Lori Witzel's pictures, poems and other souvenirs and artifacts.
shots such as these provide their own poetry.
lori, I picture tiny white clay pots being placed in these on long wooden pizza paddles (but the chopping of the kindling must be just gruesome, if you ask me)
Two words is a little short, but I think "cold kiln" qualifies as a poem, actually.
Hm. I read it as a nine-word poem.
Sleeping orifices... I can just imagine them glowing orange and belching flames!
Wow. These reminded me of severed robot heads vindictively nailed to the fortress wall by the sadistic victor of the 25th-century automated war.Either I need more coffee, or less.
Cold Kiln. No poems fit;maybe some will later. Not so very long agowhen your strong handskneaded my warm clay;when your wheel spun me and I dizzily tookwhatever shapeyour fancy required. When I glowed red and my eyes glazed over with pleasure.All done now. Just ash, a fine grey ash and unpaid fuel bills.Cold kiln. No poems fit.
I rather like David's fancy. Very fine patterns.
Herodotus, "If you will pay me for my song, O potters"?
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