#object poetry

[definegodliness]

Once In My Hands

Stones and pebbles, So different to my eye, ever since I felt what magic the human touch May infuse; warmth, or cool, softness, And even a sensed malleability. Eyes closed, I feel: protection, healing, And, yes, love.

Still, I rarely pick them up. Even when they whirr or shimmer, I hesitate, doubt-ridden; These catalysts will never know your touch, And I fear, if I'd touch, without feeling much, The magic I once knew Will be lost.

--- 27-4-2026, M.A. Tempels ©

[definegodliness]

Bobby Pins

I shouldn't even Be talking to you, bobby pin, I should just be able to Casually throw you away.

Why shouldn't I be able to?

You weren't mine to begin with; You weren't ever meant to stay.

No, don't even go there.

You're making my hand tremble. Stop giving yourself Weight.

--- 23-4-2026, M.A. Tempels ©

[redhotrabbit]

The Written Word

Today I walked into a classrom A kind of Nest for young fledglings And saw the blackboard There were all kinds of chalk with Colors ranging from Cotton And Emerald to Wonderful Wisteria Since today, St. Georges’ Feast Day, Is the anniversary of Shakespeare’s birth, and of his and Cervantes’ death, the Boundary Waters Are those of the Avon, Ebro, and Duero Rivers Somewhere A Hermit Crab…

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[c-hrxsalism-blog]

A poem I wrote for English after being given the topic "shelves"

I am in the background,

Only used when they have nowhere else to go.

I am heavy,

Weighed down by years of regrets, fears, and memories.

I am weathered,

Torn down by a millenia of use and disregard.

I am ever-present,

Still here, standing tall, even when I am forgotten.

I am resillient,

Strong, sturdy, and never breaking under the pressure put on me.

[brookeshodges]

Pen & Paper

Scratches on the paper

The pen leaves in its path

Scratches on the paper

As changes come at last Imprints on the paper

The pen leaves in its wake

Imprints on the paper

That one cannot forsake Pen & paper together

Can a story make

Pen & paper together

A match that one can’t shake

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[radiant-array]

there were things to say

about poppyseeds

all lined up in my head but

i had to feed the rabbit

i guess my brain knows

what is important

and what isn't　

[radiant-array]

tonight i will write poetry about objects

broken glass

poppyseeds

oh uh i guess this one isn't object poetry

neither is this one

i will keep a list here　

[appstateerika-blog]

The Key

Every time that he clangs against a neighbor, he sings, he jingles, almost as if he is rejoicing despite his shining, cold, angry, tough exterior.  Whether I want him to or not, he goes ahead and announces my comings and leavings.  A name is etched deeply into his very own skin (if you could even call it such).  The name is not his to claim, it shows that there are a million of his kind.  At one time he looked just like everyone else, until a man with a  calloused touch picked him up out of a faceless tin sea, and carved him a jagged smile. Now he spends his days hanging on a silver loop with new friends.  He delights in the way that his deep ridges and grooves cast shadows in the sunlight,  sighs happily when he feels his cold, stiff smile slide almost effortlessly between the gears of a rusted farmhouse doorknob the very first time. Who else can say that his grin alone can open home's doors?