Gallery

what fragments lay in stone and silent wait
for sunrise creeping stealthily through dark
to back-light marbled forms who knew Petrarch
truncated arms which strain to touch and sate
a cold and calculated yearning carved
in everlasting porous rock compressed
as otherworldly beauty barely dressed
they stand exposed and gorgeous, proud yet starved
to feast on passion's fragments etched inside
by sculptors long since sated, fed and dead
who pounded love with hammer, chisel, sweat
from abstract concept into sanctified
emotion pulsing from unbreathing stone;
stories bled from humankind alone

Reviews

[...]

. oh, how i wish i was a sculptor ... and ... if not ... then a poet who could sculpt poems like you can ... this is the kind of word artistry that astonishes and startles and then inspires and empowers ... spectacular work, monsieur joel ... i could praise the instances of alliteration and your perfect deployment of an amazing vocabulary forever ... what a treat this piece is ... for any poetry lover ... thank you for this post ...

[Joel M Frye]

Your most effusive praise touches my heart, mlle. serah. Thank you.

[...]

. thou art very welcome, monsieur joel ...