and now, a badly written poem

I started a lump of wet clay
No structure. Just potential.
Shapeless to everything but the mind’s eye.

Inspiration, devoted careful sculpting
made me what I am;
Always patient, willing to try again
when my flaws made me difficult to handle.

So many times, the artist could have thrown me aside.
Useless, no value, not worth the effort.
But that was not to be my path.

Every turn of the wheel
Shaped me, gave me depth, strength,
Capacity to endure. And everytime
I failed…
The artist tried again.

And when I could be trusted
To stand without falling
To hold this shape I’d been given
Into the kiln, those gentle hands delivered me.

My artist is gone. I withstand the fires
That will keep me the way I was intended
To be. I remain a testament to the care
and patience it took to create me,
As my maker would have wanted.



Happy Birthday, Mum. You wolud have been fifty six today.

Sept 1, 1950- Dec 12, 2005