|This poem was written for a
contest - the requirement was
that it had to incorporate nine out
of the ten words they provided.
That is one reason this poem
sounds 'forced' in certain parts -
it really was forced!
by Xander Riley
The clay is cold and moist to the touch,
Fingers move with a mind of their own.
Feeling the shape, it forms in your clutch.
As a sculptor, you've entered "The Zone".
In your own world, you work with the clay,
Forming shape with the force of your hands.
A mountain of mud, finding its way
To becoming a figure of man.
Your statue rests in its rightful place,
Brightly lit by the rays of the sun.
The garden gnome has now been replaced
With your sculpture that's second to none.
You smile and gaze at your handiwork
As a flock of birds soars overhead.
A white glob of crap splatters your work,
Then you sin as you wish that bird dead!
© Copyright 2008 Xander Riley