Conceived of Earth and Man

I was born from the earth, a terrestrial substance, initially unaware that my destination was to be created and formed by the hands of a potter. Being pliable when wet, normally trampled, ignored, and never respected, my existence now cherished by him. My beginning was silent and still, moving only in nebulous bursts that push me down further in to the depths of the earth. I was gathered by rough hands before being mixed, pounded, and combined with liquid and powdered materials, until they achieved their perfected creation. Metal machine after metal machine took me; their cold unmoving surface molded me into a cube. My rectangular form was pushed firmly into plastic. My unknown journey began. The moon was full and it was late at night when they placed me in his studio. I was stacked in the corner on the icy cement floor covered in splatters of clay, glaze, and other mysterious substances. There was a rusty metal shelf lined with minerals originally extracted from the earth, but were now contained in small glass jars. The lights went out and all seen was darkness. The sun rose from the east and sent shimmering lights across the nearest wall reflecting off the crystalline ceramics surrounding the window frames. I awoke and glanced through the swirling mesmerizing colors and focused on him. He was already at the wheel spinning a bowl creating the shape with deliberate movements. His back muscles tensing tight with his hands held against the form, his elbows locked. He set it on the table; completed. His dripping hands clutched my coldness as he opened the plastic bag exposing me to the warmth of the studio and removed me from the shelter I had grown in to. He separated me from the block, pressing into me, wedging and mixing with his forceful hands. He grasped me gently carrying me to his beloved wheel then slapped me in the center as it spun while he squeezed and released. His hands rose to the top and pushed back down until I was centered with the wheel. Centrifugal force became one with me. He spread me wider with each touch of his fingers. I grew taller, taller, thinner, and thinner. A sponge in his right hand dripped slip and water on my surface letting his fingers gracefully caress my feminine curves. An hourglass formed and my top flared wide with confidence craning to reach the ceiling that was blanketed with dust. He had made me fragile. I felt weak; collapsible under the gentle yet drastic curves of my mid-section. He pulled a device from the corner of the studio. As my middle started to sink down and twist from the uneven movement he turned on the heat gun. I grew stronger and was able to withstand the heat and pushed myself to retain my shape. I would not collapse, not for him. He took a smooth metal rib and gently bonded my particles together making my surface silky as he fondled my neck with his soft fingertips. With a wooden trim stick tightly griped in his hands, he cut my base creating the illusion that my form would disappear in to the table. My top was the final step. Two fingers grasped a wet sponge lightly and compressed my top, rounding my sharp edges. My shape was complete. I was removed, placed on the shelf, and left to dry in the dusty atmosphere. I hardened slowly. He picked me up examining my weight, shape, and style. He took his sponge and embraced my waist with a tender touch while squeezing hard on my base stroking it back and forth to create concavity. The finishing touches gave me personality, designed my individuality, and my confidence. The final impression he directly positioned on my base. He pushed in the permanent mark--his mark. He conceived me from his mind, hands, and soul. I showed off his mark with pride and respect for the creative inspirations of his imagination and the care he took with his masculine hands to actualize my existence.

Imagination

wooden handmade
the fort ounce changeable
in a young eight year old mind

was it a ship, sky rocket, house,
or even a jungle tent
know body could tell

curly hair flying
in the warm spring air
as she talked to her knew
found friends invisible to
the old adult eye

Water

clear content
liquid
yet to the human touch
nothing

Artistic Sorrow

As she throws the clay
Knocking firmly into place
She man-handles it violently
Push and Push
Until she brings it in to center
She roughly pulls it up-the pot collapses
With the mere force of her hands filled with tension and stress
She collapses-just like her pot
As only drip-drops of tears are heard
Popping in the water bucket

Babies

My day is filled with giggles
With innocent baby faces looking at me
With eyes so big
They lay and sit on the floor loving the squishy blocks
I take one of them into my arms feeling the heartbeat
I play a game bouncing her up and down
She laughs, hands clapping as she bounces on my knee
My eyes sparkle with joy of being a part of their day

Day-Dreaming Creativness!

My secret place is my escape from reality. When I am stressed I take it out on my creativity. I Slap the clay over and over, producing different designs as my hands shifts the clay, it becomes air-less and ready to be mastered by hands, that appear small now, but matched with the force of a motor can create things that haven’t been thought of yet, not even by me. I pull a bat from the shelf concentrating on nothing in this atmosphere, my mind wonders from this world. Gentle whispers come from the radio in the corner above the creaking pipes, unheard at the moment. I sit soaking my hands and frustrations in clean, but not for long, water. I start the wheel as fast as I can, feeling the adrenaline rush of a NASCAR racer, as the clay swiftly moves through my hands. I push through the middle of the clay, I reduce the speed, almost hypnotized by the rotation of the wheel. I stare at the bat for a while spinning it at a medium speed, as shapes with the form from clay drips. I pull the clay with my fingers making the side of the walls appear like ocean waves. The ripples move up the piece, to the rim, and dissolve in to nothingness. I keep making the walls thinner as I push the clay to its limits. It tries to collapse, but soon I have control. I clutch my metal rim in my muddy fingers. I stroke the piece up and down smoothing it appear in to silky ribbons draped around the tall form. I work with my sponge pushing the top in further and further until it gives in with small wrinkles of reluctance. I take this side of a rib down from the neck to the base to create a whimsical spiral. I pull the piece off the wheel; I stare at it for a while. It reminds me of a yellow squash that was growing in my garden. A breeze comes through the open door. I shiver, realizing how close to fall it is. It’s almost time for leaves to fall gracefully off the trees, crows fly in the air, and soon, snow will make its appearance for the first time with soft floating cotton balls that stick to the ground below. I think my summer has ended. No more green grass and budding tulips, no more smells of fresh grass clippings and the sound of the air conditioner filling the hallway. So many inspirations come from my random day dream moments throughout the day. I grab the bat, still gooey from the left over clay. I run out in to the parking lot. I find weeds sporadically poking up in the rocks and pathways around the building. I get many confused stares from the High School students in gym class. I lean down, picking the leaves from the plant. I have to sort through the slightly brown ones that got shocked from the cold weather last night. I bring the leaves that captured my attention in still slightly hypnotized. I pull blue, brown, and green slip from the shelf. Hearing the radio announce tickets for a local band I have never even heard of. I start painting the leaves with small brush strokes as it beads up, appearing to look like mercury; the beads spread apart and regroup around the veins on the unusual surface. The slip sinks in the holes dripping on to my clay covered jeans. I place the leaves on my squash form creating a pattern that matched the spiral impression. I start pealing the leaves off, unleashing the beauty of the mercury beads left around the veins. One starts to drip, I think of dew that I saw coming off of my chrysanthemum this morning. I leave it. I let the drip make a design of its own. I’m not sure where it’s headed, but it’s making my imagination go wild. I start thinking of all the many things it could be, as it slowly drifts down the piece, leaving its last mark on the cement floor. Splatters have become second nature to the floor. It has many drips, drops, and puddles from people letting their art leave an impression, on the multi colored surface. I finish the piece, by making one last impression in the bottom. My stamp is made out of clear acrylic. As I press the stamp deeper and deeper in to the bottom of my squash bottle I can see the clay spreading to make room for the A.M on the stamp. Now it is Complete.

One

This was just a short poem I wrote at school today. Tell me what you think!

One story

One time in my life

One breath on his neck

One stroke with his hand

One lasting look in each other’s eyes

One wrong move of the wheel

One screech of metal on metal

One last scream

One last flash

One moment

One time