
we accept sleep with fits
Fits without food;
Fits without crucial welfare
Roads, shelters, mock us
sculptured by missiles and bulldozers
Bully-bombs exploding in a reign of terror
We pray upon our prayer rugs
Bully-bombs exploding in a reign terror
And oooh how those awful missile FrAgMeNtS fly
and Muhammad cries with anguished tears, in this writtened
legacy...in written legacy
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 5:21 AM UTC
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Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 1:58 PM UTC
It is no night to drown in:
A full moon, river lapsing
Black beneath bland mirror-sheen,
The blue water-mists dropping
Scrim after scrim like fishnets
Though fishermen are sleeping,
The massive castle turrets
Doubling themselves in a glass
All stillness. Yet these shapes float
Up toward me, troubling the face
Of quiet. From the nadir
They rise, their limbs ponderous
With richness, hair heavier
Than sculptured marble. They sing
Of a world more full and clear
Than can be. Sisters, your song
Bears a burden too weighty
For the whorled ear's listening
Here, in a well-steered country,
Under a balanced ruler.
Deranging by harmony
Beyond the mundane order,
Your voices lay siege. You lodge
On the pitched reefs of nightmare,
Promising sure harborage;
By day, descant from borders
Of hebetude, from the ledge
Also of high windows. Worse
Even than your maddening
Song, your silence. At the source
Of your ice-hearted calling --
Drunkenness of the great depths.
O river, I see drifting
Deep in your flux of silver
Those great goddesses of peace.
Stone, stone, ferry me down there.
3.6k
honoring the glass artistry of Dale Chihuly
A rainbow of serrated globes,
Friends to the water lilies,
Floats in a sculptured pool.
A surreal yellow glass Medusa
Woven through a white crescent trellis
Gleams in the midday sun.
Choirs of chrysanthemums
Sing with multicolored flora
Blown from molten soda, lime and sand.
Sheltered in a geodesic tropics
Orange herons stand on legs of glass
Amid living palms, bamboo and wild orchids.
Towering blue spires
Lift skyward out of the soil
While butterflies dance
In the misty veil of a waterfall.
Nature and the shimmering world within
Happily converge in the florid vision
Of an effervescent man with a patched eye -
A man called Chihuly.
October, 2006
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 4:03 PM UTC
With an old secret
I sank into her endless eyes
Pondering over laws
That effected such marvel
And leased me to madness
Words were melting in my mouth
She, refraining her turn of phrase
A tear rolled down my cheek
Stirring passion's tongue
A tear rolled down hers
Wielding my soul ablaze
I rejoiced in silence
Lest I betray my confidence
She handled my eyes
Spotting my inference
I could no longer bear
The fruits of my fear
I leaned over and touched
Her sculptured nails tenderly
Freeing my emotion
She smiled coyly
Sealing my devotion.
Oct 19, 2019
Oct 19, 2019 at 2:49 AM UTC
Wondering the evening stillness
We left the bluebell beds
And the sculptured wooden rose
To trample the wearing pathway
Down to the campus amphitheater.
A patch of daylight brought the party
To look upwards where transparent rope
Made a crossing of wavering sun beams
A celebration of Art Installations with an
unexpected rhyme.
Downwards the plateau, a semicircle of grass
Melts into July’s empty classroom of books
As wasted writing and hours of hot fluttering
In a breeze with discarded wineglasses and cups
Await the sound of trumpets and a golden crown.
Love Mary ***
Jun 13, 2019
Jun 13, 2019 at 1:54 PM UTC
When I first sold myself there were
black cottons, brass buttons, iron crosses, steel machines
All the marks of war
All that searing heat
With all that pretty malice
Spilling Paris in the street
‘Twenty marks’ I called
‘Twenty marks’
That was 1943
And Piaf was doing well
Nurse, do you know what it is like:
To have a man inside of you
that you could never love?
There was, once upon a time, a pretty little ****
black cottons, brass buttons, iron crosses, steel machines
Lying on my floor
And Maman was starving, and my sister, too
Dignity wasn’t half the tax it seemed before
He gave me a baby, and a disease,
That was 1944:
Piaf was quite successful, then
Doctor, can you fathom:
Having sores all over you?
Yes, down there, and
all up and down your thighs, your body burns.
Can you feel that?
Then, the Germans left, and the Allies came, all
black cottons, brass buttons, iron crosses, steel machines
All of that decor
Fleeing, running out
On the French horizon
Retreat
The Allies were the same
‘Three dollars’ I called
‘Three dollars’
That was 1945:
Piaf was languishing
Paris had died
Jacques, my dear:
Those were our times
smoky cabarets, sculptured croons, fine wines
your rifle on your back could wind my morning with worry
and with my scourges, you took me all the same
but what I remember is:
black cottons, brass buttons, iron crosses, steel machines
then:
nothing
“Monsieur Boursin - she has passed.”
He sobs,
it sounds like
war.
Mar 5, 2010
Mar 5, 2010 at 11:25 AM UTC
I've been collecting ear wax
Since the belly button lint dust fire went bad
I lost all my dignity in that fiasco
So ear wax is all that I have left
Believe you me, it's not easy
Coming up with another scheme
After burning the whole town down to the ground
To get a single soul to look or even listen to me
But that fateful day that I dug deep
And pulled a replica of the Eiffel Tower out of my ear
I knew that fame and fortune lay before me
My time had arrived, my time was here
Who should I call first over my artful discovery
The Post? The Enquirer? The Times?
No I would call The Museum Of Modern Art in NYC
For the Art World would soon be mine
I knew I had to ratchet it up a notch
One piece of ear wax art might be a fluke
So I got out my brush...the Q-tip
And removed a portrait of John Wayne AKA The Duke
Since I live in a hippie commune in the woods
Little furry creatures would always stop by
To gaze upon the artful process
Squirrels can be the best of critics...no lie!
Which gave me the idea with all the left over ear wax
I sculptured a mini-amusement park with mini-arcades
And charged the woodland creatures nuts and berries
Which helped feed the hippies with whom I stay
It wasn't long after that I received the letter
Stating that art had a need for me
I've become known as The Andy Warhol of The Art World
With abstract ear wax being my specialty
Now I go to all the major "Who Does"
Where everybody knows my name
As I create masterpieces right before their eyes
Just don't hold it to close to the flame
Who would have ever thought that ear wax
Would be the perfect medium
To jet propel this Simpleton
To Art World stardom and beyond
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 8:25 AM UTC
XXXVII
Pardon, oh, pardon, that my soul should make,
Of all that strong divineness which I know
For thine and thee, an image only so
Formed of the sand, and fit to shift and break.
It is that distant years which did not take
Thy sovranty, recoiling with a blow,
Have forced my swimming brain to undergo
Their doubt and dread, and blindly to forsake
Thy purity of likeness and distort
Thy worthiest love to a worthless counterfeit:
As if a shipwrecked Pagan, safe in port,
His guardian sea-god to commemorate,
Should set a sculptured porpoise, gills a-snort
And vibrant tail, within the temple-gate.
2.7k
LICHEN laden, granite cross,
Reminder of a celtic culture’s loss,
An icon to placate a harsh deity,
A religious symbol, an outward plea.
LADEN cross, granite lichen,
Not a mere whim, but a deliberate decision,
Ley-line power, here to focus,
Awaiting another mid-summer solstice.
GRANITE cross, lichen laden,
Sculptured for a dark-haired maiden,
Elaborate and ultimate statement of love,
A prayer for a union to be blessed from above.
CROSS, lichen laden, granite
Manufactured on a far off planet,
Crafted and left to become immortal,
Marker of a time traveller’s portal.
Jul 27, 2017
Jul 27, 2017 at 2:16 PM UTC
she is a dream that wakes you up desperate to return to sleep
so as to feel her again, so as to be lured in irrevocably deep
she is as a dragon is when unconscious on the ground
harmless in speculation, not moving, just a heaping mound
stay wary lest she strike with her closed jaws that ache to bite
you will bleed then thank her lavishly with the foundations of your might
for even sparing you the smallest slice of pain from her sculptured lips
for even giving you the privilege of her attention in small strips
she is my dream, she is my glory, it is my spirit she has caught
and i will always be naught but her ever fleeting thought
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 1:12 AM UTC
They found her sprawled back there in the alley.
Dead. Asleep in the Lily of the Valley.
She was obscene and cold, flat on her back,
All for a **** hit of five dollar crack.
Beneath the grime and the blood and the gore,
The innocence, before she was a *****
Could not be seen for she met her maker,
A one hundred percent street-wise faker.
Dead blue eyes, peroxide hair, a wild vine,
Earrings in her nose, tongue; defiant sign
To the world that she is a wild child,
Who many years ago learned not to smile.
There was one thing which stood out about her,
Where everything thing else was an ****** blur.
A gold cross on a chain under her throat.
It looked out of place, as a sable coat.
A gold cross, from her unknown, murky past?
A present from someone she held onto fast?
A detective, hardened to scenes such as this,
He shuddered, covered her with a low hiss.
Blue strobe lights lit up the night near the dump,
Police milled around the unmoving lump,
Keeping the official face was a test,
Sheet covered her body, outlined her breast.
Each man, woman, working the dreadful scene,
Spoke terse, if at all, about the *** queen.
Many times they'd been called out in the night
To look at and ponder similar sights.
How much can one take before giving in
To the horror and suppress it with gin?
The one, lying still, sculptured by a fiend,
Wicked hand carving out her end, not clean.
She came to this end living the life she did,
But she was much than a ***** on the skids.
God, a detective screamed at the slaughter
Please don't let this happen to my daughter.
©August 4, 2003 / Jerry Pat Bolton
Jan 2, 2012
Jan 2, 2012 at 10:13 AM UTC
empty hallways, forgotten voices
pictures hang, dusty and off balanced
cobwebs spread from door to mirror
a young rat scurries past the broken floor
his picture still hangs over the fireplace
a spider runs down his well-shaped nose
each brush stroke is thick and sculptured
the dust collects as sand dunes
the whole room seems mysterious
books of occult line the paint-chipped walls
the windows cracked the night air blows
dead trees peer down on slamming shutters
the old house creeks and cracks
howling doge are echos of past crickets sing songs of last dreams
this house, this ledgend infinte
captures one's mind as lonley and hideous
remembers it's myths fools false illusions
under the now dim light of the moon
spooks creep silent footsteps
his spirit surrounds the acre
truth and lies untested question
of how he lived alone from living
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 11:17 PM UTC
Your face so handsome
near or far
Features like
a well sculptured land
Etched in my memories forever
How I'd love to carry you away
on a silver lined cloud
curled up beside you
May 29, 2018
May 29, 2018 at 10:35 PM UTC
Stung by an angling fad
He took a fishing rod
And sallied onto the nearby stream
That leaped down a rocky shelf
Forming small cascades
But running down into plain ground
With a placid demure face
Uttering soft murmurs sweet
Aiming at the darting Trout
That made the still waters into spiraling whirls
He swished the rod in the air
With the alacrity of a practiced bowler
Looking at the line sinking low
He waited for the fish to nibble at the bait
Meanwhile, inhaling the salubrious air
And watching the limpid movement of the stream
As the hook line went taut in his grip
Hopefully he pulled it up
But alas! With no ***** to boast!
Patiently sat he there for hours
Like a sculptured God upon a rock
Oh! It requires immense patience
With adroitness to boot
To be an angler, no doubt
That sure is a sedate man’s pursuit!
Angling rarely fetches any major luck
Except now and then a fresh fish upon one’s plate
Yet following one’s heart’s pursuit
Is worth more than all tangible reward it brings!
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 12:14 PM UTC
*The terracotta shines in the westerly sun
when the man and the woman
fly on the temple courtyard
on the wings of time.*
She touches the sculptured kiss
He stares at the ample breast
She blushes at the frozen mount
He awes at the curve and crest
She feels a longing to be his
He wishes seizing her for a kiss.
*Shadows grow long on the burnt clays,
time to go separate ways.*
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 12:45 PM UTC
Giraffe in Salford
We clung to each other on our raft bed,
Over hot breath amidst summer storms,
Our bodies held fast.
Melded.
He gazed nightly into our Love Room,
Without judgement.
From an unsullied eye he blinked,
Deliciously at our coupling,
And pondered our fate.
We sought him in the quiet times,
Where our eyes first sculptured him,
нιdden ιn тнe тreeѕ.
Caught in the wind,
Arching backwards,
Giraffe yawned.
Chewed on his home-grown high flung leaves,
And dreamt of Africa.
F.S.Chapman.
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 10:34 AM UTC
You kiss like an angel, but don't pretend,
ever you are one,
(never mind, I've never met one before)
your lips taste, manna, exact,
(the elixir's taste my mind had to invent)
When your lips touch mine,
I taste thunder in my nerves,
(your eyes bid me to do it,
though I didn't know what awaited)
I never thought a girl so docile and quiet,
could play tricks,with luscious lips and tongue.
The marksmanship you display in that,
would never be learned from any school of love.
You are a wonder, love has exclusively sculptured,
to propagate its creed, aren't you a whirlwind?
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 12:31 AM UTC
Scrabble was more fun to play
When we both used the same board,
Long distance rules we now use,
As it's all we can afford.
Playing Scrabble was more fun,
When you used to live near Grand;
We could snack during the game,
And we took care of one hand.
Playing Scrabble using phones,
Is twisting the Scrabble rules;
But since we are far away,
Telephones are needed tools.
When we're playing phone Scrabble,
Face up letters need to be;
Where they're in Scrabble box lids,
To make them easy to see.
Two letter racks we both use,
Two by you and two by me;
During the game if tempted,
They help us play honestly.
Mary Anne, my Scrabble friend,
With words you're fascinated
You've sculptured many poems,
So craftily created.
I like the way you keep score,
You keep track of it so well;
You make playing Scrabble fun
I thought this you I should tell.
Mary Anne,, Do you have time,
For some phone Scrabble with me?
When you've time for phone Scrabble,
Let me know when it can be.
Nov 28, 2020
Nov 28, 2020 at 11:06 AM UTC
John and Eric
had gone to New Orleans
to get drunk,
so when they saw the girl
hanging over the railing
of the balcony
pulling her shirt
up and down
up and down,
they hurled beads at her
aiming for the top of her head
so that they'd
circle the drain of her neck
in a circling, shimmering starlet
down
her shoulders.
"Come down here," John yelled.
The girl pulled down her halter-top
one more time,
exposing two
globes of bouncing flesh.
Thinking he had said,
"Pull them down."
It was so loud and everyone was whistling
and there wasn't just a single color of light;
the aura from the club
was a nebula of parti-colored flashing.
later that night
she did come down.
She bumped in between John and Eric
as they navigated her through the crowd
trying their hardest to keep her
from falling over and puking,
while trying to do the same
for themselves.
She hung to them like they were long singular beams of steel.
When she rolled her head around at them
she remembered that they looked
hard and unknown.
And while holding her
in the crooks of their arms,
they maneuvered the flesh in their jeans
with their free hands,
trying to subdue the worlds
rising out of their pants
like volcanoes.
They got her back to the hotel.
A small room
with a tiny old bed, with flower-print
comforters and
an antique dresser with swirling
sculptured wood at its corners.
John slipped off his black leather jacket
and shook his mop of
curly black hair.
Eric plopped onto the bed,
pulling her with him.
She felt him pull,
she felt the gravity of him;
the warp as she bumped against
the bed.
"You guys should come back next year."
"Maybe," Eric said.
She didn't know if she was here or not.
If she'd been here the whole night
or if she was dreaming.
But she felt something physical
on her body.
Eric sat in the corner--
beside the humming a/c
as it vacuumed out the room--
watching with lifeless eyes.
It moved across her stomach.
Slow and continuous.
It moved down to her
pelvis,
slow and continuous.
It reached inside of her
slow and continuous,
and she felt the vacuum of space.
John and Eric
tag-teamed her.
Eric
taking her mouth
and working it around his *****
saying
"Come on baby,
****
John pushing against her
his glowing body
making a slapping noise
as he struggled
with his hands under her stomach
making hard dimples of flesh
on her mid-section
as he tried to hold up
her limp body.
"She's out cold,"
he said.
Dec 6, 2011
Dec 6, 2011 at 10:50 AM UTC
Cool shades and dews are round my way,
And silence of the early day;
Mid the dark rocks that watch his bed,
Glitters the mighty Hudson spread,
Unrippled, save by drops that fall
From shrubs that fringe his mountain wall;
And o'er the clear still water swells
The music of the Sabbath bells.
All, save this little nook of land
Circled with trees, on which I stand;
All, save that line of hills which lie
Suspended in the mimic sky--
Seems a blue void, above, below,
Through which the white clouds come and go,
And from the green world's farthest steep
I gaze into the airy deep.
Loveliest of lovely things are they,
On earth, that soonest pass away.
The rose that lives its little hour
Is prized beyond the sculptured flower.
Even love, long tried and cherished long,
Becomes more tender and more strong,
At thought of that insatiate grave
From which its yearnings cannot save.
River! in this still hour thou hast
Too much of heaven on earth to last;
Nor long may thy still waters lie,
An image of the glorious sky.
Thy fate and mine are not repose,
And ere another evening close,
Thou to thy tides shalt turn again,
And I to seek the crowd of men.
1.6k