Best Spool Poems
i'm just getting started
unraveling the threads
of this tattered lonely soul
sewn so long ago
apparition's crooked hands
grapples the rusty needle
as she unsteadily threads the eye
...flashback to childhood years
where a mother ties the loop
of darkened threads
cleaved from her own spool
pierced by torment
of each aberrant stitch
i am sealed in the seams
bound, unable to break free
as i bleed through the confines
of my soul's weary cries
my blood spills crimson
through shadows cast
of harvest moon
as she rocks unsteady
upon the walls of mind
beneath the hum
of unsung lullabies
watching as i undo
each crooked thread
sewn by her hands
unable to baste
with death's bony hands
she pricks through my heart
with soulless glower
as i disenthrall
the last threads
i stitch her deep
within the weaves
of memories
and poetry
...i'm just getting started
September 18, 2019
Just getting started poetry contest
Sponsored by John Hamilton
I am a girl,
Everyone sees it.
I graciously accept the label,
Twirling in a girls spool,
And playing it up for others.
Sometimes I feel an itch,
In a place I can't reach.
There are times when it quells,
When my voice cracks,
And I am somewhere else.
Where my hair is to my neck,
And my voice bellows.
But I am brought back to reality,
Because I am a girl.
He comes out again,
Stilling me when girls are asked to line up,
Twitching when a teacher asks for a 'strong boy',
I hold him back,
A slap on the wrist,
A prisoner in a cell.
But in the deepest of my thoughts,
I am free,
Completely and utterly.
He is with me,
Unchained,
But it ends every morning I wake.
I step out of the shower,
Hair cascading down,
As I stand in front of my reflective captor,
A deep rumbling comes from inside me,
And he bubbles up to the surface,
Itching and scraping at my soul.
I claw at the confines of my chest,
And he bursts out like dynamite,
Sparks flowing,
Tingles of electricity follow my nerves,
And I truly see him,
Staring back at me,
He smiles softly and my eyes open wide,
The words linger on the tip of my tongue,
But they stay rooted in my brain,
As him and I both realize,
I am a boy.
The dog days of summer bring humid air,
that morphs into dewdrops, as the night cools.
And summer outfits aren't seen anywhere
now that the kids have returned to their schools;
abandoning their sandcastles and pools.
The leaves are slowly being drained of green,
changing colors as they prepare to die.
And cottages no longer need a screen;
for when the Fall sun sits low in the sky:
there's no mosquitoes, not even a fly.
Autumn paints the leaves with brushes of fire,
while moonbeams gild cerise edges in gold.
For Nature is an artist to admire:
with a palette that's both subtle and bold;
Her art is a masterpiece to behold.
Exhaling a breath of air, crisp and cool,
with a sweet, spicy scent that defines Fall;
Autumn pulls a thread from Memory's spool.
It is time for Jack Frost's first icy scrawl,
to welcome Winter in Her snow-white shawl.
Brisk breezes rattle bare branches and twigs,
while a forest of skeletons quivers.
A squirrel stashes nuts in holes it digs:
fearing the snow that Winter delivers;
for it's enough to give it the shivers.
From here to wherever, I'll follow a yard sale sign,
it's a past time endeavor, for my collective state of mind,
I may buy some furniture, or a trinket for a dime,
yard saling is a pleasure, yes, a personal hobby of mine,
Yea, I'm a yard sale cowboy, on the trail of search and find,
and it gives me great joy, to see a yard sale sign,
from here to wherever, cloudy days or sunshine,
I'm searching for that treasure, ain't no telling what I'll find,
I may find brand new things, boots, shoes, or clothes the right size,
silver and gold chains or rings, or an antique will catch my eyes,
I could find my brother a nice bass lure, or a spool of fishing line,
or maybe a nice piece of furniture, or something for a friend of mine,
Yea, I'm a yard sale cowboy, on the trail of search and find,
and it gives me great joy, to see a yard sale sign,
It's a past time endeavor, for my collective state of mind,
Yard saling is a pleasure, ain't no telling what I"ll find,
Yea, I'm a yard sale cowboy, I just spotted a yard sale sign,
searching is a pleasure, ain't no telling what I'll find,
I may find an old bass lure, or a spool of fishing line,
now one thing is for sure, I just found my cat a ball of twine,
and look here, I found my ol' dog a bone to grind,
Yea, I'm a yard sale cowboy, on the trail of search and find,
I may find an old bass lure, or a spool of fishing line,
from here to wherever, cloudy days or sunshine,
I'm a yard sale cowboy, on the trail of search and find,
Yea, I'm a yard sale cowboy, ain't no telling what I'll find,
Hey Bud, how much for that there what-cha-ma-call-it?
Naw Naw, Naw, that there thing-a-ma-jig, there next to that do-ma-flitchie,
Yea, Yea, that thinga-ma-jig right there.....ya say three dollars..um-m-m..OK...
I'll take it...here ya go.....and how much for that do-daddy over there?
Yea, yea, right next to those 2 onion skin tires...Uh Huh..yea..well I'll be..
Well yea..I'll take it too...it's something I just can't live without...ha ha ha..
The spool of twine grows thicker
with the winding up of days,
the garden vines, yellowed, hug the ground;
the air, intoxicated with over ripened fruit,
grows loud with strident voices, the insects' final song.
The cooled night breeze shoves us gently toward the fire
and the love-large harvest moon bends low to kiss her dying child.
Copyright, September 6, 2014
Faye Lanham Gibson
Sagan grins from a Pale Blue Dot
As LCROSS finds water in Cabeus.
Is Su Shih's bright moon finally told --
Echoed by Dickinson's moon of gold?
Did Armstrong sit in contemplation
O'er cheesy man-in-the-moon inspiration
By Yeats, Coleridge, Thomas (Dylan) and Shelley;
Li Po, Longfellow, Whitman and Lindsay?
Under Moore's young moon of May we're planting
Bamboo groves in moonbeams slanting.
Moonrise to moonset, across dead rivers --
Elvis and Emily share moon-rock shivers.
To Sandburg's moon of harvest silver,
Wells used Cavorite (but just a sliver).
Now, listen as the Selonites motion --
Whispering of Earth and its teeming blue ocean.
While I, wild moon-child, begin to spool
By the light of Merritt's Lovecraftian Pool:
"Moon-water shall be the death of me
This year."
A slow red sun cut through the soft gray sky,
To warm my eyes with layered painted light.
Birds shadows glide on the wind's goodbye.
Their fragile wings carry them from the night.
Day's end changes coats as night creatures sing,
To bring harmonies to the ear's delight.
Night's dim stars appear like an uncoiled string.
The dark cloth of time envelops twilight,
To end the sunlight's quiet turning spool,
As I watch in awe of this changing scene,
I find my silent presence minuscule,
Only my whispered thanks will intervene.
This moonlit cathedral with rising face,
Has ended this day, it has been replaced.
written 12/4/14
Wise Enough to Know
I'm wise enough
to know what I don't know
I think fast but my brain's slow
rivers of thought
cause my mind to flow
Still it seems I'm dumb enough
to put on a vain show
Will you follow me
to the places I want to go?
Wise enough
I look through windows clear
I'm over there by the juke box
wishing you were sitting near
Watching you play with your ear
Dumb me I close the curtains
darkening the atmosphere
thinking you might see me better
and come over here
I lack swag and courage
I'm paralyzed by my own fear
I'm wise enough
To see my own faults
And accept them for what they are
They seem smaller when viewed from afar
I can't drive away quick enough
in my pimped out get away car
I'm dumb enough
To be blinded by this prosperity
yet figuratively
I like the ambiguity
of not being able to see
my own incongruity
Maybe dumb is part of my personality
I'll probably never be the best version of me
after all I'm my own worst enemy
I try denying that money can change my heart
Still the cash flows from the art
Break it down by numbers tear it apart
Pop the balloon with a dart
Gas from my ego
smells worse than a fart
I'm wise enough to know
I've got a lot of learning to do
If I knew you you'd teach me
I'm sure it's true
I could become the me
of the who's who
Crystal clearly seeing you
I like your particular shade of blue
is there anything you can't do?
I'm dumb enough not to know
to much learning can turn me into a fool
I'm the thread to your needle
smooth like plastic
I've stretched so much
you might think I'm elastic
Unable to be held by a wooden spool
I hope you find my multicolours cool
stitch this heart to your fabric
for you I'd gladly play the fool
I can't swim but I'd jump in with both feet
to the deep end of your pool
You'd help me be wise enough
to avoid the traps and pitfalls of life
So if you are dumb and wise enough to be my wife
Stumble with me into paradise!
Another collaborative piece with my friend Freddie Robinson Jr.
Thank you Freddie you are inspirational. I am also glad my wife stumbled with me or perhaps I tripped her so that I could catch her. Either way it has been paradise ( at least for me).
The Air of Indifference
Tree limbs grasped hungrily at idle air
hawks, with weary wings, shared calms despair,
sailors, deafened, by the muted swell
motionless the listless sails froze in heated hell.
Kites, stricken victims of inertial rule
denied the need for string, or child-held spool
aspire to go nesting in the trees
dream of the distant joy of being free.
Soft turn of ocean breeze will fulfill hope,
sailors on the deck will seize the rope
as children would the string of lifting kite
and trees bend easily as hawks take flight.
Thus does spirits wind so gently raise
the voices of the silenced into praise.
7/3/2014
The World Unknown to me
Let me write of things I do not know
underneath the folds of nothing
beneath a fake moon's glow
I'll write about my pretend university days
and my dope smoking ways
traveling life high
experiential artistic faze
In the company of fifty shady ladies
with long sexy legs
who thought I was amazing
screaming out my name in praise
I could write about here or there
about having balls so big
nothing would give me a scare
Others could admire me
saying "Boy he has a pair"
Yes I'd be someone
suave and debonair
a golden boy
with long flowing Fabio hair
reclining enticingly in a chair
with throngs of made up people
mesmerized as they stare
Me being aloof as if I didn't care
Or maybe I'll write about
jumping from a plane
how I only travel in the fast lane
Can you relate to the pretend things
that reside in my brain
Come travel with me on a bullet train
Run through the streets naked
in the pouring hot summer rain
This world of illusion
is mine to maintain
The fabric of thought
can take the strain
If I don't like something
I just rewrite it again
after all depending on what I make up
You might learn
I'm a smidgen away
from being
on the precipice of insane
Cracked or cool
a pretend genius
wrapped in the skin of a fool
Words written are a powerful tool
watch the unwinding of my spool
Lessons taught by observing
the apposing things in life that duel
Come sit at the bench
Roll up sleeves pull up a stool
fable and pen are waiting
spill red ink on paper you are born to rule
this is a different kinda school
We are all teachers
ideas are the fuel!
Barefoot on the paving slab chill, concrete
feet feel frostbite emanations in their callused souls;
rooftop mystique clamours silent slate triangles,
perched the stray cat observers, red-eyes smoking coals.
Down to the river's edge where swaying reeds
feed mongrel contemplations with moist whispered words;
rusty oil-slicked surfaces lick the muddy banks,
karma sutra assassins are the predatory birds.
Fixated upon a frozen traffic system, bolt-locked,
dumb-shocked by electric one way streets to dead ends;
barstool poets weep sleep-sozzled cabbage tears
for the closing-time tragedy of long-time absent friends.
Drunkards shamble on beer-stained coliseum floors, grumble,
mumble incomprehensible diatribes into thin air;
the memorial park benches flake skin and rot within,
white spirits rape the dreams that anyone should care.
Deserted boardwalks spool a crooked travel,
unravel with myopic glint and blink, cat's eyes dying, died,
and the desolated song from night's deflated lung
hums doggerel consolation with no meaning left inside.
Illegitimate offspring of fatherless daughters and sons,
buns in sceptic ovens, burnt baked black offerings;
sacrifices on toilet stall altars, to lie in state
no more than ether, aborted ghosts, empty superfluous things.
Saviours ride no pale horses, immaculate white stallions,
galleons never sail to where the sun pristinely sets,
for the purpose of this life resides in its conclusion,
deserve has nothing to do with it and nothing is all it begets
I often wander from life's rules,
flounder thru issues days will spool.
At those times, you gentle my view.
I am blessed to be loved by you.
If I hide when morning arrives
renewed strength comes from your blue eyes.
Your presence stays my spirit's hue.
I am blessed to be loved by you.
I sometimes bruise when life turns tough,
void of humor and light mood fluff.
From your touch warm healings come through.
I am blessed to be loved by you.
Your heart tendered concern and care
gives our companionship sweet flare.
Just loving memories accrue.
I am blessed to be loved by you.
I pray to steer your life complete
as our love is a two way sweet.
Joy is life viewed as just we two.
I am blessed to be loved by you.
And you will know me by the trail of dead,
the whistle of wind in cutthroat pipes,
the jolly japes and spring heeled capers
in the sepia pulp of the Sunday papers
and in all the Jack Tar bilge in your head,
for you will know me by the trail of dead.
And you will know me by the trail of dead
the gory tales of bright crimson stripes.
the intestinal spool of viscera and gutting,
the slashing swipe of steel blades cutting,
and the opening wounds awash with red,
for you will know me by the trail of dead.
And you will know me by the trail of dead,
the love-a-duck and strike-me-blind,
the dear boss letters and cunning stunts,
the hunter or hunted in Whitechapel hunts,
and the feverish sweats in every bed,
for you will know me by the trail of dead.
And you will know me by the trail of dead,
the buckle-my-shoe and daily grind,
the Juwes and gin and pea soup nights,
the whore flesh slaughter and ghastly sights,
and the legends of all I did and said,
for you will know me by the trail of dead.
Adamant Face
My mother used to say with an adamant face, "There is a place for everything and for everything a place!”
My goodness, this house is a total disgrace"
So every Tuesday at quarter past 4:OO
each person in our family had the same chore,
to straighten the house and pick up the floor.
We all sighed, then one replied,
“Where do we put things?”
“Where do they go?”
"Where did they come from?"
"We don’t know!”
"Just put things back in their original home.
"Whatever you do, don’t let them roam"
If you don’t know what it's called,
where to put it,
or what it does,
or you can’t throw it out or know it’s name because,
it doesn’t have a match or
there is a piece detached ;
then don’t give up, just keep your chin up.
Leave nothing astray, but please be done by the end of the day"
"There is a place for everything and for everything a place" she reminded us with her adamant face.
Our cleaning began, and what did we find ?
Interesting things of every kind.
Two birthday candles from my cake years ago, rusted nail clippers that trimmed my big toe.
A broken pencil with a very dull end, and a thank you card I forgot to send.
A soy sauce packet stuck to a fork, from a take out order of moo shoo pork.
A spool of thread, the color red, when I sewed my clumsy thumb instead!
Grandpa’s glasses missing one lens
My sister’s retainer
And 2 leaky pens
A postal stamp
A bread bag clip
The top to my mother’s pink lipstick.
A germy cold lozenge when I had the flu.
A dirty lace from a tennis shoe.
Three receipts from CVS.
A zipper from an old prom dress.
Soon we finished, and one replied,
“Our cleaning is done, we picked up the floor,
No longer a disgrace anymore!"
"We put things back in their original home,
where they belonged and could not roam”
“Mother, that place was the kitchen drawer!"
Our job is done, say no more!
A free verse done in a quatern form (1st line moves to each stanza but is here, I have more syllables in each line in free form then is allowed inQuatern
This scene before me is one of ideals
A dugout canoe of faded yellow, afloat
The fisherman winding his every day hopes
On a pop bottle spool with only one hook
Amid cliff sides of rising mountains, they come
This scene before me is one of ideals
Desires for adventures rendered sublime
In and out the cultures drift, on the divide
Accommodate the wandering nomad in us
Sharing our similarities, learning to trust
This scene before me is one of ideals
Country and culture calling out to the world
Accept the intrusions on centuries old life
Finding the rhythm, new outlooks attained
Why the world matters you’re shown right away
This scene before me, is one of ideals
written: 10-13-2019
Copyright Protected 2019 Jeanne McGee
Written in San Marco, Lake Atitlan, Guatemala