"unmolded" poems
The story teller writes
For a naked character
On a bare stage.
The one character,
One line play.
Profound, all encompassing;
A brief run,
But a blockbuster
With opening nights
In all the capital cities.
The visualist
Could use one brush stroke,
One lump of unmolded clay,
An unchiseled stone,
Weathered driftwood
Or a piece of glass
To display in the great museums
For our interpretation
Of the exposed truth.
One note could orchestrate
On string, wind or skin,
And the composition would be complete.
The maestro could bow and walk;
No encore could repeat.
I want one line of verse
To embelish my yearnings;
To explain the cosmos,
The meaning and crux
Of this place,
Including us.
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 11:50 AM UTC
we were never introduced.
but i watched you.
beautifully.
adoringly.
in my dreams vividly.
ah.
i observed you.
like the way you drink your
coffee.
the way you sipped.
i noticed every bit of it.
how you enjoyed it.
how you stirred clockwise
with a spoon.
and like crazy, going zigzag,
with a stirrer.
its like an addiction.
my addiction?
still you.
you see i am no stalker.
im an observer.
maybe an admirer.
a lover? im not sure.
but this distance,
this rather short gap of
affection you own
but is unnoticed.
if only i can spit it out
and let it crawl towards you.
but i find it gross.
hahaha.
plain stupid.
you own me.
with every stare,
unintentional i know,
with luscious smiles,
i melt.
i get unmolded.
i morphed into something
really unknown.
oh you my trickster.
how you do that i do not know.
i hope i get the chance to
let you know.
to hold your hand,
even if it's just from a
friendly shake.
oh the joy it would bring.
days of uninterrupted daydreams and
nights of being wishful.
how you make me write
from poetry, to stories.
how you wanna make me
carve your name on
a tree.
cliche.
but still i wish you know.
how i dreamed of flying kites together.
my way of trying to reach heaven
with you. :)
but you are just a dream.
and i am still a dreamer.
i am still dreaming.
of you.
and me.
but not of you and me.
oh mournful reality.
-end-
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 6:39 AM UTC
My sculpture artist.
My mad scientist.
The constant reader of anatomy books
Perched on paper scattered desks
Close dissection of the human
You want me to become
And I want it too.
I am tired of being a moist lump of clay
Slumping over from unmolded parts of my frame
The structure that holds promise of life
If all parts are carved in just right
Mirroring the blue vein lines
Between red masses of muscles
Printed on yellow and finger smudged paper
From your constant flipping between
The full human form and
That small pumping muscle you
Have carved into me time and time again
Only to smear with one finger tip
The dainty clay aorta
Inside my already perfect chest
I am tired of not burning hot with the
Fires of your kiln.
To be burnt so severely
That what was supposed to be skin would
Crack, break, and fall into a complete shell
Around my base.
Leaving a small pumping heart
That would finally define me as human
To an artist who plays with science.
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 6:34 PM UTC
The green dies.
Never totally, but effectively.
The shadows reach across the land,
increasing their span.
They spill and run off edges like paint that never dries.
Yet you can step in it and never leave a print.
...Or never have one in the first place,
never leave your mark, just crush the foliage:
**** whatever life is left.
The air steams your breath:
A lesson in mortality.
Look! See what makes you tick?
Let me take it, freeze it, condense it,
put it on display, and leave none for you:
the one who made it...
just to make a snowball
(which is really just a fight waiting to happen.)
(Who stockpiles ammo with no intention of using it?)
(Who bites their tongue with nothing to say?)
Too many snowballs grow to be an igloo:
fallacies you can live in for a while.
It's better to just be rid of them.
Let them fly, let them fly...
Relinquish your breath back to its element:
say what must be said, even if it kills you.
It's all the same in the end:
the land will thaw,
the shadows recede,
the snow will melt,
the air will fill with argument.
Why make so much noise
if you can just throw the snowballs
as you make them?
I'll tell you my frozen friend: shelter.
At least then, we can hide for a while.
Mold it to our will.
Sure, we could let it accumulate naturally.
Unformed and unmolded, it's just a burden:
unfocused feelings, drifts of words,
letters, and sounds.
It's better put to use as shelter than mud.
At least igloos are useful for a time,
(Mud still has to be dealt with in the spring,
Why start early?)
and snowballs are at least manageable:
little bites of envy, jealousy, suspicion.
Woe betide the sun who made THIS winter!
Leave US in the cold, why don't you?
Shower US in discomfort!
Leave US to deal with blessing after blessing
in the worst way possible!
It's in our nature to throw the snow,
to waste our respite, to fight with words.
If we don't, in our igloos,
we're washed away every spring
when the thaw takes our shelter,
our words,
our breath,
our loves,
our lives.
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 11:37 PM UTC
I am beach sand
I began a boulder, unmolded and ruff
I could have been chiseled into the dreams of my creator
but instead I stood my ground
I let the waves guide me and arrode me to something manageable
I was climbed by the courageous out on my own, and sunk away at high tide
I wore away, giving pieces of myself to tourists and shared a collection to the ones who stayed
I am the heart shaped rock you gave to your lovely and the rock you skipped across the creek last summer then let join the pebbles below the surface
The nests of sparrows in my hands grew to eagles and flew up high
With each encounter a slice of me will beak away and I always retreat to the sea
Now I am spread around the world, in the hands of collectors and cracked on the pavement by careless jokers who arrived with hurt and left with anger
My small grains left have joined the others who have stories of their own
I hold up the castles and lay still for your stick written words
On dressers and mountain tops, in boxes and palms
I am beach sand
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 11:34 PM UTC
Charged Figure
An Icon of Attraction
Unmolded Clay
With a Toxic Smile
Silent Invitation
With Empirical Answers
Curiosity?
Conclusion without Conceptions
Aligned Sense
With a figure of Intuition
Reflection of Scars
A Memory of Relation
Un-immune Society
Possessing a Dream of Life
Being a Magnet, barely understood?
My Freedom of Expression
A Social Experiment with Reasons
NS, N……N, S…….S
Birth of Yin and Yang
Feb 18, 2018
Feb 18, 2018 at 7:38 PM UTC
My role is chaperone
To unmolded Clay
For the unruly
Are off to play
Never before
Could I comprehend
Such utter neglect
Where do I begin
Perhaps in the middle
To make no sense
A cosmic joke
A blindfolded riddle
What was my point
The mute would ask
That ships done sailed
Ignorance has come to pass
My clay is dried out
And my ego sore
I turn off the laughter
And slam the door
All that's left to do now
Is genocide
Keeping up with the Joneses
And their Petty homicide
So roll out the carpet
And bake me a cake
I'll be driving in backwards
For pity's sake
Jan 27, 2018
Jan 27, 2018 at 12:10 PM UTC
Recoiling from the mirrored death, I gasp;
since when did time then bring on wrinkled fears
where skin unmolded youth from out its grasp
and left behind this cast, reflecting years.
That sudden, darken dawning sight unveiled,
but wounds overt, are not as quick the eye
yet how I'd missed my failing, form detailed,
immortal dreams had schemed; to age defy.
Ah! Best my early days knew truly not
for I had lived as ever I'd be fair,
and if that time revealed this torrid rot
I would, then linger onward, tho' of wear.
I'll take this crinkled skin, for I were young!
And spent as tho' to age, knew not my tongue.
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 12:25 AM UTC
My life is a piece of unmolded clay sitting on a wheel. I am not sure where I will go or what I will be. I sit patiently and wait for my life to take shape. With each passing day I seek to learn more. I study and pray for guidance. In each moment I strive to be better, looking forward to the day when I am complete. As Jesus slowly molds me, through his spirit and discipleship, I am becoming a worthy vessel for his habitation, as I am shaped by the potters hands.
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 11:13 AM UTC
reaching through my window grasp, my collar lined, my mind unfolded. pull me through this painted glass, the crown unmolded, and shape my day with glorious rays, with simple scents and lilac embolded. with the coming way, of every may, would you make my day most intoxicated, in such a simple yet glorious way?
Sep 6, 2021
Sep 6, 2021 at 12:46 PM UTC