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Francie Lynch Mar 2016
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.
Kyle Andree Ore Aug 2013
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-
Jack May 2014
~


Such is the heart of a dreamer
Sought after deep in the mist
Seeking the quest of a thirsting desire
Falling to nights just as this

Peering the distant endeavor
Calling the places I’ve known
Sending out visions so endless in wonder
Standing this ledge all alone

Come to my heart always steady
Shape it as how it should be
Teach me the ways of your unending song
Lyrics of comfort to me

Lift me for thou hath once spoken
Take from my words on the page
Collections of feelings I wear on my sleeve
Shine me the light of your ways

I am of clay so unmolded
Bend me and shape me to form
Open my heart with the keys of your love
While dying I wish to be born

Caverns so wide as I forage
The depth of their wisdom vast deep
Shadows that follow the pathways I walk
Stairways my heart it doth reach

Yours is my desperate reason
Clinging to every fold
Challenges lie in wake of the storm
Northerly winds blow a’ cold

I shan’t recoil destinations
My mind it is set on the prize
Temptingly so it does fan every flame
Come I shall soon realize

Time for the moment an enemy
Season’s of past now I fear
For as I declare my longing for thee
Wishing you ever so near

Trapped as I traverse the mountain
Chains of my pain garner tight
Reaching for avenues lost in the fog
Blinded by darkness of night

Time I will relive the mornings
Joined by a perfect content
Welcoming sun rise as everywhere glows
Finding the hours we’ve spent

Trusting that no one is watching
Holding your hand on the street
Wrapping my arms round your waist for a while
Kissing your lips soft and sweet

Words that will require actions
Motions in spite of the sky
Threatening with clouds overhead as I walk
Waving the past a good bye

Now as my life is beginning
Fortunate flags sure to wave
Sending a secret embedded in stone
Caution for this I do crave

Asking this long winded journey
Steps in the grass for to find
Destiny praises my unfettered dreams
Spent as the heart does unwind

Yours is the hand that I reach for
Save me in spite of my tears
Love me for many more wars shall invade
Filling the city with fear

Run with me out to the fields
Keep me in sight at all turns
Paint me with colors so vibrant and true
Teach me for I want to learn

I can not be so untrue
Pressures no longer to hide
Truth is my shield as it shines ever gold
Honesty I shall confide

Come to my heart it is waiting
Here in this darkened abyss
Shining so bright for your eyes now to see
Longing for you that I miss

I promise you shall not be sorry
Taking this chance is the key
Found in the corners of words so inspired
True as my covenant be

I whisper my truth through the mountains
Breathless I run to the shore
Hopeful I patiently wait your reaction
Longing for you evermore

Soft is the sonnet of willows
Psithuric winds form the stream
Blowing so that you may welcome my peace
Singing the songs of your dreams

Mine is a tiresome journey
Fortunes all cast to the bay
Every dollar I’ve owned as a man
Spent in a fortunate way

For this is my precious possession
A heart that does beat from above
Carefully showing the face of the plan
Showering you with my love

Rain on the valley of passion
Petrichor scent brings the breeze
Take from this night the joys of affection
Lingered in fresh memories

This I do pledge, crossing my heart
No longer wishing to die
Rivers of hope that do wash on your feet
Sent forth attempting to try

Cherishing love that I find
Wanting forever to be
Everything that you do see in your soul
All that’s expected of me

I am but only one person
Doing just what I will do
Being myself in the face of the storm
Sending my love up to you

There is no mask I am wearing
This smile you see is for real
I can not be something that I am not
All of my life I reveal

Hoping that you understand this
Praying my words written of
Things that my heart wants to tell you my dear
Penned now with only my love

Such is the heart of a dreamer
Seeking not silver and gold
My only dream is that you love me true
Just as my dreams have foretold

So soft is the sonnet of willows
Wind through their branches blows free
Whispering dreams evermore shall come true
When you are standing with me
I realize this is a long one and if you choose not to read the entire thing, I understand
Hayley Neininger Mar 2012
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.
daniela Sep 2015
they say don’t become a teacher
if you want to make money,
become a teacher
if you want to make a difference.
true enough, when you’ve got hundreds of
young impressionable minds staring up
at you from 7:40 until 2:40 everyday
still unmolded like hunks of clay,
you’ve got a weird kind of power in your hands.    
so maybe it makes sense that
my art teacher starts class some days
with a ten minute sermon on the hazards of fracking
that blurs into his feelings on education in america,
all before we even make a mark on our canvases.  
my art teacher is a bit of a conspiracy theorist,
but i think all myths are rooted in some fact
and all conspiracy theories started with a little bit of truth
so i like to listen instead of rolling my eyes.
some days instead of painting and teaching us
about shapes of value
he takes up his worn down soapbox,
preaching to a choir that doesn’t care much for singing.
today, he starts talking about color
and way we perceive it
and as i watch, it spirals into a lecture
on the universe
and the way we believe in it.  
color is just reflecting light,
the world is just a reflection of how we perceive it.
matrix of the mind, we see through projector eyes.
the world is a CD, our brains are a scanner
the biggest video game there ever was.  
we’re all holographic minds, he says,
what will you find if you pick yourself a part?
nothing but 1’s and 0’s,
reading like a laser and telling you stories.
he paints a picture with more than brushes,
with his hands waving,
talking about the emptiness of the world
in comparison fullness we believe it to have.
the world isn’t there, the world isn’t real, he says.
these bodies of ours are just space suits,
how silly of us to care about their imperfections
and insignificant differences when really
they’re just just vessels.
we’re just tripping on an acidic universe,
the world is just a bandwidth
and how we read it is based on what we believe in.  
and isn’t that comforting? he asks,
isn’t that freeing?
to know that nothing is real,
so nothing can hurt you?
isn’t it incredible? he says, when you think of it
that way you have nothing to fear.
but you see, knowing is pretty **** different
than believing.
knowing that theoretically, technically,
nothing can hurt you
doesn’t mean you won’t still hurt.
human feelings cannot be quantified
and analyzed so neatly and completely despite our very best efforts.
we are all too messy, we are all outliers in our own rights.
knowing or believing that reality isn’t real
doesn’t change the way hunger feels or the way a heart breaks.
intelligence does not alleviate fear,
really i think it’s more likely to intensify it
because then it’s harder to ignore anything.  
you know what they say: ignorance is bliss.
and maybe reality is perception
and nothing can hurt us if nothing's real
but i'm pretty sure if somebody shot me in the head
i'd still be pretty ****** no what reality
i’ve been perceiving.  
perception does not protect you from reality
like a bullet proof vest does.
and he talks about how belief systems
dictate everything you do,
how they close you off from anything new.  
this enlightened guy who preaches about the universe
in one breath and says,
"you know, most girls don’t like sci-fi," in another,
doesn’t even realize what kind of beliefs
he has internalized himself.
but then i suppose we only see what we want to see,
only notice what we want to take in.  
and don't get me wrong i like him i do,
this art teacher with all his big ideas
about the universe we reside in.
i like him in that way we’re all familiar with
where you sometimes have to ignore
an off-handed comment to still like people
but that's another story, that's another poem.
so if a tree falls in an empty forest with no one around
to hear it then does it even make a sound?
if i am speaking to any empty room
then do my words even matter?
if i am alone then do i still exist without anyone
there to take witness?
what i’m trying to say is:
i don’t think the world stops existing
if there’s no one there to see it.
crimes still happen with no witnesses,
miracles still happen with no witnesses.
maybe the world is just a bandwidth
and how we read it is based on what we believe in,
and maybe your belief system colors your view
like kids with crayons and coloring books,
and in a lot of cases they can close your mind
like a trap door,
but there is nothing wrong with belief and believing.
for some people it is all they have.
and even if i don’t believe in god,
who i am to play the part
and try to shatter other people’s realities?
what good will come the broken glass?
maybe we are mice in our mazes;
but if we are happy here,
blissfully ignorant as we may be,
is that a bad thing?
and even in the labyrinth there is still sometimes light,
even deep in the maze some people
find a place to rest.
Cannon Nov 2015
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
Bryan Oct 2017
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.
Mystic Ink Plus Feb 2018
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
Genre: Abstract
Shared from my Anthology, Canvas: Echoes and Reflections, 2018.
Mark Oct 2018
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.
Joe davis Jan 2018
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
James M Vines May 2016
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.
Colm Sep 2021
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?
tis true

The most unplanned set. 10/12
Jack R Fehlmann Nov 2021
Life presses it's pressures against
stone indistinct as we are borne
The entirety; the whole of our time
Granite tooled by choices chosen
Unmolded; solid and raw
To be sculpted pieces fall
Bit by bit broken away
Revealing that which remains
Kelly McManus Feb 2020
Look around the world
tell me if you ever see
an unmolded mind

                 Kelly McManus

— The End —