Best Tatted Poems
Lightly flutter snowflakes
as on the breeze they go,
these butterflies of snow.
Spiderwebs the frost makes
when the pewter day breaks
to snare them as they blow.
This window the webs ring
the porthole in the frost
on which the flecks are tossed
is tatted like the wings
of earwigs in the spring.
The glass becomes embossed
with ornaments of ice
and blooms of edelweiss.
From deep recesses of my mind
I bring a great great-grandma’s face.
She left no photograph behind.
I dream her dressed in bits of lace,
Tatted perhaps by her own hand,
A talent she didn‘t leave to me.
She labored and loved and lived and left
No memories for her progeny.
I’ve traced her name, all I can do
To give her substance, make her real,
A living being who could cry
Could laugh and all emotions feel.
There was a time I could have asked
Her granddaughter of what she knew.
That chance is now forever lost
No one is left to give a clue.
Dear Grandma I lend you my pen,
Please tell about the life you led.
Be free to speak your mind through me
And say the things you would have said.
A wealth of stories left untold
And lessons from which we could have learned.
Dear Mollie Blosser, I’d then record
The place in history you have earned.
A spider carefully plans and schemes
the pattern for its life and quest.
It spends its hours weaving dreams
until it creates its sticky best.
Its web is tatted small and refined
or brocaded in heavy tapestry.
Soon prey finds itself entwined,
entombed within this basketry.
The spider calmly enswathes it,
a gesture quick yet fatal.
To paralyze this tasty tidbit,
its single bite is detrimental.
To live, to spin, to weave, to eat,
is spider’s deadly task’s cycle.
Web mastery, a cunning feat,
ensures the spider’s survival.
Acrid smoke in the scientist’s bell jar
Blankets of chenille-covered snow
Crystalline carbon diamond star
Drips forming stalactites grow
Effervescent waterfalls’ dreams
Frothy-topped cappuccinos
Gelid surfaces of lakes and streams
Halos of angels in holy repose
Icebergs splitting from their source
Jasmine-covered pergolas in Spring
Knuckles clenched in fear or remorse
Love’s purest form sobering
Mandala patterns on frosted window
Newly-born flamboyant flamingos
Opalescent lustre of pearls on show
Pineapple-licious snow cones
Quills of the porcupines’ defense
Ringlets of great-grandparents’ hair
Steamy hot springs vapor intense
Trailing wisps of London fog air
Undulating winter foothill maze
Veils of fine tatted lace purity
Wieliczka Salt Mine passageways
Xilinous spider webs artistry
Yahrzeit candle flame in memoriam
Zephyrus ballooning sails on a whim
One frozen winter with icicles sparkling,
And heavenly voices wafting through trees,
The tiptoe of fairies laughing and crunching
Sweet scents of angels perfumed the breeze.
Sunshine in treetops brought morning prancing.
Bright puffs of stardust tingled butterfly wings.
A whisper of light like diamonds came dancing,
And melted my soul into silent repose.
Woodpeckers rat-a-tat-tatted on trees.
Whip-o-wills rustled in nests built of leaves.
Songbirds flew fluttering while sparrows sang.
Soft voices of angels through my daydreams rang.
Oh, symphonic morning with whispers of light,
Evoke in my soul a spiritual delight.
Euphorically, musings sent visions spinning.
Lifted my sorrows and pampered my soul.
Angels silhouetted at the dawning that day,
Forever remains a most wondrous sight.
This vision was given with love from above.
One frozen winter in whispers of light.
Ó February 11, 2014
Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest: Whispers of Light
Sponsored by Gail Angel Doyle
The Restaurant Menu has a picture.
Three golden brown Pancakes
A large corn colored slice of butter
Melting on top running over the sides.
Griddle Cakes doing a Nathalie Wood impersonation
Drowning in a sea of thick maple syrup
Cartoon like ribbons of aroma rising upward.
The old man made them every Sunday morning before church.
Which he never attended
Black hair slicked back
Partially stained white Dago-Tee
Cigarette dangling from his lips.
The ash worming longer with each Popeye exhale
From the side of his mouth
Large bowl on his left hip
Attacking the batter with grunts of enthusiasm.
Tattoos on his arms flexing larger then smaller
Giving the appearance they were dancing.
Tatted when he was a Cook in the Navy
During World War II.
I imagined him storming the beaches of the South Pacific
With spatula in hand
"Don't need to cut'em with a damn knife.
Use your fork "
He'd holler wrestling the knife from my hand
Then throwing it into the sink.
Slapping the back of my head in anger
No Waitress wait!
I'll have the Waffles instead
With strawberries if you have them.
Yes, Waffles
We never had a Waffle Iron.
I once met a girl wearing blue lipstick
Who had cold kisses
and a heart tatted in dollar signs
With charming words and chimes
She bedazzled my mind
Leaving me frozen in time
Somewhere in deep recesses of my mind
I try to picture my great- grandma's face.
She left no photograph of self behind,
But I dream of her dressed in bits of lace,
Tatted perhaps, by her artistic hand.
Her sewing genes survived but not in me.
She lived, labored and loved and then she left
No memories for future progeny.
I've traced her name, it is all I can do
To give her substance and to make her real.
She was a living being who could cry,
Could laugh and all other emotions feel.
There was a time I could have asked my mom
If there were things about her that she knew.
That chance is gone and is forever lost,
No one is left who could offer a clue.
Dear Grandma I lend you my willing pen.
Reflect upon the life that you once led.
Be free to speak about your memories
And say the things you wish that you had said.
There must be lots of stories left untold
And lessons great-grandchildren could have learned.
Dear Mollie Blosser, I'd love to record
The place in hist'ry you have richly earned.
By; Joyce Johnson
Form Iambic Pentameter
Why?! Sometimes I ask why. I mean why?
Does the good die young, I mean why?
Does the world make it so hard for single mothers to feed their kids but have enough
money for inmates, I mean why?
Do we constanlty see history repeat itself when we have already learned it, I mean why?
Do we fear and cant trust the police, I mean why?
Do we attack and hurt the people that love us but love the people that attack and hurt us, I mean why?
Do we have a generation that believes love is unsearchable. Where hate is leaned on more. Where happienes is rare.
And where lust is a no brainer, I mean why?
Do kids know every song lyric, but doesnt know a bible scripture besides the one tatted on their arms, I mean why?
Do I have people in my life that are their for no reason, I mean why?
Do I have a pinch of believers but a handful of doubters, I mean why?
Did I have so much pain growing up, I mean why?
Do now I have enemies that use to be my friends, I mean why?!
Do things never go my way in my life, I mean why?
But Gods plans are unsearchable. So he only knows, Why.
I LOVED YOU ONCE
Somewhere in my secret heart I was so afraid .That the happiness I feel when I'm with you-I would wake up and find decayed. I would glow at the mere scent of you, swept in by the Atlantic wave like a calming morning breeze. Your smile, a reminder of the memories we shared: of laughter, of pain and passion unchained. Your voice a soothing note tearing through my chest and reaching for my soul
Your passion and direction drove me to be a better me,
to build towards my own dreams while supporting you as you lay the foundation for yours. When you stumbled I was by your ear whispering reminders of the strength that becomes you I lived outside my comfort zone for me, for you, for us.. But the secret in my heart lays bare for all to see I sit here in retrospect, the words tatted on my heart in bold... Evidence that I LOVED YOU ONCE
Counted every star for you, you were the one.
You brought magic in my life
I loved you, Oh yes I did
But I loved you once
It’s now a lost desire, a dream forgotten.
The river is now dry; the sun doesn’t shine on us no more.
Cries in the dark, no one can hear
Shadows of what used to be.
A lie shared with a stranger
Beauty of what could have been.
A moment of madness that almost made us lose ourselves
That angelic smile, that golden charm that got me twisted
I loved you once, it’s now just a tattoo on my heart
written by Tariro Anifasi and Tawona Ranganawa
"Poeta Nascitur Non Fit"
Hated decades ago
Accepted a decade ago
Glorified now
To the extent
of what we are horrified by
Painted tainted enlarged adjusted
Altered lessened sculpted tatted
A misrepresentation of our creative space
Now you are different if you are not
And the crowd screams, "Vive La Difference"!
As oath breakers call upon the Now
Learning lessons learned in the fog
To make the fog lace
We were under dressed anyway
And at odds with peace
Waiting for options
That are fail safe
Hic et nune...Hic et ubique
gardez la foi
Vox populi...Vox Dei
Gardez la foi
Or trouble will come
which will leave us asking
"Where did we go wrong?"
Quie'n Sabe?
Forgetting forgot to forget
what to forgive
and who not to
and so here we are
In a state of constant acceptance
consumed by society's need
to remain the same
in a constant state of change
Yet we are forewarned...
Not to be physically immoral
Not to be thieves
Not to be greedy
Not to be wrong
But we deceive ourselves
and submit
We disease ourselves
and admit it and live through it
and say, "it's right"
when we know it's wrong.
Do you remember
when we couldn't act
like what we weren't
Or be who we were not??
We play with destiny
and it's forbidden activity
like climbing a latter
with broken arms
Lean forward step light
Listen hard
It ain't even real to be real no more
so why try if you ain't
It ain't even real to be real no more
Now it's real to be fake.
"Church St. people of the abyss."
A pancake breakfast in Jericho,
through the melt and the muck
we decided to go.
Wiping our boots at Church St. and Pearl,
We entered at risk as profanity hurled.
Through the hopeless, the helpless,
the homeless in plight,
flipped a quarter in the air
to a beggars delight.
Under Holiday lights
still up in Spring,
past guitars and people
who think they can sing.
With seagulls awhirl,
all the ground as their plate,
a pierced and tatted girl,
who feared she was late.
The sweet spice aroma
of venders with food,
and a different kind of smell,
from the Bus station dudes.
Arriving at Main street
and to our distain,
surrounded by drunks
as it started to rain.
Now standing in puddles
with thoughts where we`ve been,
be a while before we shop,
on Church St. again.
shoes untied, hair uncombed
waling the streets so all alone
tatted clothes ransack house
eating out trash cans day N night
OH NO! HE'S NOT ASHAMED
NO ONE IS TO BLAME JUST. . . HE'S JUST
HOMELESS
has a cold, twenty-four with a runny nose
stands on a corner everyone disowns ya
no place to go, no one goes by him
he poses sitting on old cardboard boxes
watching the people go by in buses
HE IS HOMELESS
BUT HE HAS GOT JESUS
HOMELESS
AND ALTHOUGH HE IS A MESS HE IS STILL BLESS, HE IS JUST
HOMELESS
OH NO! HE'S NOT ASHAMED
NO ONE IS TO BLAME JUST. . . HE'S JUST
HOMELESS
not fit to live but fit to give
you go by him and ya hearing
you hear him talkin to himself
murmuring passages sounds like scriptures to me
and why oh, why is he so happy
and why oh, why is he so happy
Lord God why or why is he so happy
(HUSH......................there is a pause in this song a stillness
wait for it
wait
résumé???)
HOMELESS
not fit to live but fit to give
you go by him and ya hearing
you hear him talkin to himself
murmuring passages sounds like scriptures to me
and why oh, why is he so happy
and why oh, why is he so happy
Lord God why or why is he so happy
no! family none than admit to be his
no job no wants to employ him Well!!
not even a place to say shelter's keeps him hid or telling he they're full
tattered clothes undeserved
tooth's in decay why is he so happy pains everywhere
why does he sing and shout (a loud)
why where does his joy come from
HE IS HOMELESS
BUT HE HAS GOT JESUS
HOMELESS
AND ALTHOUGH HE IS A MESS HE IS STILL BLESS, HE IS JUST
HOMELESS
OH NO! HE'S NOT ASHAMED
NO ONE IS TO BLAME JUST. . . HE'S JUST
HOMELESS
HE HAS God's grace and this is sufficient for him
Written Words by James Edward Lee Sr. & The Corinthian
Arranged music by The Corinthian
July 3 2007(c)
From Anthology "Something To Sing Praises"2007(c)
The Sahara's flaring moon
weaves sand castles in hombre dusk,
jacquard ridges unraveling down burlap slopes.
Under taupe sky a balmy loom
spins dust into tawny gold for a sultan sun,
eroding an oasis to sate his rapture
with effete wealth tatted in the shadows
cast by white peacock clouds
floating above seedless dunes
once shimmering with emerald palms
and sapphire waters.
Unseen hands of a sightless pearl
now craft his exfoliated sheikdom
from the dry scraps of Eden.
BOKO HARAM’S BLUEPRINT.
Happy worshipers dance,
Sending praises to her
Redeemer.
Sound from guns is the instrument
That intercepts every song,
Bomb has become duplicate
For expressing love.
Various kiosk has closed up,
No one sells my regular
Palm frond.
You fill proud destroying this
Present world
Carrying toothless tongues,
You search to relocate any
Church situated in the north.
Don’t be a coward,
Come and speck with one voice,
Even if you are pronounced
Deaf and dumb,
Show me signs your war
Hasn’t been cursed.
Virgin blood are spilled into
My soil,
Mass grave instead of farming
Maize.
I can identify some of these
Selfish hawks
Fighting for slots at all cost.
Explosion is your blueprint
For reaching the top,
I hear you wear horns
Claiming to be Fulani’s
Son.
Boko Haram is a tatted shop
Would be eliminated by a
Collective tractor.
I now protect the security
Force
His gun just got burnt
All his swords are also blunt.
Lets await the rhythm of a
New song,
Hold hands and walk towards
Luck sited in between joy,
Niger can never spoil,
Who will claim
He knows my source?
Don’t make my faith become
A disgrace
Your ways are extinct trace
On the lane of waste,
To eventually fail in shame.
AKEWUSOLA HABIB.