Ceramics + Writing, dreams

Sleeping with Malachite (part 1)

The owls are perching
On the ladders of my dreams again.
Heavy oppression,
Vacuuming the brilliance out of me.

My flint feeted girl grasping
Her inner world.
Where bells rung,
To set the horses galloping
Through green dust infinity.

What incubus?
Has dropped in my belly of layered terra;
With picks to pluck out
My dream felt exuberance.

To be awaken at 3:00 a.m.
With vacant swan girl stare.
Swathed in ivory guilt.
Did I forget?
The owls are my friends.
Above, with watchful hearts,
They strung up stripes of malachite.

Poem & Ceramic Art: Naomi Ruth W.

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Jay Poem 14.

Amber Nights: The Arrival, The Binding, The Fall

Slay me, you did.
The remnants of me,
Caught, as a fossil
In the sap-like of the night.
I was beguiled by your love…
Spun in the heady amber-burnt midnight.
Fallen beneath your achilles’…
Tangled, in dark muddy roots
Living in the archaic Aspen.
Waiting for you,
To pluck me out of this ground.
To keep in your pocket;
As your shiny souvenir.

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Jay Poem 13.

Parting in Wooded Blues

Your mythical timeline, a spine of rings, encased in a clay box of blues.
Made of the same elements as you.

Around the bend, you’re calling me.
I know when I dream, you bring me here. You shelter me amongst your glowing indigo wilderness. Where you once roamed as a teenaged boy. You must be telling me stories of your play wars. For I wake with vague hiding tactics. And your favorite lines from Watership Down.
You’re too fast to catch, my dear El-Ahrairah. I’m more like Fiver, sensing the danger.
I realize now;
this is where you crossed over the first time you called for me.

When it is my time to surrender, let’s take a stroll around this graveyard bend…
Step into the edge of these woods. Channel timelessly away towards everlasting deliverance.

Poem,Photo, Art : Naomi Ruth

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Jay Poem 12.

Jen Junebearers 

Stepping barefoot out into a leafy glimmering patch.           Junebearers shoo-in little red desires.                                                     O’ how they dazzle my senses.

Like when I was nine and picked all the wild strawberries from Gram’s patch.                                         Couldn’t resist the taste.            With stained fingertips and crimson mouth…I buried the leftover leafy evidence.

That Metamora June, when I was nearly seventeen; I gave you more than a handful of plump red gems. I had somewhere buried my leftover stained heart in that festival ground.

Your daughter, now seventeen, is the Jen gem of June.                        She harvest her own Junebearers with hands like yours.

O’ Junebearers…Junebearers, the truth you hold about June.                 They are here, as you are.                   They are gone, as you are.

Poem: Naomi Ruth

Images: Pinterest and ceramic image: Naomi Ruth

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