These pots are part figure, part pot. The head acts as a stopper. The body is the container and it sometimes separates into more than one pot.

The extra treat here is that they are a collaboration with runner-up PA Poet Laurete Ann Laslo. She first wrote the poems, and then they inspired the pots.

Summer Letter

I’ve got my junga-bunga earrings on and the elephant toe necklace, too.
Chil, it be hotter here than any ol place in jiggy-jiggy land. We all’s movin real slow. Don’t feel no cooler though … bunga-bunga … I gotta quit this jubba-jubbin.
Shucks, ain’t like I got pink potted palms or a blue frond patio.

Your visit was oh-so-rambunctious I stepped back from
a sinner’s precipice: almost mailed a well-adjusted epistle instead.
Started to ransack tossoffs, but it’s way too hot for . . .
Hell. I’ll just write another. Something to do in front of the fan.

Slow kisses, a fast fan, maybe the river, no clothes, broad daylight.
Speaking of broads, one of those For Hire ones stopped at Cigarette Man’s looking
to buy rubbers, wanted blue packages, turned up her nose at black
wrappers. Unemployables gawked, lolling idle, their usual disaster speculations and

Sideline fantasies blasted to kingdom come by the roar of the air conditioners.
So anyway, after this broad bought the Blue Boogaloos and flicked her chicky behind as she sashayed out the door, Cigarette Man moaned Whew! and a wrinkled sage
grinned Anybody who’s gonna have go at that be true victim of this heat.

As for me, I’m kindred mind wid one o dem freed slaves turned shifless skonk just
cause der ain’t no cat-o-nine-tails a-crackin; shufflin ‘way from maudlin
bout never knowing what’s next by foraging for saveables in dark
shady places. Horseflies swagger but they can’t fool me.
Real men don’t do muggy summers, proved in point and

Fact by your retreat North and the Young Boy’s dash West
where he says he’ll place big bet for me if I promise not to do
anything rash and still be here when he gets back.
Love can be excruciating tease just like you said.
That the Young Boy will swing on a dancer’s tassle
and maybe even foist fists of dollars
seems as blessed a sure thing right now as knowing
full well that any traipses of mine down the blacktop tonight
will just glop tar on my heels.

 

Ann Laslo

Storm Fishing

From dock is heard That salt's been lucky,
though bundled fishers know their business.
Big fish snared with nasty chum is best risked
by the calloused; they don't care their skin
gets shredded. Bloodied palms and whipped up
weather come with games of cheap trick catchings.

It's no big deal shrug the crusty. Why waste sun,
long line, bright feathers, when bad bait
hurled on grey chopped waters brings
the monster fishes thrashing? With slickered hands
through downpour's sizzle they slice scales swiftly,
pause and sigh, Wasn't luck or frothed up
water got these prize fish into trouble.

Ann Laslo

 

The Big Fish

Large dark flitted
shadows cast by too many
Unspoken Things
swim in the
deepest waters
beneath
the waves of
our expressions.

 

Ann Laslo

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