Best Hems Poems
The old screen door still welcomes me, a familiar song I've heard before..
But oddly now, it's out of tune. It has a wail of some despair
After this,...who'll pass this way?
Will they use the rug and wipe their feet, erase away the grime or sleet?
Or will they even care?
I feel my pulse and lungs collide, then take a breath and step inside
I've been asked to come, to clear the house
To organize, and set it right…
But it all seems wrong….
To trespass on the throne of life
that was softly lived, behind a gate where thirsty roses bloom and wait…
I hesitate….
to disturb the lace on drop-leaf tables…
Disgrace the quiet of the gloom
To open drawers, snoop and sort, ….a pruning,
of the good, the used, from worn and torn
My hands are able, but my heart declines..
what isn’t mine, to toss, to find, to mark, and label…
She had lived alone, the last to go,
one somber dawn, in the old brownstone.
Without a hint her time was near
But silently, without fanfare, death tiptoed in and closed the door,
beyond the path that brought me here
Echoes of her old straw broom
swept years away from every room
The dust motes in the window light
now spark and light each memory…
Soft treadle sounds from sewing hems, are recalled by the August wind,
that rattle windows, shaking blooms, in this waning afternoon
There are questions I would like to ask,
but I can’t recall just what they were
No matter now….with no one here
I must keep focused on my task…
Keep sorting, tagging, tossing, clearing…
How strange it is, how odd it seems,
the last thing found, brown paper bound
was tucked away, and gently loved.
Her china cup, her favorite one, so lovely in my hand,
would last beyond her grave, intact
Long shadows have closed the afternoon.
A letting go, and a fading sun
My task is done. And I must go
I'll keep the cup, and hold it close
It's a witness to a world unknown
Some fragile things are never gone
A gypsy dance enthralls the stars
into a twirl of rustling hems
as women tap bare feet, guitars
lift twiddling notes of lore’s anthems
along a woodland’s lively fest,
where beaded hair glides in thrilled zest
to charm night’s hours...to romp away
till wagon drifts when morning strays.
My destiny number is 7, though I chose
my path number 8--- jan 8
rispetto form in 8 lines
------------
Andrea Dietrich's Tell Me Your Number Contest
Armed with chainsaws in the field, two young men are shirtless guests
with shoulders bronzed by sun and sweat.
The timbre in the August sun has scattered birds and stirred unrest
The tree they'll slay has leaves of gold,
lacing branches frail and old, - but now its time is spent
Rising from his afghan nest, a man peers out the window glass
to witness as the death unfolds.
As one who brought the seedling home, he waits to see the giant fall
He holds his breath, but not his tears. Age and illness hems the years.
And just as earth might moan in pain, the tree comes tumbling down
There was a day, not long before, ....before his war began
Back then he could lift a saw like that, ..hold it skillfully, carefully, casually
Angle down, - angle up, - cut a wedge, - hear it crack
Now there's pathos in dust-driven clouds
that shadows an earth that has lost its sun
It trembles now to catch its breath.
And branch by branch it lays to rest the leaves of courage, a golden crest,
that was shelter, home, a fortress blessed, a place to lean to find solace
A tree, ... nor a man cannot be defined
by disease, confinement, by age or time
A tree falls down. It is nature's plan
to open the field, while clearing the land
What came before, grows new today,
The void that's left cannot be filled,
and tears we shed cannot be stilled
His leave will make a louder sound
The dust will rise. Trees burn to ash
What matters most is never lost
Oh yes, how it shatters the fragile heart!
Oh God, how it matters, how could it not?
- But, the man and the tree have earned a rest
____________________________________________________________
6/6/17
You’re beautiful my country where mountains gather snow.
Where forest giants of many years are left alone to grow.
Where rivers in your forest still run so crystal clear.
You’re beautiful my country where lyrebird’s carol near.
You’re beautiful my country where lakes are rolled with mist.
Where breaking of your new dawn each leaf with dew is kissed.
When sunrise hems the eastern clouds to silhouette your hills.
You’re beautiful my country when I feel your morning chills.
Your wagon ruts are distant, drifting further back in time.
Through outback and forest, last century scars are hard to find.
Where our pioneer gantry’s stood over mullock heaps laid bare.
Tramlines descended from your bush, campfires filled your open air.
We’ve made grasslands out of forests. Farm where swamp used to be.
From underground raised mountains. Drowned glens for inland sea.
Yet with changing of your face you still refuse to die!
You’re beautiful my country where working hands apply.
Pounding seas and raging storms with shoreline intertwine.
Drought and flood have given strength to balance keenly fine.
When plagues of foreign culture descend upon your soil,
your protection shows no mercy to those prepared to spoil.
You’re beautiful my country when you are touched by spring.
The warming of your weather brings forth your birds to sing,
with every note a feeling, that gives our spirit drive.
You’re beautiful my country when your bush land comes alive.
You’re beautiful my country with vastness of your plains.
In every seed a green-ness ‘til falling of the rains.
When your barren dusty ranges burst into a fragrant high.
You’re beautiful my country beneath our southern sky.
I attended a large gathering and took some time
to observe the great assortment of shoes stacked on the racks
I saw new shoes, pricey shoes, and shoes not worth a dime
and shoes that seemed to have crossed many paths and tracks.
I saw dainty sandals and flighty high heeled ones too
I saw sporty sneakers and rough and tough trainers
I saw both the laced and the leathery buckled shoe
Then I saw the humble yet hardy pair of slippers.
I saw pointy shoes, furry shoes and flatties as well
I saw flowery ones and those studded with trinket gems
Some stacked neatly in pairs, others thrown about pell mell
Some recently repaired, some coming off at the hems.
I saw long boots, rubber boots and
there were glittery Indian styled stilettoes
I spotted fragile glass sandals and metallic brass sandals
and soft comfy ones for comfort of feet 'n' toes.
And while I was thus lost and engrossed
in watching the great assortment of footwear
The old caretaker, to me, a cheap pair tossed
saying, ' here's an extra pair if you've lost your shoes.
She was too busy and distracted to be in my shoes of muse
So I'd to slip out thinking of some quick excuse
She didn't even notice I wasn't actually barefoot
So I had to take them elsewhere, both my muse and my boot!
Ah, and long ago when once we could afford only a 'shoestring' budget
I once hadn't enough bucks to replace a worn out pair of shoes
I was sad for not having even a good goody two shoes
Then God showed me a wayfarer's shoeless pair of barefeet
and then one hapless one with no feet at all!
So I could imagine life being in their missing shoes.
(Footnote*
Wonderin where I saw so many shoes off peoples feet? Well, in our religious gatherings say for prayers in the mosque hall or even the religious lecture hall, we've to enter barefooted and sit down crosslegged. So that's where you come across all kinds of shoes on racks provided in the cubicle.
Actually in the Disney movie, 'THE PRINCE OF EGYPT', i marked that even Moses took off his shoes before talking to God.)
Blue-checkered curtains are faded and drawn,..
after the years since she made them from gunny-sack cloth
The Singer, long idle, now gathers more dust,
with its needle still threaded and the treadle at rest
As I clear out the room, I think of long hours
of foot-peddled power, and strength in her soul.
She would unroll the fabric of roses and flowers,
with determined resilience in dark circled eyes.
But prudence, endurance, would salvage a way
Abandoned and left in a sea of lost dreams
She picked up the pieces, of patterns and hems
Making a living, and raising her kin,
didn't come easy, but she had to win
A life left unraveled, she must sew up again.
Working past midnight. Spindles would spin. Somehow rekindled
to live once again.
Making ends meet. Selvedge edges and hems
Sowing her heart, sowing her skill, and sowing her soul
Sewn together again
______________________________________________________
4/20/18
MISDEMEANOR
A soft lisp runs through blonde summer grasses,
shoving at kites or the hems of long skirts.
Umbrellas and hats stir as it passes,
jumbling at picnics, it teases and flirts.
It picks up speed while playing with Marty,
and takes his land legs as he tries to walk.
The unseen source can raid a yacht party,
by strewing boats that are moored to the dock.
Laughing in whispers or screaming in storms,
a mythical being, felt but not seen.
Its guests are blind to the brail it performs,
it can be gentle, or just as well, mean.
Wickedly hurling a house in the air,
or docile enough to tousle our hair.
-Edlynn Nau
© May 21, 2018
Crisp ...
You lay like solemn ashes
'Neath glass ... spotless, sacred
Dried to bright hues ...
The shades of her lips in chill autumn air
(Winter, whisp'ring soft)
Edges crimped ...
Like the hems of her pleated tartan skirt
You are the vestige, precious
Of a moment ...
A final moment of love, true
Sweaty, sweet passion
That found its confluence under a vault of fire
A canopy of crumbling crimson
Wafting, weaving a rustling woodland blanket
The bed for a callow curiosity
Confusing, carnal, but perfectly imperfect
Numberless months have yet ceded to the wind
(As tender as the moons they bind)
Since I rescued you from the hood of a sweatshirt
Still, your color is unerring
And your scent is ...
Her.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Strand no 780, Any Theme, Any Form" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Strand Select V Any Form Any Theme" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Writing Challenge - December - Any Poem NA'd In November 2019" Poetry Contest, Dear Heart - Wishkobi Ode, Judge & Sponsor.
( This poem was written on November 14, 2019, and N/A'd on November 22, 2019 in the Scented Leaves Poetry Contest )
Dear Summer,
I remember when you felt like forever
When the days stretched so wide
They could hold every dream I hadn’t grown into yet
You were the ticking of sprinklers at dusk
The chalk dust kingdoms on cracked sidewalks
The way fireflies stitched tiny lanterns
Into the hems of our nights
I remember the warmth that clung to my skin
Long after sunset…
As if you were reluctant to let me go
I remember how we believed
Nothing truly ended
The bike rides and laughter
The barefoot sprints across the lawn
Would loop back again next year
Exactly as we left them
But you changed and so did I
Now your return feels like an old photograph
I keep trying to step into
Familiar and golden
Never quite the same shape
Still I greet you each time
Hoping you’ll bring back
One more echo of who I was
When your light first found me
Truly Yours,
The kid who never stopped believing you’d return
night touches wind, gold
buds drifting off from laced hems
in slow procession,
while twirl of frothy breeze cloaks...
my desolate autumn view.
Contest: 4 or 5 LINE POEM
(Re Old Poems)
A gaggle of girls lounging in the sun,
In the green grass many pairs of legs, stretched out
clad in their blue jeans.
My old pair, many memories...
In them I dug into the garden soil,
planting my spring flowers; my jeans grubby.
A girl gamboling in the rain,
water soaking into her and every pore of fibre
of her blue, old jeans.
Many moons ago, my jeans
touching his knees;
they remember the feel of his bare hands,
as he smoothly traced the lines of those blue jeans.
The hems got frayed, threads hung loose...
They'd seen better days, blotches of old paint,
colors that stayed.
Spent many autumns, growing old with me
My rough old jeans.
I looked far, into the dipping sky,
The soaring waves, breaking into foam,
Turn to the grey hills, as I spread my wings,
braving my last journey,
for the bird to be finally home.
..
Written for nette's contest 'Blue Jeans'
lavender florets
sway their hems to a gold wind...
as
queen bee jiggles
aisle of lush gardens
invite morn's jaybirds on flight...
coo
cooing sweet tunes
dew bathes newborn plants
evergreen their christened ribs...
from
heaven's blessings
such bright assemblage
displays lush April's glory
when
spring thrills charmed hearts
MYSTICS SPLIT HAIKUS Contest
Sponsor: Mystic Rose
4/10/2016
In neatly lined up pots in a row
Flaming red and purple balsams in clusters grow
A visual treat to adoring eyes
A haunt frequented by the bees
Do not need much care, but may fade
If not allowed a little shade
Flimsy they are of delicate stems
With light green leaves of serrated hems
Planted in my skilfully laid up yard
They invariably make me glad
Gleaming in the first rays of the sun
By their simple beauty, my heart they won
When the flowers wither, pods appear
In time, for self dissemination, they prepare
When fully ripe, the pods explode
And seeds fly as birdies from their nest to explore!
Thus Nature’s ways are so amazing
Even in plants is an inherent training,
For seeds to leave the comfort of their pods
And find their own space fighting all odds!
___________________________________
June.2.2022
~Placed First~
Purple Flower Poetry Contest
Sponsor – Nayda Ivette Negron Flores
Past the haze of campfires glow,
Along the rocky shore, where
Fireflies dance & laughter rolls,
The Raven waits for me.
Butterflies and Bumblebees,
Blind to futures past, await the
Day the harvest brings, the songs
Of journeys last.
Until that time, the calm I seek,
Must scurry to and fro,
The devil hems and haws with me,
But goodness only grows.
I look around, the change I see,
Lays scattered in the wind,
The final breeze I yearn to feel,
Lies buried in the end.
October, '18
In London, away in a terrace
Half-hidden with elm trees and grime,
Lived young Violet, in her parents' house,
Left alone for near all of the time,
As her mother had no patience to teach her
And her father was working all day,
Violet read to herself through her childhood
Forgetting her seclusion in play,
Any friends she made as a young woman
Would laugh at her stitches and cloth,
For they knew that Violet was quite useless
And so showed their neat needlework off,
Poor Violet kept trying her best, but
Each time everyone ran her down,
She retreated back into her mind's warmth
Far away from that cold-blooded town,
Then one night, as the raindrops were piercing
Through the rueful, restricting twilight,
Violet threw on her Sunday attire and
Did at once in the darkness delight,
So she ran through the alleys and gardens,
Dancing down the pitch-black London streets,
Her beautiful dress flew about her
As she skipped past the other deceits,
Violet's stories swam round in her memory
As she flew through the night and the stars,
And she bathed thoroughly and with relish
Until Violet was cleansed of her scars,
Now her heart was open and happy,
So she laughed and fluttered her tail,
Carelessly gliding free through the water
And onwards to the ocean did sail.
As the weary sun rose on the next day
Her friends could be seen on the pier,
Dabbing at their dry eyes with their hankies,
Voices straining trying to sound sincere,
"It has hurt us so indescribably,
That because of her poorly-sewn hems,
Violet felt she was inferior to us
And has drowned herself in the Thames."
Violet's parents had not yet noticed
The absence of their only daughter,
And they would understand even less
How she came to be dead underwater,
But Violet was now free to prosper,
To swim and to dance and to glide,
And with angels and mermaids to play with,
She would always in her dreams reside.