I was merely clay
My master's hands molded me,
Shaped me to her own desire.
She loved me dearly,
telling me daily, how beautiful I was,
sharing with me her struggles.
All I knew, all the words that came out of my mouth,
a reflection of her, it was.
Only in her hands, held in captivity,
never seeing the light of day.
People looked at me from the sidelines,
not knowing what I was becoming
- a hardened soul.
I was with no one else for long enough,
I never knew the perspectives of others.
All I knew was the lessons she imparted.

One fine day I was put through the fire
Intense flames, I screech and scream,
begging for help.
Yet no one knew me,
no one was willing to help.

Eventually I left the fire,
Hardened, and cautious,
looking at everyone who did not come to my rescue.
I would never let anyone near me,
Never let anyone shatter me.

Little did I know she was the one who put me through the flames.

She no longer has control,
I am being put out there,
But I am hardened,
void of emotion, void of feeling,
I am in circles. I don't know how to leave this loop.

the clay watched with rented breath
the red robe genuflect before
the dirt-dark nailed wood.

strange words were uttered
choral echoes flew
they too would bend their knees
those veiled long hair
those oval faces with scanning eyes.

the red robe spoke
they moved the corners of their mouths
till they were too far
they nodded, and nodded, and nodded
they did not know how to stop.
the red robe did not speak
he read from two slabs.

the air cracked by a
tip-toe cadence of metallic muttering
they held their breath
but there was panting.

with one unseen flicker
that stole as fast as
light shot from up beyond
there
perched on that dirt-dark nailed wood
a dove of light of blinding vaporous whiteness.

we hid our eyes.
our faces too.

we only saw a tall slender spiral staircase
that ascended a long, long,
long way.

Is a poem a rhythmic rhyme?
A singsong tune with a catchy chime?
Is it a work of heart or head?
Is it always meant to be read?

Poems need not be rhythmic,
Don't you see?
Nor need they rhyme.
Point proven.

No work of heart could feel so dead,
But works of head, they aren't warm.
And as for if they are to be read,
We know it is not always the form.

If poems are for money,
Why write for lovers?
If they are for love,
Why write for fame?

No, poems can be none of these things.
None alone, but perhaps a mix,
Some of some, others of the rest,
And so we deduce what poems are:

Poems are clay.

I miss the feeling of clay under my hands
A spinning wheel, my foot on the pedal.
The rough silver plate always sands
Down the skin on my hand but I don't mind

I can build vessels out of the earth
Pulling cups and bowls up from the ground
In this instant, my hands are worth
A thousand vases glazed in gold

I dip them in thick buckets of color
And place the ceramic uncertainties in the furnace
We both come alive in fire
And emerge even stronger than before

I am beauty, as a dream of jade
And my body, bruised where everyone stands
Has now been awakened by poetry, in a manner of love
That is eternal but silent

It is like a temple of earth
Along which columns of clay gush out
Which observes us, and all of man through an unfamiliar gaze

Never have I laughed, never have I cried
For I detest the flow of such emotion
All I do is but stand still, silent as a cemetery
Unblessed, cursed, revered by all of man

Wrap your arms around me,
lets mold ourselves like clay.
Two separate pieces,
Both an off shade of grey.

Wrap your heart around me,
Let's paint ourselves like trees.
You are yellow; I am blue,
But together we make green.

Wrap your soul around me,
Lets write ourselves a poem.
I lose myself in words
Yet you always bring me home.

And as I lie here I think of you, to bring me back to my dream of yesterday. Sleeping sound on my island listening to that Leonard Cohen play, hoping that dream will become reality by day, being with you is golder than the dragons treasure and gem named Kai turns my mind to clay.