Wednesday, August 10, 2016

If Poets Were Potters entry #2

by Edgar Plastic Kaolin

Once upon a midnight dreary
Eyes rimmed red, bloodshot, and bleary
Again my kiln is in no hurry
Waiting on the cones once more
So far I’ve barely bent cone 4
Only this and nothing more

Nodding off just kills my neck it
Dawns on me I ought to check it
Pull the peep hole from the back it
Shows a slightly bent cone four
Still a slightly bent cone four
Only this and nothing more

Maybe I’ll adjust the damper
This kiln's causing me to hanker
For a kiln I need not pamper
Computer-controlled so to ensure
I’d never again be stuck at four
Just cone four and nothing more

I’ll admit, I’m mildly pissed off
A month’s production will be kissed off
If this rocket never lifts off
But stays right here, stuck at cone four
Only four, and nothing more
It’s no wonder I stay poor


  1. the experience of so have such away with clay AND words!

  2. Dear sir,

    Roses are red.
    Violets are blue.
    You're a great potter,
    and quite the poet, too.

    Your prose and pots are inspiring.
    Please, keep it up!
    Many thanks.

    1. Thanks for reading and thanks for the comments. I appreciate them very much.