"sculptures" poems
A comely rainbow
spanning the wet, sobbing sky;
colours showering
mesmeric pearls of teardrops on earth.
Many subtle shades of marvel
unfolded that day.
Elegance of burning splendour in sun’s soul -
earth treasuring the seed of the first rain
in its womb for a new birth -
Spring’s svelte fingers
painting brilliance across the droning vale -
mist of radiance of a gorgeous moon -
stars sparkling to a melody
flowing from the divine harp -
sea breeze carving
shifting sculptures on sands of gold -
amorous mirth of sea waves
rushing to the hug of a waiting shore.
I stood there,
a trance benumbing my senses
to an hypnotic bliss.
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 12:45 PM UTC
A creative
bright sky
from a black and dark earth.
Sculpted, smooth, cylindrical.
A simple layered texture.
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 5:42 PM UTC
The branches of the trees bow with the heavy load they are carrying, bending towards the floor. Everything glistens, as if a fairy has sprinkled her dust over the entire world. Colors are brighter against the pure white blanket that spreads as far as the eye can see. The houses become works of art, with their beautiful undisturbed snowy roofs. Chimney’s become sculptures, taking on new forms.
Aug 31, 2012
Aug 31, 2012 at 2:38 PM UTC
ngayon ko lang napansin. sobrang dami ko palang isinulat para sa'yo. ngayon ko lang napansin na lahat sila galing sa mga katabi kong diksyonaryo at tesauro. malay ko ba kung ano ang ibig sabihin ng mga isinulat ko. lumalaki pa lamang ako. ngayon pa lang natututong makipagtalastasan, makipagbalagtasan, makipagsagutan, makipag-away. ngayon pa lang akong natututong maghintay at ngayon pa lang nasusugatan. ngayon ko lang nalaman ang tunay na ibig sabihin ng paniniwala. paniniwala sa pagkahulog, paniniwala sa kung anumang gusto kong paniwalaan. paniniwala na meron ka pang mapapaniwalaan dito sa mundo. kapit ka, subukan mo. ngayon pa lang akong nagtitiwalang muli. ngayon pa lang nagpapatawad. ngayon pa lang nakakapagsabi ng 'mahal kita', nang walang pagdududa at walang pagsisisi. mahal ko talaga sila. ngayon ko pa lang nararamdaman ang tunay na pag-ibig. ngayon ko pa lang nakikita kung paano magmahal ang isang taong nasasaktan. ngayon pa lang ako nakakita ng taong durog at winasak ng panahon — marahil dati puro sa teleserye ko lang ito napapanood. noong pumunta kami sa isang museo, napakaraming uri ng sining na maaari **** makita. may mga head busts, paintings, sculptures, pati mga ginamit ng mga pintador na brushes at pati na rin mga natuyong pintura nila. tinignan ko lahat iyon. umabot ng halos labindalawang oras ang pag-iikot ko. walang kain-kain. kinailangan kong makita lahat. ngunit ngayon ko lang napagtanto na iisa lang naman 'yung gusto ko talagang makita. ('yung spolarium.) ngayon lang ako nakarinig ng mga taong wala talagang kamuang-muang sa mundo. 'yung tipo ng taong nakaupo sa ginto ngunit talagang lumaking tanga. nakakaawa sila. ngayon ko pa lang pinapangaralan 'yung sarili ko. kanina nga lang ako nagsabi sa sarili na hindi na ako kakain ng fast food at processed food. (seryoso. nakakamatay talaga sila.) sa pagkamatay ng nakaraan, noon ko lang nasabi sa sarili ko na gusto ko pa talagang mabuhay. gusto ko pang makakita. gusto ko pang makaramdam.
ngayon pa lang ako natututong magsulat.
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 11:43 PM UTC
Meandering like its canals
Venetian streets sing underfoot.
Who wore away the stone cobbled streets?
Who walked down to the shore?
Who gazed out at the Adriatic?
Who's dreams were lost in Venice's stream of streets?
Licentious lovers loved in Venice's streets, kissed on her bridges,
Crossed under by gondola and over by foot.
Proposed at the piazza San Marco.
Kissed, while the Grand Canal wound her way down.
Down into the sea,
where the menace that is the world, Venice shuns.
Rialto, Doge, Basilica, St. Marks, pigeons!
All evoke that lagoon city of streets.
Originally refugees, incolae lacunae ("lagoon dwellers")
Venetians, gave not only a place for the dispossessed,
but a place for the world to see, feel and taste.
Art, war, politics, commerce, spice and silk.
Venice with her ribbon of streets, alleyways and bridges
saw the Renaissance, the crusades, and the Black Death.
Glassware, paintings, sculptures, religion, refugees all
synonymous with that floating city.
A city returning to the water she arose from.
Subsiding with grief as she drowns in elegant decay.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 2:56 PM UTC
Her mind was in Hawaii,
Dancing under waterfalls,
Wandering through rainforests,
Picking tropical flowers and
Braiding them into her hair,
Simmering on sandy beaches,
And gazing at the stars.
Her heart was in Normandy,
Eating crepes and sipping lattes,
Strolling through spring green fields
And along lazy river banks,
Kissing the walls of castles,
And scooping up scallop shells,
Soaking up French syllables.
Her hands were in her pockets,
High-fiving friends and
Running through her lover's hair,
Sewing, cooking, washing,
Punching, tearing, scratching,
Caressing and confessing,
Catching the very first drops of rain.
Her feet were on the streets of Seattle,
Tapping to the rhythm of the bass,
Shuffling in and out of the rain,
Dodging puddles and strangers,
Observing art and sculptures,
Chasing down a taxi or her dog,
and embracing the crisp autumn air.
Her lips were on the edge of a soda can,
Singing along to her favorite songs,
Whispering sweet nothings into the air,
Empowering the impoverished
And scorning the injustice,
Kissing a forehead, lips, and hads,
And stonecold silent as her mind does the work.
Her eyes were fighting back frosty tears,
Swallowing scarlet sunsets,
Painted in yesterday's make up,
Tracing your stoic silhouette,
Rolling like thunder before the storm,
Lapping up dizzying moonlight,
And buried in words, and words, and words.
Her body was in Los Angeles,
But, she was on a metanoia,
Breaking free of past and future
To find herself a presence
That would always be worth fighting for,
To reach sophrosyne, namaste,
And to put her frantic body to peace.
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 2:53 AM UTC
The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched - they must be felt with the heart.
Visual art
great sounding music
nothing comes close to the beauty we feel for our loves
our children
our families
love is beautiful
felt with our heart
written in our words
drawn in our art
made in our sculptures
Our greatest weakness lies in giving up. The most certain way to succeed is always to try just one more time.
Never give up
never back down
1 million times tried
but the moment we succeed
we feel immense happiness
never give up
always try one more time
Life is a dream for the wise, a game for the fool, a comedy for the rich, a tragedy for the poor.
the statement above should read like the statement below
Life is a dream full of happiness, the world had problems but no more
everyone is rich and no one is poor
We can't have peace without accepting others views
we may find them weird
we may find them strange
but a person isn't made up of one idea
they are made of many
one common ground, one common idea
starts a conversation
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 7:45 PM UTC
Tonight the earth blows a riveter of wind between my ears,
From cheek to cheek the cold has stolen ice sculptures from tears,
I'm wondering what mighty god could save us from the glory years,
Saddened by the reflection at the end of those days in the mirrors.
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 10:49 PM UTC
Emotion is not tangible--
But when The Poet speaks,
she stumbles upon sculptures of
the emotion that you seek.
Emotion is indescribable--
But in The Poet's lines,
it nestles up upon the words
and engulfs them in its tides.
Emotion is a fickle fiend:
unsure if friend or foe--
But when The Poet writes
it's as if they know.
Emotion and The Poet:
a conundrum to say the least.
Each tries to slay the other;
Each fuels the other's beast.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 1:24 AM UTC
Some people think that as an
Adult
I can be a tad rough
Rock solid skin
But as a
Child
I was exponentially
Worse
Kicked
Screamed
Cried
Teased
Scratched
A walking terror
My father deemed me
"Crab-Apple Lynn"
The neighbors would
Whisper
Of that horrid five-year-old
Girl
That would push and
Tackle
The boys down the street
And on the night
That I kicked my
Brother's friend in the
Groin
And he tumbled
Down the stairs
Word spread like
Wildfire
That Crab-Apple
Had struck again
Notorious bully
Walking with balled fists
Kicking over Lincoln Logs
Smashing Play-Doh sculptures
Sneezing purposefully
Spewing out green phlegm
And wiping the boogers
On fellow peers
Half-grinning
At their cries
Feared by all
But respect
Was the one thing
The miniature version of
Me
Could not earn
And despite my youth
Despite the over-sized chip on my shoulder
Tiny me
Found a way
To flip around
Turn a leaf
Turn a page
Turn a head
Completely change
Altogether
And suddenly
Crab-Apple disappeared
And Sarah grew in
View
It was as though
Somehow, someway
The little me knew that
Fear is worthless
Oct 10, 2010
Oct 10, 2010 at 9:55 PM UTC
*"So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee."*
Shall I compare thee...
...to the Iguazú Falls River, where legend serves that a serpent; Boi, demanded a sacrifice each year of a young female, and the day two lovers; Tarobá and his beautiful maid Naipí, took to escape, and in revenge of such an act, Boi exuded such anger that he parted the river, thus forming the Iguazú Falls, splitting the river and condemning to two lovers to the falls.
or
...to Cristo Redentor; Christ the Redeemer, the Art Deco statue, protecting and looking over the city of Rio de Janeiro, to whom in all its glory cannot escape the force of nature, struck by lightning, causing damage irreplaceable.
or
…to The Hanging Gardens of Babylon, hundreds of metres into the sky, a place that to this day is unknown, myth being that King Nebuchadnezzar recreated the homeland of his precious wife Amyitis, who was deeply depressed and homesick, allowing her to find comfort and happiness.
or
…the Taj Mahal, of Pradesh, constructed using marble by the emperor Shah Jahan, in loving memory of his third wife; Mumtaz Mahal, the jewel of Muslim art, a calligraphy written Great Gate reading; "O Soul, thou art at rest. Return to the Lord at peace with Him, and He at peace with you.
or
…the Temple of Artemis; Istambul, on sacred land in honour of the Greek goddess Artemis, the most apotheosized of Greek deities, the supposed daughter of Zeus and Leto, the temple also known as Diana, one of the goddesses who vouched never to marry; alongside Minerva and Vesta.
or
… the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus, of the Persian Empire, whereby Mausolus ornamented four sculptures created in relief for his wife (and also his sister); Artemisia II of Caria, generating an above ground tomb that would become to be listed as one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World.
But of all,
I compare thee to the Goddess of Love, Beauty and Sexuality; Aphrodite
arising from the sea, floating ashore on a shell;
Venus rising from the sea,
a lover of many,
later depicted as a painting of the Birth of Venus,
by the sufferer of unrequited love; Botticelli,
using his muse Simonetta Vespucci as a model.
© Sia Jane
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
Sarin –
An organic molecule
Used for inorganic purposes
Showering civilians
Effectively icing their insides
Contorting the human form into forced frozen sculptures
Acting as if torture was an art of the highest caliber
An acquired taste reserved for society’s finest
And this was the Michelangelo masterpiece.
Atropine –
The organic antidote,
Shoot up the stimulant to hurdle your paralysis,
Relax the respiratory muscles caught in your throat,
Your eyes team with tears because you’re allowed to melt,
Your eyes team with tears out of profound shock,
Your eyes team with tears because humans forgot humanity.
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 9:41 PM UTC
✿⊰✲⊱✿
The hallway has teal arches with
high grecian columns, each with
gilded gold grapes and vines
entwined, kissed by the light of the
several crystal chandeliers.
With enormous paintings on the
pale blue walls - several key
moments captured and framed,
and age in no way diminished it's
strokes and vibrancy.
✿⊰✲⊱✿
I remember many times where
I had visited Paul and I
walked around his home,
telling me of his ancestors
achievements with a smile or a
frown on his face. "We can all
learn things from the past," he said
sadly. "And there's always things
done that we are not proud of. I
only want Luciuscemi to thrive."
"With you as King, I have no doubt
it will." I said with a smile and Paul
felt a little better.
✿⊰✲⊱✿
My feet continue to follow the
red carpet to the ball room as me
and my ladies pass many Luciuscemian
guards, all standing tall, lined up yet
all so courteous and friendly; dressed
in yellow military outfits, with red
shoulder capes. When I come upon the
end hall to the entrance of the ballroom,
I cannot help but gasp. Alive with so many
people in so many colours.
✿⊰✲⊱✿
I could see the dining hall in the far back;
lines of tables covered in coloured silks
and with many dishes: sweet, sour and
savoury, meats and vegetables, grilled fish,
glazed ham, veggie rolls and many
fine imported wines, fresh teas and
many more. Large ice sculptures of lions
and suns stand vigilant as the servants serve,
people laugh, eat and talk. Some walked out
to the balcony, some watch others dance;
long and short, this ballroom is an orchestra
for my soul.
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 6:11 PM UTC
During my second trimester I felt like getting some fresh air.
I went out cycling through town in the warm sunny day.
Observing the comings and goings of people all around.
The flower cart on the corner, lent a lovely lilac scent to the air.
The street preacher was shouting out his testimonials,
trying to recruit believers to his cause.
Further on as my pedaling took me, I saw a group of boys.
They were pantomiming their favorite rockstars.
Strumming the air for all they were worth and
Jamming to the silent music in their heads.
Down the block past the Bakery, smelling of cinnamon buns,
was the museum. My favorite place to stroll on a quiet day.
The gregarious doorman always wished me "A fine day, Madam!",
as he ushered me into the foyer. He always wore that silly hat that makes me smile.
And, of course, he kept an eye on my red bicycle by the door.
Making my way through the corridors, observing the sculptures, paintings and artifacts.
Wondering at the archaeologists dinosaur finds, mounted above and behind the glass.
Finally, on to see Pandora and her ill-fated decision to open the box.
Letting forth into the world all manner of toxicity. And then, again, opening the box
she set Hope free so we could cope in this danger-laden world.
Ending my museum tour, I contemplated my coming child
and what he would find to make him cry or hope or love
in this world, as I slowly pedaled through the spring infused day.
Feb 4, 2011
Feb 4, 2011 at 6:27 AM UTC
loneliness consumed you
while you were busy finding distractions
your eyes sunk deeper, your nights darker
you found a marker and wrote it out in black ink, you left half a cup of tea by the sink,
one final reminder that you could never clean up right, your scars were not quite healing
men came and went like hopscotch manic feelings, daily warfare, gentle as a tide though
you would let them in just to let them go
crafted a plan to **** yourself
because you didn't know anything else
but the bottom of a bottle you swore you didn't drink you spent 11 months sleeping on the brink of death
loneliness consumed you
you took the bad parts, shaped them into something you could swallow and fell in love with the high from your insides eating you alive now you're full of sculptures you gave up on years ago and maps of places, far away, where you'll never get to go
because you're bed ridden and tired, you're only 20 and you did it, you have carved yourself entirely empty
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 1:43 PM UTC
Born to an Italian father
and a dreaming,
wide-eyed American,
travel was my fortune,
my life before I chose it.
One late September evening,
my wide-brimmed
velvet hat and I
discovered
what it was to fly.
Surging through moving sculptures
of clouds,
riding the Pan Am night
flight to London,
I was nine, and I was hooked.
Peter Pan was my secret love then.
I had saved my loose tooth
for the English tooth fairy, wishing
and hoping for an English penny.
Scones and bridges from my books
were real now to taste and see.
I began to write then, mostly
in my mind.
That was how I lived then,
and still do.
Finding and forming
words within for everything.
A sacred artesian spring,
i Fonti del Clitunno.
Perfection at Paestum.
Stonehenge,
when one could still
walk among those holy stones.
The early church of Santa Sabina,
whose high windows
transmit light
through membranes of mica.
The abiding silence
of these ancient, sacred places
held me transfixed.
Continuity of time flowed,
like invisible honey,
all around me.
I wanted to taste it with my mind.
Know it with all of my being.
And one day, find the right words.
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 9:06 PM UTC
I sought satisfaction in stupid sheepishly and shallow strides.
Scared subconsciously, I swallow and sustain substance for pseudo self esteem strengthening.
I seemed of in service to slumber and stinging sadness, shots sank like ships, submerging into the sea of my swarthy stomach in seconds.
I somewhat sympathies as a sailor, sweating, struggling and swimming in slipping sobriety saturated in my sulking style.
Scanning swarms of serial swindlers, striking sculptures stances of self-doubt.
I stammer in a storm of slurs, ******* down my safety, stopping myself at the stoop of the saloon I see a seductive silhouette staging the space.
She stroke my sight, standing sanguine in scarlet, soul sold in high heels.
The smoothest sculptures in seven square miles were subjugated into scree and I was ****** in submission.
Stubborn staggering suitors, stand shaking silently as she is stopped by sharks stalking and snarling sycophantics.
So straightforward in suggesting their secret starvation to strip sensations, seem by seem, like a sub-par **** cinema scene.
They step and speak short.
She smokes off, stranding the scree in smoldering slaughter.
Its sad this soul-less sanctuary soaking up sorrows.
So self inflicting, and so satisfyingly side splitting.
She sported her spurned, scorned off into sadistic solitude and stained sticky stigma, sobbing to sleep.
So spent from simple stocked, stored and supported senescence of ceremonial subjection of ****** status.
I savior my sincerity, and stretched out of this strange stadium of stooges.
So long scarlet sanguine I sang softly, as she stole my sight suspiciously in sync with hers.
Sacrificial seconds split from smearing stolidity to sharing a smile.
That's simple satisfaction, so I seen scripted in sitcoms and shows.
Supporting sapiens in stasis to see sappy stunners on screen, to stare snoopy, as stabs and slashes strike socially into socialites of so called sanity and sovereignty.
To sweetly pay salvage as slaves of soppy studio slander.
Such is this sorry Saturday night, I am solidified in sedation.
Dec 14, 2017
Dec 14, 2017 at 12:00 PM UTC
_A monkey's wedding:_ our elders told us
it was, each time it rained with the sun out.
Pink skies, white clouds, golden tears and
the good times of being young.
Tree climbing to touch the sky as high,
fruit picking, and stone skipping at turbid puddles,
The smell of after rains, wet grounds, dew tear drops;
all at the nights condescending condensation.
Chasing rainbows on rumours of Peter pan's hidden
treasures at the end. As a guileless manner supposed.
Sunlight creeping through cracks of clouds,
the remainder of light showers, reminisced in the mud.
Sculptures we'd try our best to carve,
playing house outside, under the upcoming sun,
And trying our best at reciting parent's love.
Tell me have you seen anything as beautiful,
as the beauties after the rain?
Jul 15, 2022
Jul 15, 2022 at 4:57 PM UTC
I'm the Afrocentric Gift
you been waiting and dying to open ..,
Christmas came Early just for you this year,
I'm the Thoughts in ya head,
Mind blowing the
Essences of Sexuality,
Wisdom,
Knowledge
and a
multitude of Feminine Power,
Prowling and
Roaring for your affection,
I'm every Women,
Just not to night
I don't want to share,
Be my one & only..,
I am the
Architects building
the bridges back to ya heart,
My Prominent Black African King,
Mr.Sexy as ya wanna be..,
I Dreamed of this many times at night & also for some weeks,
Thoughts of you Thought of us become " We"
Teaming up and Doing
What lovers do,
But
I want more,
I want your heart too,
I see it in you,
the artist ;Your words caressing me,
Like painting and drawing,I'm just one of your sculptures..,
But
I'm the centerpiece of this mental non-nocturnal dream,
Your the
Author writing a great masterpiece only I'm the Main character...,
Chapter one we began slowly as our bodies
mesh&entwined...;,
Can you distinguishes between Fantasy,
I'm here and these feelings are real.
Lust so passionate you'd think you
conjured me up from your imagination.,
I'm un reasonable when it comes to you,
I want to give you unquestionable pleasure.
Be the Concubine you desire & you shouldn't have to wait,
Not tonight anyways.,
Come here and let me show you,
Be mines....,
Sacrifice yourself,
Be my love salve and come away with me..,
I want to give you this
Delicious yet delicate sweet
Afrocentric Gift!
Speak into me poetically,
Mentally blowing my mind ,
touching with words as you hurt me gently
Yet pleasing my body..
take me
cuz
right now
I'm for the taking,
I'm ready and waiting,
open me,
for
tonight I'll be your
Latin mist
You Puerto Rican *** ,
Come get drunk off my love,
Let me sooth you
and
caress you into submission.
Take what's been given.
This Mix, and blend it with you ,
dance to my song
as
I open for you.
I'm ready and willing
to be what you want me to be.
Give
me pleasure
release the yearning
deep with in me...
I'm yours ya Afrocentric Gift!
Always me Ayeshah
Copyrights © 1977-2010 Ayeshah(A.K.K.C.L.N)
All rights reserved.
Feb 2, 2010
Feb 2, 2010 at 10:28 PM UTC
living life on paper sheets,
in between nights and days.
paper planes that'll never reach their destination.
phone calls that hang dry like raw art.
painted sculptures are a fantasy,
my sensory hands, are voluble,
in evening's breast.
the clock moans for tomorrow's ******
and it's dull hums yesterday.
like raw art, on winter.
hanging dry, devoid of existence.
only citizen of the dead soul.
Jan 7, 2022
Jan 7, 2022 at 11:36 AM UTC
Horatio Alger is whispering his stories in my sleeping ear
painting me as a lowly street urchin
who conquers adversities and moral wildernesses
with only my wit, determination, and guts
and he is painting me as a phoenix of the new world
rising from ashes of banality and
the naturalized familial trappings of my past
a dirt road in the socioeconomic desert
carved out with care by the hands of forefathers I will never know
but Mr. Alger died a long while ago
and the sun inevitably rises
shattering the stained glass story of my rags turned riches
now the big men upstairs
jot me down as numbers on a chart
of consumption trends of millennials
Go to college
they say
make something of yourself
they say
you are all too entitled
they say
What went wrong
they say without a hint of contradiction
I am not equipped to say if the story of humanity
is a cycle or a downwards spiral
I am not equipped to say
that it is the job of every generation
to ensure that they clear the debris
from the path of their progeny
but I say it anyway
everybody want’s a trophy
because we were raised to believe that
everybody deserves a trophy
In the same breath they expect us
to take the puritanical mantle of the breadwinner
the frayed saddle of the noble western outlaw
the lethally honed sword of the entrepreneur
the martyr making cross of the socially conscious family man
and then wonder why we so willingly
give ourselves over to the currents
of apathy and passivity and masochistic narcissism
giving us guns and bullets with no idea how to shoot them
so instead we turn them into sculptures of modern art
and scream to the empty heavens
for just a hint of recognition
I can’t decide if history will forget us
or memorize the lyrics of our collective heart beats
but I have decided
to wake up from my American Dream
have decided
to forge my own reality
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 2:37 PM UTC
I mailed you a letter because you said
the art of writing is dead but I know
how to twist words into sculptures still small
enough to fit in the post box. I hope
you read what I wrote. I opened my heart
and sent you a poem. Someday when you’re old
you will show your grand kids the written art
some hopeless romantic girl undersold,
prefaced with ‘it isn't anything great but
maybe it will lead you to understand.’
I never claimed to be the best but my
head is full of cosmos and volcanoes
begging to explode black holes on paper as
relics pressed between pages like a dried rose.
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 1:24 PM UTC