Best Crocheting Poems
i g n o r a n c e~
is a rhyme without soul
an art of f a d i n g into oblivion...
like crestfallen tulips
twirling through tethered rays
in the midst of seething sighs...
and I am more than the
blazing thorn
of a phoenix rose moon,
infused in scarlet elixirs
of a sorcerous twilight,
weaving l o v e
in golden glows
amidst double-flamed scales
burning my velvety h e a r t...
pondering, would you
be the galactic gardener
that waters
my weathered spirit
when I am but
a mere memento~
tangled in
vindictive vines of vanity,
for I have a voice
I sing in garnet grace...
if tomorrow
you feel my heartbeat
between vintage verses
of a scentless sonnet
long forgotten, and e r a s e d
remember,
I am the silk and sage
and the untamable
silhouette
of a balmy blossom
that refuses to breathe
in the ossuary
of perished petals,
and wrinkled dreams,
ostracized by
chauvinistic thistles
and unpolished ink
pricking the soft stems
facing cyclones of greed
c i r c l i n g
in sheer arrogance....
tonight I trace the hyacinth heat
of unwavering zest,
drawing sanguine
smoke of love
with winged gossamer
tied to the redolent roots
of unblemished skylines
while crocheting
petrichor promises
unto the backbone of
a nocturnal garden,
where handmade
wreaths of hope and faith
feel softer than lunar light~
as this heart resembles
a maternal bouquet
of burgundy b l i s s ...
a woman who heeds not
misogynistic mantras ...
HOW I LOVE CROCHETING....HOW IT RELAX ME SO....
EVERY TIME I USE MY CROCHET HOOK....
I'M SOMEWHERE ELSE...FAR AWAY I LOOK...
WHETHER I'M DOWN IN WONDERLAND....
WHETHER I'M IN A SILK RED GOWN,LIKE IN OUT LANDER...IN SCOTLAND....
WHETHER I'M DAY DREAMING OF A MUCH BETTER LIFE....
FAR,FAR,AWAY IN BRIGADOON...AS SOMEONE'S FUTURE WIFE....
OR EVEN IN A COUNTRY FARM HOUSE WITHIN MY DREAMS....
WHILE I CROCHETING ANYTHING....ISN'T WHAT IT SEEMS....
CROCHETING IS MY FAVORITE DRUG....
AT LEAST IT KEEPS AWAY FOOLISH WHORES AND THUGS....
LIFE IS WAY TOO DAMNED SHORT TO BE SWEEPING UP SOMEBODY ELSE'S RUGS....
FROM A BABY SACK OF RAINBOW COLORS DELIGHT....
TO A TINY WEE CHILD'S CLOAK...VERY WARM FOR A VERY COLD NIGHT....
A WHITE WEDDING CLOAK....YES,I MADE THAT,TOO.....
AND EVEN MULTI~COLORED PATCHES...FOR A BLANKET,I HELPED LADY SUE...
MUFFIN CAPS,AND EVEN SHAWL WRAPS...
AND I'VE EVEN CROCHETED,UNTIL I TOOK A NAP...
HAPPINESS,IN THIS ART I DO....
I EVEN BEEN INSPIRED BY A CLOAK MADE BY FIRST NATION INDIANS AT THE OAKLAND MUSEUM OF CALIFORNIA...AND I'M STILL NOT THROUGH....
CROCHETING EVEN SAVED MY LIFE....
BARELY A YEAR I JOINED BEFORE MY BELOVED MOTHER HAD DIED...
THIS BE MY TRIBUTE TO WHAT I DO...
LIFE IS WONDERFUL,THROUGH AND THROUGH....
HARD TIMES COME...AND HARD TIMES GO....
BUT,CROCHETING...IN TRUTH FULFILLS MY SOUL....
THIS BE MY HAPPINESS...THIS BE MY GOAL....
CROCHETING IS A HELL OF A DRUG...THAT I MUST CONFESS....
IT FULFILLS MY NIRVANA...NO LESS...!
I remember you holding me in your arms
Rocking me gently while singing lullabies
I remember when you lived a short walk away
Relatives were local and get-togethers were the norm
I remember your amazing purple mohair sweater
You knit exquisitely and wore so gracefully
I remember your scented creams and signature ring
I never grew tired of holding your hand
And telling you how much I loved you
I remember watching in awe your bedtime routine
As you meticulously undid your braided coif
Dropping your soft wavy hair to your waist
I remember you never missed Sunday mass
And held on to that glow throughout the week
You knew about plants with their healing powers
Neighbors came to you for answers and advice
I remember how you would scrape savings for travel
Always working in visits to friends who had moved away
I remember the aroma of the pies you baked
After tireless hours of quilting, sewing, weaving
Embroidery, knitting, crocheting, and whatever else
I remember there was nothing you couldn’t do
You started tutoring me when I was three
And probably earlier as I was eager to learn
It was my favorite form of play
I remember hearing your schoolhouse stories
I’d picture a little house in a field and your teacher attire
Your turn-of-the-century class full of kids
Then I’d let you continue teaching me to read, write and count
Though I wasn’t yet of school age
I remember being uprooted and moving to the country
Leaving city life and you behind
I remember how good life was when I had you
To turn to for support and guidance
Or just for your warm bountiful embrace
I remember getting that gut wrenching feeling
That bitter call in the middle of the day
As I was told the crushing news
I would never again see, touch or hold you
How can I not remember
The inconsolable devastation that never dimmed
Published in my 24-page photo/anthology ~ALWAYS WITH ME~ 2020
AP: 1st place 2026, 1st place 2020
Submitted on September 26, 2017 for contest LOVE FOR MOVIE SCREEN sponsored by SILENT ONE - RANKED 2ND
Even islands get lonely
Like weaving palm leaves to make baskets
Like crocheting to make a pair of socks
We need each other
The threads that connect us all
The webs that we leave behind
As we meet each other
As we befriend each other
As we spend bits of time with each other
As we are there for each other
Add us years, that hold us dear
Happiness Is:
Hearing and singing my favorite songs,
Accomplishing tasks that've been planned for so long.
Spending a day with a needle or hook,
Crocheting or stitching, or reading a good book.
Creative juices abundantly flowing,
Keeping poetic endeavors fruitful and growing.
Baking chocolate chip cookies on a cold winter's day,
And sharing with friends - it's better that way.
Inner security, freedom from fear,
Nestling close to my husband, so dear.
Hugs from my sons given "just because",
Spending time with family, including in-laws.
But what makes me happiest each and every day,
Is knowing God loves me and for my sins He paid.
Each day I awaken knowing God's on His throne,
And no matter what happens, I'm never alone.
12/7/2011 for Carol Brown's Being Happy contest
I am the crocheting granny,
the one who carries ample hooks
within a floral bag and yarn-a-plenty,
making baby blankets from how-to books.
I am the crocheting granny,
who looks forward to learning new stitches,
creating patterns of colorful design,
until I stumble upon some glitches.
I am the crocheting granny
who frequents all the hobby stores,
searching for sales to satisfy my need
as I walk briskly through their doors.
I am the crocheting granny
who enjoys attending baby showers,
sharing my hand-made gifts with delight
which my fingers worked for hours.
I am the crocheting granny,
finding delight in all my projects,
spanning over the years,
cherishing my hobby objects.
December 14, 2017
under my bed
under invasion!
invaded by piles
of migrating balls!
dust rolls around
gathered in piles
piles tied in bundles
some are like pillows
pillars of feathers
pillows that billow
billowing towers
blooming like flowers
flowers I've gotten
flowers of cotton
curled cotton swirls
cotton-tail squirrels
squirrels in soft slippers
squirrels having litters
quicker to litter
litters are wooly
wool climbs the stairs
wool everywhere
bagfuls inhabit
spinning more rabbits
maintaining their habits
crocheting more rabbits
angora type rabbits
contagious civilians
into the millions
villain dust devils
spinning more fellows
devils in herds
please spread the word
herds I can't stop
bunnies that hop
stop them producing
don't mind the cursing!
searching the room for my broom
cursing the doom of a lint baby boom
copulation
problem making
populating
propagating weed
weeds and seeds, please take your leave
squirrels and rabbits hop hop hop
it's in the halls, like lint from sheep
I'm steeped in lint and I can't keep things clean!
When sheep need sleep,
they creep back
under
my bed!
_____________________________________________________
What Was, What Wasn't, What Is
At the time that I was born, well I don't remember.
It must have been good. As I grew a little bit, I notice
that life was not so good. One day I was given away to
a couple that adopted me. They raised me. Life was good
for some years. I went to school, I learned to read and write.
I also learned to work. That was then a way of life, the way it was.
One day I grew up and fell in love. It didn't last but two years, until
I had a baby and I was left all alone. My parents did not approved of
my boyfriend. He was not of my race. I was thrown out of the house.
The Wedding plans we had went down the drain. I didn't have the baby
until two years after I was out of the house. That was the way it wasn't.
Now in my twilight years - my daughter is all grown up with children of
her own. Her dad never saw her until she was forty years old. To me that
was like sweet revenge. I have taken many trips to the hospital. it's no fun,
but I'm still breathing. Now I sit here and write my stories and poems, that
I share with other writers. I also do arts and crafts and crocheting. I sit and
write or read poetry. That gives me pleasure and something to do. This is how it is.
05/23/2014
written by Lucilla M. Carrillo
Continued from Part 1
The Beggars ’neath the balustrades,
and broken Children, Chambermaids,
are running wild from wraiths, afraid
of dreams where death redoubles.
They fritter time with tattered threads
(from ragged clothes they’ve left in shreds),
crocheting hoods to hide their heads
and faces, full of rubble.
But many things will not remain
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
when goblets filled with cool champagne
evaporate in bubbles.
The White-Robed Maid adorns the trash
with charnel urns awash in ash,
then fumbles with an untied sash
while pacing in the Palace.
Her hopes congeal in coffee spoons
with memories adrift in dunes;
yet, still she smiles with teeth like prunes
and lips of painted callus.
And long before the midnight drains,
the Saviour wakes, the Loser gains,
the waters of the Hurricanes
will fill her empty chalice.
The storm (behind the clarinets,
the silver flutes, the castanets,
the foghorns belching in quartets,
the bagpipes, puffed and swollen)
is keeping time to tambourines
while Tom Thumb and the Four-Inch Queen,
pick up the shards and smithereens
of moments lost or stolen.
They’re trekking through the Dim Domains
(where fountains weep, the mountain wanes),
yet can’t escape the Hurricanes
with trundling eyes patrollin’.
The Crowds (arrayed in jewels) in jails,
stoop, peering through a fence of nails
while light behind their eyeballs pales
with plastic flame that sputters.
They huddle there because they must
(with eyelids hung like peeling rust,
their tears, palled pellets in the dust),
behind the bolted shutters.
They’ll reawake without their pains
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
without their sores, without their stains,
their agonies will fill the drains
and overflow the gutters.
End
Another crossroad.
Invalids weep when
wearing another's
soiled diapers suddenly
disappear.
In spite of the battered off-chance -
from a despondent interruption;
I'm the exposed exception.
Coarse fingers bleed.
My wheelchair spokes
are hardly friendly.
I proudly bawl when no one
can see me bow my head
amongst the company of
irreverent observers.
At rest
with this solemn disease -
the embrassing stench of inhumanity
forces me to open a
newly glass-stained window.
I whisk swallowed past-killings
onto bent steel hangers.
Neatly there, they elegantly droop -
angled and uninteresting;
in a dank closet where
falsified myths
and I
silently hide.
Leukemia, I personally, thank you.
Mid wives laugh at me.
Jesters poke a crooked finger, also.
Kings, queens
and jacks are left behind.
I chuckle, too - with an
unbridled Lucille Ball lament.
Four spaded-aces and a forgotten spittoon;
the uninviting hospice where we
comfortably bed together
crocheting darned finales.
Say farewell.
Don't tell anyone.
Blood bleeds beyond
frowned staled dales and
expiration is a personal moment.
Daddy and Mommy need to witness
the definition of
an unwarranted demise.
Open ended the
Grimm fairy tale concludes,
without a finely tuned
Aesop moral,
leashing the braille-exhausted
onto another muddied
crossroad.
I feel the spirit of Christmas all around me
The spirit of Christmas is in the air
Especially during December
The spirit of Christmas is all around me
It’s buying coffee or tea for a homeless person to warm their insides
It’s writing a letter to a friend or relative
It’s knitting and crocheting and then giving your knitted and crocheted items to the needy
It’s giving your time to volunteer
The spirit of Christmas
It’s all around me
it gives me chills and makes me smile
I feel the spirit of Christmas all around me
The spirit of Christmas is in the air
The spirit of Christmas is all about contributing to society and making a difference one step at a time
Though still as loving, still as kind and gentle, still as beautiful as they were in days of yore…
today’s grandmas are a different breed than the grandmas who came before.
Although they still share some similarities…the love they freely give…that twinkle in their eye…
the ways we use to think of grandmas…those old cliches…
to modern grandma’s don’t apply…
Grandmas of old were called Grandma…only Grandma…
at least all the grandmas I ever knew…
today we call them Nana, Gigi, Oma and YaYa just to name a few.
Grandmas were once characterized sitting in rocking chairs,
smiling crocheting with other grandmas…their needles kept neatly in a tin…
Today’s grandmas still smile while they sing and dance
and now…rock any chair they happen to be sitting in.
Grandmas were known for baking cookies…and driving slow…like they were in a coma…
Today’s grandmas still bake awesome cookies but drive like they’re at Indianapolis or Daytona.
Grandmas were once depicted as old ladies…wearing glasses with their white hair in a bun…
Today’s grandmas let their hair down…and are all about the fun.
We didn’t think old grandmas ever took a drink…
they were too busy knitting…or talking to one another
Today’s grandmas can be found with a cocktail in one hand
and their grand-baby in the other.
Yes, although modern grandmas some new skills and behaviors have amassed
they still share some important qualities…with our grandmas of the past.
Nothing will ever replace the feeling of a Grandma’s hug
or wonder of a Grandma’s smile…
and love, generosity and caring will never go out of style.
We learned this from our old grandmas…
saw the love and the magic in their resolve….
and isn’t it wonderful to see in our modern grandmas
how that love and magic has evolved.
She handed me a pattern for her bridesmaid dress
Intricate it was, and the fabric was sleek
My sewing machine skipped ‘tween each stitch, I confess
Knowing some proportions I’d still have to tweak
Tessa had a figure resembling a milk carton
So I reinforced each thread by hand with great care
Some proportions were large, but she was no Dolly Parton
And there was not an inch of fabric left to spare
Each of the twelve panels that formed the bodice
Were ironed and carefully set into place
(It wasn’t the first gown I’d made; I was no novice)
You should have seen how I stretched the skimpy lace
A French stitch was needed to prevent any fraying
Each night for three weeks I spent hours on this dress
The neckline require extensive crocheting
Finally I brought it to her, hoping to impress
In the weeks that had passed, Tessa had overeaten
And the pattern size twelve should have now been eighteen
The gown was perfectly stitched, but her diet did sweeten
A mirror wouldn’t suffice; she needed a wide screen
I charged not a penny for the work I had done
While other bridesmaids paid four-hundred or more
As Tessa squeezed into the dress, seams came undone
In the rear she resembled a huge wild boar
Since there was no more fabric available
Little could be done to ease Tessa’s anger
Her accusations of incompetence were highly debatable
Her gown simply looked far better on a hanger
*True story. Made many gowns and costumes for friends at no cost, but this was the last. LOL
Written Sunday, March 23, 2014 for Verlena S. Walker’s contest
Stoking The Dream Machine
by Gabriel Magno
the rocking horse stood idle, the tricycle had rusted,
the grown up children had their share, and now are well adjusted.
Virginia mountains’ hollows, filled with dirt poor children playing,
in blue jeans stained with red mud, as grandmas sat crocheting.
the knock-kneed mailman suffers, as he walks through Winter’s blizzards,
the hobos near the railroad track, place bets and race their lizards.
the last train passing through, arrived at noon from Corpus Christi,
with sailors who had made a run, to barrooms serving whisky.
and me I’m passing time, as I try hard in understanding,
how crows atop the mayor’s car, did such a perfect landing.
here comes the ice cream truck, the silver bell is ringing,
the children playing in the park, drag feet to stop their swinging.
In droves the town folks came, to see the tiny tight rope walker,
the ticket seller smiles, as ladies swoon to this fast talker.
the bluebird circles in the air, to gather monarch butterflies,
If this a dream I’m floating in, I hope and pray it never dies.
Wedges
He looked at me
huge chestnut wedged
in happy teeth,
bushy tail,
fully fluffed,
soft warning
of a hard winter
approaching.
He did not have time
to talk
no chatter today,
only business,
no time to dance
with the Robins,
confer with the
Cardinals,
hang around the
water cooler.
The Vee’s of summer
honking
as they battle the
gridlock of migration,
a strange mimicking
of the farewell
to Cape Cod -
back-ups at the
Bourne and Sagamore
bridges. The warmth
of summer would
recede, as a late tide
on sunset’s emptying beach,
the cool ocean breeze
erase the evidence
from the sand.
Seagulls would bemoan
the shortage
of French fries,
return to the
fishing boats and
a sushi diet.
Dogs will sit
and whine as
they watch the
children disappear
into the big yellow boxes.
The brushstrokes of Fall
will color the horizon,
groups of crispy,
crayola colored leaves
dance around the
trunks of trees,
crocheting a quilt
to tuck under the
chin of old shade.
The songs
the tones and tenor,
the daily demeanor
will take on an urgency,
a purpose.
The squirrel stops,
perhaps a rodent
coffee break, sits
on the fence,
in the sun
as if reflecting,
and is off again
to the base of the
old Chestnut tree
to fill his mouth
with wedges of
the future.
For Kelly Deschler Summer’s End contest
8/28/2014