Throwing mud
Making a being
From the clay
The essential element
Of the earth
Shaping with molding hands
A vision
Others cannot see
Until it is done
It is a lonely world
The artist vision
That sees beyond
20/20
The wheels turning
Both in the head
And with the manipulation
The earth showing
Its resistance
Just like
The times
When it pulls down
Creation
But there is a stubborn will
The long-sought perfection
He will never know
But the potter’s fingers
Are much more
Than the critic’s eye
His is the path
To an immortality
None of us
While living
Will ever reach

With a yellow pad
And a funeral home pen
I struggle with words
Lining them up
To give meaning
To thought
I have not clearly defined
A line of clarification
So many attempts
Stacks of crumbled yellow
Projectiles that do not reach
The overflowing trash can
I struggle
Stopping to read others
Whose hands is guided
By an intellect
I do not possess
I leave the cross-outs
Starts and stops
Then abandoned pieces
I hope to return to
To give order
To rank and align
Metaphors and similes
Until I please me
Some thoughts
Will not let me go
They come back
In various forms
Scolding me
To find my way
From the dry docks
Where my ambition
Is moored

My fare is basic
Plain bread lines
Water the only beverage
Peasant ramblings
With no interest
In cloth napkins
And finger bowls
The smooth language
Of couplets
Of iambic pentameter
That takes away
From the message
I long to leave
My yarn
Visible without finesse
Is not for everyone
It is bone and marrow
Nothing
To ponder
To find signs and signals
Half-hidden images
Among the cuteness
Of word juggling
I am
Open and available
Exposing
The pure nakedness
Of thought