3 result(s) for Healing Pottery Poems.
These poems are completely original - not copied from anywhere. Feel free to use them however you want.
Clay and Mending
Your hands arrive with hollow grief,
a cracked and crumbling vessel's ache.
I wet the clay, I bend, I lift,
and gentle pressure learns to make.
The wheel turns slow, the stillness hums,
as fractured edges find their line.
Each seam I smooth, each thumbprint comes
to hold what once had come undone.
Beneath the glaze, the cracks still show,
the map of every wound you bore.
But kiln-fired fire makes them glow,
and breaking now becomes the core.
So lift your heart, as you would a cup,
and fill it with what life still pours.
For something mended, held, made up,
holds water better than before.
What the Kiln Remembers
Once I was clay, soft as a sleeping breath,
shaped by palms that trusted the turning wheel.
Then fire came, a furnace of patient night,
and the shape I wore broke into pieces.
Now I lie in a bowl of scattered light,
each shard a small country of cracked glaze,
edges that once could only cut or ache,
yet something in me still knows the curve.
Gather me slowly, the potter murmurs,
fit the broken lip against its twin.
With lacquer of gold I am stitched together,
and every seam becomes a river of shine.
I hold water again, though differently now,
my scars drawn bright along my side.
The fired shards remember how to hold,
and I am whole in a shape made of return.
The Kiln Remembers
Once I was a shattered bowl,
shards scattered on a dusty floor,
the kind of break you stop to mourn
and then forget to sweep.
Then water came, a patient rain,
and dust, that quiet clay of earth,
was kneaded soft between my hands
until the broken found its worth.
I pressed each fracture, slow and close,
let slip seal the seams with grace,
and what was torn began to hold
the shape of an unbroken place.
Now fired within the kiln's warm heart,
I carry every crack as line,
a map of where I used to be,
and what I'm strong enough to shine.
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