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His eyes are disks, His teeth are jacks. His arms sinewed with cables With gold along his back. A spark of electricity
wheel thrown pottery coils of clay willingly yield- master potter's touch . . © 2019 by Mark T. All rights reserved. . .
that piece of clay that i became so long ago in the montains rain crafted by God put together again that piece of clay a pot filled to the brim. that piece of clay
We all begin as lumps of clay Shapeless Colorless Full of potential I was a small lump But I knew what I could do I knew I had so much to offer And with that thought, I grew
Wiser hands with more experience mold younger ones into shapes positions designed to mimic their own The paintbrush between my hands is not angled quite like hers She makes a single, long stroke across the white page
Two clay people born at the same time have never met
A piece of clay on the molding board Constructed by the hands of an artist and teacher Purpled by inky fingers I spin in a whirlwind as the wheel rotates
Pots Everywhere. Glaze on the table. People building animals. Teapots strewn around the room. Teacher telling what to do.
Notes fill the air Where there was a void previously is filled with a beat Beats that resounded with the heart Boom boom boom Ba-dum Ba-dum Ba-dum Each pulse sends energy into a limb
Every rose has its thorn, you say,
Eyes softened, Spirit felt the heart of God in tenderly melt. Golden glow your piercing gaze reflects His love in treasured clay. Reaching farther, searching more
Words swirl inside my head like pillars of light, I grasp onto the strands and wait: I wait for them to makes sense, Incoherent buzzes of truth are all I have.
Hands knead and press slippery clay Earth centered on the wheel Spinning Round and round Vase rises up from shapeless clay Form leaps up Falls down