Best Seamstresses Poems
Wondering how fairies obtain dresses?
It's because they have fairy seamstresses
Sewing with pine needles and spidery
Gathered from spiders fine web filigree.
Pretty petals for fabric, leaves for shoes
Smelling of sweet fragrant floral perfume
Flowers to adorn their flowing tresses
Crystal star droplets sown into dresses.
Gossamer to turn into fairy wings
So fairies may fly in sky, revelling
Sprinkles of fairy dust, a wand for luck
When all dressed up, so pretty fairies look.
When you find fairies in a fairy glade
Recall how their lustrous outfits are made.
When I was young my mom, like most women, donned a hat when she went out.
Dad said it added to her beauty…of this I had no doubt.
My mom had a collection of hats she stored in boxes under her bed.
So many different kinds of bonnets that sat atop her head.
Moms of today are different they go out with their heads bare
but one thing they share with Moms of the past are the many hats they wear.
If we tried to count the hats they don...we couldn’t...they go on indefinitely
Perhaps one way to approach it...is alphabetically.
Moms are:
Accountants
Babysitters
Chauffeurs...they do what
Doctors and
Electricians do…they are
Farmers
Governors
Housekeepers, and
Ice cream makers too…they are
Janitors
Kitchen and
Laundry workers, and
Maids who clean the floor…they are
Nurses
Optometrists,
Painters
Quality control inspectors and furthermore they are
Receptionists
Seamstresses and
Teachers…they can
Upholster that sofa or that chair…they are
Valets
Washroom Attendants and
X-Ray technicians…ready anytime and anywhere…they are
Yard managers and every Mom I know is also a keeper of the
Zoo
That’s 26 different hats they wear…
26 different jobs that all Moms do.
Moms are the original and still the best multi-taskers the world has ever met.
In fact, I didn’t run out of hats for them...I ran out of alphabet!
I guess it’s a good thing each job doesn’t have a hat that sits atop Moms head
for there wouldn’t be enough room to store the boxes under their beds.
They are visionaries, they are cheerleaders, so much of our existence they adorn
yet they had no experience as a mother until the day when we were born.
Because it was at that miraculous moment, despite their fearfulness and qualms
when they smiled as they looked at us and realized……’I’m a Mom.’
For that is the hat that encompasses the rest...the hat we call motherhood
and I must admit, from where I stand
Moms…you make that hat look good.
So Moms, here’s to a wonderful Mother’s Day as this poem bids you all adieu
For all the many hats you wear…
our hats are off to you.
HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY
Tribute to Dawn of Day: Stories from the Underground Railroad
From
Tennessee
Virginia
Mississippi
Kansas
Wisconsin
To free states in the north and Canada
I grieved upon the grave of the slave
Tears circling the tomb
Securing his name
For their bloodshed
From whips and blows
By the masters and relatives
On the countryside
Down south
Oral histories and tradition passed down
Children
An investment
Field hands
Skilled labor
Textile production
Seamstresses clothed the slaves
A hovering over of threat of violence
And a whipping
Secret prayer meetings held on the plantation
The Underground Railroad
Station masters housed runaway slaves
in logged cabins
Conductors run the wagon
$50 reward for their capture
Images of faces with no names
Abolitionists regarded as extremists
A threat to the order of the day
******* fought in the Civil War
Share cropping
And Jim Crow
Then migration to city ghettos or slums
Marckincia Jean
Narrative
09/26/19
I remember my mom having a collection of hats she stored under her bed.
For any occasion that could arise…she had a hat to set atop her head.
Moms of today are different…often they go out with their heads bare
because of this we don’t often realize…all the hats they wear.
If we tried to count all their hats...we can’t…for the list goes on indefinitely
perhaps one way to approach it...would be alphabetically.
Moms are Accountants, Babysitters, Chauffeurs...They do what Doctors, and Electricians do
They are Farmers, Governors, Housekeepers, and Ice cream vendors too.
They are Janitors, Kitchen and Laundry workers, and Maids who clean the floor.
They are Nurses, Optometrists, Painters, Quality control inspectors…there’s more.
They are Receptionists, Seamstresses, Teachers…Umpires…and not always soft spoken…they are Valets, Wardens, X-Ray technicians who can tell if that bone is broken.
They are Youth counselors and every Mom I know is a keeper of the Zoo
If you’re keeping track that’s 26 different hats...26 different jobs that all Moms do.
Moms are the original and still the best multitaskers the world has ever met.
In fact, I didn’t run out of hats for them...I ran out of alphabet.
I guess it’s a good thing each job doesn’t have a hat that sits atop Moms head
for there wouldn’t be enough room to store them in boxes beneath their beds.
They are visionaries, they are cheerleaders, so much of our existence they adorn
yet they had no experience being a mom until their first child was born.
For it was at that miraculous moment in a panic mixed with calm
when the doctor handed them their baby and said, “Congratulations…you’re a Mom!”
And to any Mom who might not have given birth…might not have been there from the start…here’s to all the Mom hats you’ve worn once you opened up your heart.
Do you remember that miraculous feeling…with a mixture of panic and calm…
whether you chose the moment…or the moment chose you…
when you became a Mom?
And therein lies the hat that encompasses all the rest...the hat called motherhood
and to all you Moms out there…I must admit…you make that hat look good.
So to all the Moms everywhere,
here’s wishing you a wonderful Mother’s Day…for all the things you do…
for all the many hats you wear…
our hats are off to you.
A needle: a small, thin object
with a sharp point that mends
our open wounds.
Sewing needles are polished
and used by seamstresses
to keep our clothes
stitched and tailored.
Acupuncture needles,
a traditional remedy believed
to heal the body and mind.
Fresh scented pine trees
bow through summer and winter,
fall and spring.
These needles are survivors,
they never sleep.
But, the needle you preferred
produces only
unanswered questions,
tears and disarray.
When the needle
punctured your skin,
its venom sprinted
through your bloodstream,
freeing your endorphins
in a dance inside your brain.
Your body rattled, eyes twisted,
you descended into
a self-constructed euphoria.
You settled in dwellings
the needle provided,
dishonest, dead and rheumy eyed
as you chased your magical dragon
to ease that unfathomable pain,
time slipped by you
and like a crook in black,
life faded away.
A boy of six or seven,
asleep on a ruined mattress,
in a home abandoned.
A son; your blood and kin.
His eyes flutter open,
to see you at rest on a chair
beside the window frame,
No clouds or shine,
no moon nor stars;
no emotion, no hesitation;
Only you, his protector,
thrusting
that needle into your
vein.
Reading diaries of different discussion blots is considered to be akin to perusing the top shelf of a historical library section. Each label once worn drops like stones sinking into the carpet and creases of streamed floorboards. Floorboards do float don't they? Have you not seen the many that pass the doors? They are quicker than the doors anyway so best spray the armpits and go jogging then. Thought the woodworm athletic tribe. Gathering gabled garbled gargling gatherings greet giant Gregorian gargoyles getting generally gifted garters gutting grouped gismo geckos. How triumphant then? And hopefully a dance will last longer than a sharp snapped second. Seconds are neither seams, seamstresses, nor stressed sultanas in safaris and saris, nor are they acrimonious android alphabetical alpacas racing to a degree of a nine foot tail spin. Ring ran road. And a big lorry leering. Lecherously. Leeches lingering. And limbs lumber. How rather audaciously brilliant then. Isn't it? Kent jam race on the large spoon. Z meteorologic Z at fifty cones carving creative cosmoses' to sixteen apples in leotards cheering on the waves. 1 2 3 4 ~ and clam. Z
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the King’s horses and all the King’s men,
Couldn’t put Humpty together again.
The Queen’s seamstresses they tried to sew,
The footman with glue he had a go,
Even the gardener tried, with horse poo!
The wizard attempted, with something taboo.
In the end, it was over; the Priest had to pray
And Henri the chef made them all a soufflé!
DURAN KORAN
Banners blow while a silken flag waves
Both signifying a country gone awry
Men dig ever more six foot deep graves
As I stand aside and wonder why
American flags must surely be costly
What with all that red, white and blue material
And the seamstresses sew with precision see their creations as being imperial
While the deaths of countless soldiers seems immaterial to the Commander In Chief
Who seems chiefly unconcerned about supplying armor for vehicles which drive directly into harm’s way
Occupied by occupants who occasionally incur the horrors that too often occur day by damnable day
While their vision becomes a blur from the sand and significant insanity in a land of lamentable leaders bent on brutality
And nothing that goes on there can be classified as banality
As I become buried ever deeper in regret
Bemoaning every unnecessary casualty of a war wrought and fought in futility which some choose to forget
As corpses continue to constitute the inconsistency of combat
Like Corporal Carl Conway who died trying to liberate a country inhabited by an alliance who owe their allegiance to Allah
And believe in what might as well be a cookbook they call the Koran
Man, they may as well adhere to the doctrine of Duran Duran
So I have a superlative idea indeed
Take all the silk they use for the red, white and blue
And instead of causing casualties of war to bleed
Sell the silk for armor and armaments our heroes are so aptly due
© 2012….copyright...PHREEPOETREE~free cee!~
find me here
in
this
concrete form
delusionally real
sinking into seams
seamstresses seaming
what has been stitched
in
me
needle to flesh
she has stolen
my
breath
find me here my dear
find me here
your arms are my addiction
your love opens the shore
find me here
in
the
sand
sinking for more
anchored by this concrete form
find me here
?
Sixty two fat cats hold tight on their riches .
The poorest of people have to make do with scraps from the table .
Yet in a slum of a work place, The seamstresses eyes strain
Sewing in labels of companies to famous to name as it would cause them so much shame.
If only the bosses would stop dodging taxes
And pay decent wages to the lads and the lasses.
Schools can't teach children who are working in kitchens
If only our Governments would show some conviction
To banish the world of injustice and victimisation.!
You need to know why the 62 richest people in the world hold the same wealth as the rest of us .
An engagement
of five souls with the
tailor who sheared
our spirits from
a common bolt.
His patchwork creations
of common genes
aligned our spirits
within a sisterhood
of natural blood.
We are one
we are individual
We are sisters
We were all cut
from the same cloth
and each sewn
into perfection
It’s how we’re worn
that makes us
individual.
Each a tapestry showing
years of personality
shaped by the wear of time
and reapired within these visits
to the shaman tailor who ignited
our sisterhood.
We each follow our own threads
onto different paths of life
but every thread leads us back
to our beginnings
We are one
we are individual
we are sisters
we are the seamstresses
that heal frayed threads
with tears and love,
laughter and understanding.
Tiny protection for
Those seamstresses ' small fingers.
Thimbles come in sizes.
Test the samples, ladies
Thoughtfully get right fit.
Thrust on embroiderers.
Threads will become great art!
I have come to a strange town
The streets have changed their names
The roads have given ways to gigantic flyovers
The bushes have given ways to codominiums and giant one-stop shopping centres
Few pedestrians on the roads
People are housed under the roofs
They are wearing masks, spectacles, shields and bulky suits
Like astronaunts in outer space
Boutiques replaced seamstresses
Many important posts are monopolied by women
Some men start to wear no-frame spectacles, colourful blouses and do baby-sitting
People said they have a hard time
Although wealth has shifted to this town
Because the prices of commodities are soaring high
Due to the lack of workers
It has been many years before I, a stranger arrived
maybe
my purpose
was
to break
necks
twig
me
i
am
was
i
am
is me
sobriety leans
towers to peace
lighthouses tree
bark from me
scrap dogs
crumb me
love me
of me
no
no
no
look up
heart attacks
give to break
breaking breaths
stitches on my me
sewn through sleeves
seamstresses seamstressing
seamstressed
stressed
broke
neck
why
am
i
wonder wonder
wonder duck duck
goose
purposes my maybe
furr purses my baby
tick an a tic tock
?
(...surely goodness and mercy will follow me all of my days and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever. Psalm 23:6)
Shirley, Goodness and Mercy, angels three
Have been protecting me all of my days.
Constant companions spiritually,
They're seamstresses trying to mend my ways.
Shirley surveys narrow paths, but I stray.
Goodness (a bit slow) is left in my wake,
As off I sprint down my heathen pathway
With no thought for what they do for my sake.
Shirley growls fiercely, "Must you act the fool?"
Goodness moans, "Why won't you listen to me?"
The harder I try, seems the less I can rule
Myself, so if I lose two of the three--
I still want to dwell in the house of the Lord,
So Mercy, I pray, will pay room and board.