Unwanted

Golgotha

Kintsugi

From clay they come in a diversity of shapes

when temperature rises high to cause vitrification

regardless of bone china, hard or soft-pastes

these showpieces are guilt-ridden by association.

Although impermeable, hard and heatproof

as well as chemically and resonance resistant

porcelains crumble under the life's hoof

bull in a China shop smashing in an instant.

As if the brightness of porcelain pieces

and the pulsating red of their brittle hearts

for the horned assailant are very reasons

provoked to burst in by fits and starts.

So the question arises amongst the shards

whether the porcelain or bull is the offender

compunction and contrition prick like barbs

as remorse and guilt get crushed in a blender.

The aforementioned words were lost

in the fire of a rare star were tossed

where terms melt slowly to mullite

stuck in Pele's hair, a knotted fright.

Spirit freezes inside the silicate veins

menacing look shot from bovine gaze

leaving behind their broken remains

flames fanned by heathens, still raze.

Bugs fatally attracted to its heat and glow

a cauldron mistaken for creation kiln

passion pit where they reach an all-time low

burning off their wings with sin.

From dust they were made and to it shall return

never were meant to rest as smithereens in urns

rightfully blown up by yearning raises concern

ceramics' floor marked with memorial cairns.

The weight of loss is palpable in the dust

razor-sharp shambles hiding in the edge

of bladelike mourning painted on their crust

all splinters unite to make a pledge.

Never again to leave a sliver behind

on the floor for customers to trample

mustering pieces for peace of mind

and promising to remain humble.

Tessera art wishes restoration of glory

back to better times, grand and hoary

be storeys tall up on the display racks

instead of looking through this parallax.

There, out of the sky's deep blue

the fragmented wish comes true

unannounced, start meteor showers

a benevolent hand with healing powers.

Disguised as the Midas touch

in the comet's radiant debris

this rain for bits is a nonsuch

which second life does guarantee.

With a sweep of the celestial hand

broken pieces ascend and gather

around the potter on his command

who blesses them with golden batter.

Gold cements the pieces back together

the circulatory system of our universe

is mapped onto the porcelains forever

yet chipped life to perfectionism a curse.

Bubblebath

Ground by the rototiller
mundanity rolls out routine
but thanks to the painkiller
hurt is washed down clean.

Inside this imitation sea
or pond confined in metal
spumy rejuvenation spree
fully restores lost mettle.

Roughed up by brick and mortar
for some respite I implore
while the surface gets hotter
I dive at the chance to explore.

Down lies a different world
liquid dimension of silence
this reality is much preferred
over the regular of compliance.

Bubbles caressing the vigour
and outline of this figure
froth is fleeting breakwater
until it is popped by the marauder.

Time is a buccaneer reminder
wave robbing me of my treasure
wrinkly grip fails to hold tighter
time is up and so's my leisure.

Out of my element a pleasure
it bends time's linear measure
with fragrant and savoury foam
cooked spaghetti hard to comb.

Memory which became a ritual
entered with swift acrosome
a parturition to relive instinctual
salvaged and repaired this flotsam.

When the day is old and out the gate
a bath always lifts the worldly weight
- ''Fizzy upthrust be my blindfold'' -
soft drink worthy of refined gold.

Finding the floral taste unique
taking in liquor as I dive
embraced by currents of mystique
surprised at the sea bed come alive.

Land strips emerge reborn
as a mirage island once torn
plucked from reality and into the blue
a voyage I had to come through.

Dead calm replaced by waves
where salt and sugar merge
at the estuary's tidal bore
joy oozes out from every pore.