Best Sews Poems
Awake through afternoons and ageless nights,
the poet waits for a muse to sneak.
His brumous mind reminisces,
frantically exploring a galaxy of words.
He looks for a lofty mountain hiding in the fog.
He looks for a crimson fireball hiding in the ember.
Wriggles out of the cocoon,
in swirls of slow steps,
tiptoeing in twirls,
shriveled and fragile, the butterfly beau.
He looks at it in passion...with lover's eyes....
Oh!, the poem is still in a grey stupor state.
He sews embroidered thoughts...
Stroked in color, the canvas now veiled,
scrambled cryptic, his emotions corralled.
The enslaved bird in his heart, was now a fugitive,
singing a pellucid song of sweet somber notes.
A virgin music now played in the air,
Thrumming hearts rhyming in bewitched rhythm.
Invisible wind nestled the hair,
he could see the poem smiling.
Silent wind rustled the tree,
he could hear the poem whispering.
Like a blind man enlightened in a dark room,
he could feel the poem coming alive.
He could touch the words in Braille,
the cradle of blind love, caressed the poet's tale.
Resubmited on April 1st 2019/
2019 Poetry Marathon Final Placement /
Sponsor: Mark Toney
Written on 9th January 2019
Placed 8th in Chantelle Anne Cookes Favorite Free Verse Contest
Placed 6th in Mark Toney2019 Poetry Marathon Mile 13 Contesy
The Lord weaves His grand tapestry across the skies
He outlines charcoal colored clouds with silver threads
sews the sunlight of dawn into rays that caress the sea
and folds ocean ripples into fans of intricate patterns.
Each morning God’s canvas awaits His ready hand
a master Artist, His creativity knows no bounds
He dips His brush into the spectrum of rainbows
like a whirlwind, He mixes and paints dazzling designs.
God deftly blends pastel shades to greet the rising sun
He sweeps white, cotton clouds that hover over land and sea
He paints the morning light to touch lush liquid waves
and adds violet colored shadows that fade into the horizon.
His living canvas continually changes its hues and tones
each moment rearranged by heat, wind or sudden storms
a cornucopia of shapes sweep across the heavens
like rapid time frames that move within an eternal film.
Will not many among the nations fail to see His mighty wonders?
Will not many among us look up to relish in His majestic sky?
God’s handiwork daily displays His infinite creation
may we lift up our eyes to behold His unending glory.
Written on 1/17/2021
Born in Madrid, in fifty nine,
A military Kid, 3rd of 7 in the assembly line;
They named me Michael, but I answer to Wedge,
A Master Sergeant’s son—not much here that's cutting edge.
I grew up a runner, and I wrestled some,
I was a skateboarding brawler and a surfer bum;
Didn’t try very hard in primary school,
Laziness, not ignorance—I was a bit of a tool.
Then I met this fine girl, long hair just like copper,
Who took me to church, sweet, innocent, and proper;
At Wood’s Grove on knees, accepting Him for long haul,
In 1978—just weeks before Uncle Sam called.
In a flash came the Navy, Marriage, college, and kids,
A submarine, 2 surface ships—I was a bit of a squid;
On to Chapel Hill, where I taught Midshipmen,
By ’94, farewell my Navy—I’m now a businessman.
Life moved fast from the crib thru each grade,
For Mom & two girls—my female brigade;
Growing up we did lots, mostly travels and school,
Plus church, school sports, dance and piano recitals, how cool!
Today, they’re gone—our empty nest in their wake,
New lives, with spouses, and pups—and new names.
So I paint and I hike—while my soulmate sews and she reads;
And we both now teach high school—sharing Christ as He leads.
I’m grateful my Navy recalled this old goat,
To lead men and women, ashore and afloat;
Retirement and selection, to teach young Cadets,
A large pain in the butt—but I have no regrets.
After 60 odd years, I’m modestly content,
With where my life’s been, and headed—once spent.
But mostly I’m thankful—family, friends and great health,
And for wonderful friendships—the source of my wealth!
Some say sixty's getting old,
Creaky knees, aches and pains, hard hearing—all told.
And I contend, aging's NOT for the faint hearted,
But most who know me know—I'm just getting started!
A thread ...
ties me to the Infinite
a tendril of sonorous joy, expressed
weaves the depth of my marrow
to all that is and was and shall be and shan't ...
O - sing, my soul, of all that I am - sing of what I can't be!
A breath ...
holds my melody of being
spirit coursings beyond the capability of sensate expression
swell from the reaches of my heart
to find their diaphanous wings upon the maelstroms ...
O - sing, my soul, of all that I feel - sing of a bounding love!
A scream ...
rooted in dulcet dreams
rhythmic and dolorous and dark, of the night
dances, lilting, to bind the wounds of that greater expanse
to shed in music what I fear most ...
O - sing, my soul, of all that hides - sing of my shaded sins!
A song ...
sews my innermost to the day
a choral conjugation of my bones and the breadth of heaven
the seed of expression, harmonious ... wending
to enjoin this sparrow's strain ... with the All ...
O - sing, my soul, of all myst'ries to find - sing of a life at end!
O - sing!
~ 7th Place ~ in the "Your Best Free Verse That You Wrote" Poetry Contest, Chantelle Anne Cooke, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Your best free Verse 2020" Poetry Contest, John Hamilton, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "A Poem Honoring Spirituality" Poetry Contest, Caren Krutsinger, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Strand Choice X, Any Form, Any Theme" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "Sing It" Poetry Contest, Nina Parmenter, Judge & Sponsor.
Head down
The old woman sews
A dress
Nimble fingers
Marking each stitch
The whirring of machines
Whirling and whirling
Round and round
Threading memories
Of another time
Reminding her
Of a night
Long ago
When she was afraid
To speak to a boy
Sitting next to her.
As her busy fingers work
She remembers more
Of that summer night
A blue cotton dress
With tiny ribbons
Lace curtains gently
Pulled by a breeze
Drifted out through opaque windows
While musicians played a rhythm
Of their own
And shadows pranced
On empty walls.
Waiting that night
She wondered
Why no one
Asked
Her to dance.
Old memories
Glide by
On silver sails
And today?...
She knows that today is now.
And yesterday was yesterday
Finished with her work
She catches her breathe,
Straightens her hair,
And turns off the lights.
Pausing to look back
Into the darkened room
Shadows return her glance
With a gaping stare
Adjusting to the darkness
She begins to recognize
Familiar shapes taking form
Satisfied that all will be the same
When she returns
She closes the door.
Going outside
She holds onto her purse
Waiting
For a traffic light
That has already
Changed
A smile crosses her face
As she remembers
When the boy
Became her husband
Children were born.
And the years went by
In a brown bag
Neatly folded in two
Is a blue chiffon dress
Almost like the one
She wore years ago
Only this one
Is for her granddaughter
Impatient for no reason
To go nowhere
The crowd pushes forward
But the old woman lingers
On the corner
Savoring the moment
Glad of memories
As a busy world saunters by.
Grandmother sits in her rocking chair
nearly as old as she
ragged patches of scrap spread across her lap.
She tells stories from her eighty years of senescence,
of faces now aged, some no longer bound by this earth
as though they were still enjoying the blessings of youth-
as fresh in her mind as the daisies and buttercups I picked for her this morning
and placed beside her chair;
its occasional accompanying squeaks affirming her words from time to time.
She did not know then that she was sewing two blankets for me;
weaving quilts of words
from patterns of memories
patching good times to bad
making one smooth blanket of emotions.
The needle stings-it's true
but only so little by comparison
to the warmth it provides
Looking out of a window
onto the world, you wonder
if there is an awareness
that soaks each living cell,
something that sews together
all life into a symphony
playing to the score written
by a single entity.
Or is everything a random
throw, discrete forms let loose
within a mindless programme
loaded with a bias
to survive, a world where
even charity and love
are attributes selected
to give the species
a social advantage, a trick
to win the game.
What then art, a sublime
song sung by the human
soul or something made
in the workshop
of a brain to keep
the human species entertained,
nothing more
than an evolutionary pill
to save us from going insane
whilst welded to our purpose.
Yet so much seems superfluous
to the mere act of breeding,
that we create books, galleries
and concert halls to store,
the evidence we could be more.
“She toddled in the mighty Duck
And almost never was”
Whether by design or luck
Or maybe just because
Summertime in Tennessee
So scorching hot and dry
The family thought a swim could be
Relief so we would try
While swimming came so easy
For most of us that day
But Mom was water queasy
So on the bank she lay
My friend and I, we swam like fish
In the deep Duck River
A day that would make you wish
This fun could last forever
My baby sister was so small
She could barely walk
She toddled and then down would fall
And jabbered with her talk
So Dad had moved into the deep
That’s when I saw it well
My sister ran without a peep
Into the Duck she fell
Momma screamed and I just froze
And out of sight she went
The muddy Duck would now propose
Another life be spent
My Dad had sprung to action
On hearing of the scream
He dived as a reaction
Into the muddy stream
.
.
.
And many years would pass us by
She studied hard and long
Nothing was too tough to try
She never got it wrong
A Ph.D, and drug design
She makes the pills you need
If you were really in a bind
And needed meds indeed
She plays piano and reads the books
And knows so much inside
She sews and cleans and then she cooks
With logic as her guide
Accomplishments on every level
Complete and tried and true
But humble, never would she revel
In all that she could do
.
.
.
He came back up and looked around
His eyes began to beg
He dived again and there he found
And grabbed her by the leg
Upside down he pulled her up
And water did pour out
And soon we heard her cry startup
Relief without a doubt
.
.
.
Remembering that day and so
A blessing to repay
That was sixty years ago
But feels like yesterday
I sometimes think of all the luck
That happened just because
“She toddled in the mighty Duck
And almost never was”
I wander through my journey, interspersed with joy and pain, always grateful
Though not by choice, some days are somber; yet others follow with abundant joy
In my solitude, memories come alive with the recall of some old song from another time
When life was carefree in everyway! No worries and not one care!
First heard as a child; the title now lost to me, so I’ll call it "Mama’s Song"
It’d start off soft and slow; its rhythm smooth, graceful, incredibly beautiful!
Then lingering on my mind, gently reviving memories lost somewhere in yesterday
It’d calm my spirit, take me away- away from countless, mundane tasks
All necessary things, but they arrest my days, imposing, threatening, vying for attention
There’s a constant battle that rages within, and I often ask, “Should I lay down this burden
of joyless pursuits which hinder valid expressions from my heart? Should I?
And to what profit? Surely monetary gain is a necessity, but at what cost to my spirit??
Were I guardian only to myself, I’d simply choose to live lean somewhere by the sea
I would cast my net for food, and barter for grain and herbs. However, the compass is set
So, I escape in the melodies, with my eyes closed, and fly high, above this terrain
Sailing on the massive wings of a Condor, unafraid; over rugged pathways and
Jagged edges of mountains that rise above the seas, far away from this place of constant
weariness, on my way to a place more tranquil, somewhere in yesterday
I hover over rivers that give life to green valleys below, quite an amazing view to see!
Like black velvet ribbons they meander through the changing landscape
At an angle they shimmer like fine crystal in the afternoon sun, and in one breath,
I am there! At Mama’s feet, studying her as she sews dresses for my sisters and me
I watch, I listen to her, softly singing; feel her contentment and peace through the song
Never complaining, never too tired to go beyond the call, to love and care for family
Teaching by example, using less words, her quiet spirit, ever steadfast, strong
Those times when I feel I can not go on, when afraid I'll falter, I still hear the the melody
and "Mama's Song"!
Note: For Mama - Thank you for putting us first! For the many lessons learned which we nowteach our children. RIP w/Papa!!
O! FLUFF! FIZZ! ICE-TRUFFLES and BANDALEES!
Can't see the forest, for the snow on trees!
Where every gossamer veil of snow delights
And every string of bulbs mimics Heav'n's Lights!
O! TRUE! the tales of gnomes and Ice-Elves are!
(I fear some fool will catch one in a jar
and so, I've held my Peace on this -- so far)
But NOW, I must speak out, you see... on par
With Ancient Wisdom are the Fairy Stories,
Chuck full of Angels, dwarves... filled with the Glories
Of... Champions, Magicians of Renown...
Of tiny folk, who live in Tinytown…
Of Reprimands for those who trouble Nature
(Or use JUST Scientific Nomenclature).
REBUKE! O, WISE! The Unbelievers, ALL!
Who LAUGH at gnolls and trolls, both great, and small!
For He that trusts not, sews with poison thread,
That knots Hope; leaves Imagination dead.
Date Written: December 28, 2018
For Contest: BUNNY LUMP
Sponsored by: Caren Krutsinger
What has happened to my muse?
It's not an easy thing to lose
Yet, it seems that I've misplaced it
Or, perhaps, I just erased it
In some absent-minded funk
(Lordy knows, I'm never drunk)
Maybe it's just up my sleeve
Waiting for a love's reprieve
Or stuffed deep inside a pocket
Hoping hopes a dream will rock it
Or perhaps behind the couch
Intent to end my writing slouch
Lost in darkness 'neath my bed
(A metaphor for "in my head")
Drifting on a spring-tide mistral
Or poised for ruin, in a pistol
Gossamer as an angel's wing
Or ebbing life, as sirens sing
Dancing on a moonlit sea
Bound for harbors, heavenly
In the grasp of horrors, dim
A last endeavor, chances, slim
Perhaps it's waiting just inside
The smile of a blushing bride
Or in the twisted roots of trees
A thousand angry honey bees
Framed like all the grandest art
Or served on silver, a' la carte
The promise of a mustard seed
Or in the depths of evil greed
The fevered itch of aged scars
Hot like dust, among the stars
See, that's the beauty of a muse
It hides inside whate'er we choose
Imagination sews its seam -
Bound only by how deep we dream
So, it was hiding, from the start
Within the chambers of my heart
And if your muse is missing, too
I'm sure that's where it waits ...
For YOU!
Written on May 10, 2020
Submitted on June 18, 2020
To the "Your Fave Poem 2020 Not Written For A Contest" Poetry Contest
John Hamilton, Judge & Sponsor.
Where mind sews cobwebs,
I take out a dissolving spyglass.
The space between this self
looks back seeing nothing.
That which holds,
rolls over mind-clouds,
finding no anchors.
The day will take me soon,
make me be what I claim to be,
but in any next pre-dawn
surfacing,
I will know again,
that I am not.
The wound saddened her and the scab would not dry.
She is frayed but with dignity sews and patches herself.
Time ticks as she waits patient, alert for the door closing.
And she waits.
Her clothes are torn from too many washings.
Too many stains.They should be thrown away.
But with tenderness she tries to make it work,once more.
And she waits
If you can hear me . Now is the time for help.
Sewing her dreams one by one helps and the waiting.
She sews a little too slow,
Sews my hand around her waistline
And the words together.
She says: You are mine,
I lean my chin on her shoulder,
Sometimes I feel new,
Sometimes I am older,
But she still ties my fingers and our eyes
She gave me a flirt,
We work together for the same,
Holding the strands
And repeating: Je T’aime
I like to pretend we are in Paris,
Sometimes under the rain,
Until she gave me a kiss
With my hands around her waist.
Evenings are lost this way:
Counting raindrops like a clock.
We do it everyday,
She sewed my hands around her waist…
Randy likes all the girls
Curly Sue has lots of curls
Les just could not be much more
Mary's had husbands galore
Lief lives up in a tree
Rick has stacks of wood to see
Rock always lays on a hill
Woody loves a blue pill
Bob's up and down the street
Neil can't stand up on his feet
Taylor sews clothes all day
Doug makes holes for pay
Chance would bet his last quarter
Eileen has one leg shorter
What do they all have the same?
They all live up to their name!