Best Weavings Poems
~
Winter breathes in sepia tones along a lonely two lane street
divided amongst the sweeping frozen dunes
now forced into shouldered amnesty
Street lights shiver in snowcapped bonnets
while sidewalks sleep ‘neath blankets of flittering flakes
The air, frigidly crisp…moves of tiny chiffon sparkles dancing
Rooftops, plump and soft, show off their frosted padding
as evergreens find alabaster fingers tickling their branches
in chilled teasings and frozen dustings
Footprints, once there are gone, covered and recovered again
all evidence of life is erased beneath pearl clouded skies
and faint outlines of distant thoughts
White on black stripes drape in glacial wanderings
spanning the slush of asphalt weavings
in straight line piercings across the wintry landscape
January reigns brutal, subzero ponderings swirl
from high above the icebox wasteland, once brimming with color
now opaque in its arctic seasoned disguise…
~
Written from memory…no winter here. : )
She comes to me when e’er she will,
When starlight sprinkles my windowsill.
When the dew finds rest upon the grass
She taps upon my window glass.
I go outside to be with her,
To share a moment soft and pure,
But she soon glides away down a wooded lane
And I who follow think I follow in vain.
We amble through the night time woods,
Past curled up ferns and dark monk’s hoods,
Past spiders in their silken weavings,
Long past when night surpasses evening.
I follow her deep into the glen
To the reedy edge of a foggy fen
Where cattails sway in a subtle breeze
And glowworms float in airy ease.
She pauses by a drowsy creek
And turns to me as if to speak,
But saying nothing moves farther ahead
And alights on a nearby milkweed bed.
She bids me listen to a joyful tune
The crickets play beneath a full white moon,
The notes flutter, then fall, gentle and sweet
In dappled moonlight at my feet.
We listen in silent similitude
Afraid to disturb the delicate mood,
Yet soon she starts to converse with me
And I am richer for her company.
We talk about many wonderful things –
About robin’s eggs and butterfly wings.
About caterpillars, elves and gnomes
And where she claims to make her home.
We talk about love and the joy it will bring
And how it can make a lonely heart sing.
I then smile at her but she turns away
And I, left speechless, have nothing to say.
And so we share the passing night
And greet the dawn’s creeping light,
But before the night succumbs to day
She once more starts to glide away.
She lingers near the waking brook
Then disappears in a rocky nook.
Looking in I can see her no more –
She has returned to where she was before.
Morning has come too soon it would seem
And she has left me alone to ponder my dream.
A dream? Perhaps, but real I know
For she had deigned to make it so.
January 22, 2024
____________________________________
Divergent viewpoints can arise
Whilst triumphant variously savor
Glorious tune of achievement,
Gain glory as godly guile
Whilst booming into spring blooms
In fervor of zeal, vow faithfully
God bestows on them a swish tree
With a bountiful harvest
Its span is boundless
Akin to an everlasting ring,
However, clocks tick down
Daily weavings of divine honor.
Amidst lustrous obelisk
Unbeknown overall aesthetic
Sprawled across stars haze
My cosmic frame oozes to apex
I harness the strand in crimson
Widening warp and woof
Over that magnificent loom
Queries seldom yield effectiveness,
Sadness for their plight emerged
In bows and flowery swags
We ought to remember
Fetching a fresh format forward
Divine devotion developed.
We could detect tangles and flaws
Fairness shares justice and equity
The quest implies grace and faith,
A gorgeous layout with a top-ounce
We are haughtily proud,
Divine is eternally supreme
His work never stops, and
His weaving is always wise,
But we must remember that
We are an essential portion of it.
Let us embrace each day
As a raw opportunity to weave
A Halcyon design
With dedication and patience
We can grow the warp and woof
Over that majestic loom
Until we blossom, akin to flowers.
Patterns gleam in the sun
Threads lie side by side
Or criss-cross
In intricate patterns
Like individuals intersecting
Within the family
Each dependent yet separate
Blues, reds, greens and yellows complete the rhythm
Any strand pulled from this parade of colors
Reveals a gap in dreams unfulfilled
How I love you,
My middle child,
You are the elegant pendant
Dropping gracefully
From our necklace’s mid-point
Giving meaning to our chain of life
How I love you,
My middle child,
You are the glue
Within life’s weavings
Irrepressible giggles erupt in play with older sister
Whispered consultations emerge from pillow sessions with younger brother
Bridging, always bridging
Giving, always giving
Know, my middle child,
Those stirring fears
Of being in between
Are fleeting ghosts
Your constant beauty shines
Like the lighthouse globe
Signaling to all
Your presence
Rejoice in your role,
My middle child,
Imagine a shimmering reflection pool
Whose immutable colors
Expand and multiply
You are vital to a whole
That is greater than its parts
And you are loved deeply
Happy Birthday, Maureen
Love, Mom
September 27, 2014
By night eleven figures came to me
Unlocking doors that sealed shut long ago.
We travelled forward on a darkened sea
To sleepy Somnus’ cave, hidden below.
Eternal slumber gave me rich insight,
Transcribing knotted weavings made by Fates.
The desert day so soon becomes the night.
A pink adenium opens the gates.
The broadened wings of Letum drive whirlwinds
Destroying yet defining futile man.
This changeless contract Saturn can’t rescind.
This boundless desert wastes the best laid plans.
The vision fades away, the figures leave.
The Moon is made anew, no need to grieve.
God have mercy on spiders
hanging in their webs
waiting for the moon
They seem condemned to loneliness
to a long sleeping in between
How they sweeten our gardens
with their dew encrusted
weavings, touching branches,
framing spaces
And, when the orbed ones
have departed in the daylight
they are not dead,
merely sleeping,
beneath the nearest leaf
waiting for the moon
Thrill knowledge with the desire to spread
Ideals across heads like grains of sand
Sprinkle little rays of brightness
Into cups full of vanilla ice-cream
If the sun doesn’t sparkle
Then there is no one to blame
But one’s own eyes
Blind to the legacy that showcases it’s prize in the middle of the day
If the moon’s enchanting lullabies don’t soothe the soul
Open up the heart and let winds
Change the currents and ease the turmoil
Tealeaves soak in small kettles over the stove
Passionate inferno and a stream of serenity
Measured into china cups and a sugar lump in each
To put into a smile and a twinkle of the eye
Do the world a favor and breathe between bamboo shoots and bowls of rice
While Time runs his hand over the strings on the guitar
And plays Life a love song
Time is not eternally handsome or young
Life is not always bearing silk and jewels
But the hourglass keeps flowing and love grows despite the looks and pearls
Arpeggios play slowly while dusk draws further away and it’s another day
I could hold your hand and run forever through lanes of cherry blossoms
Racing towards storms of crimson flora that from a hurricane would be shamed
Falling down as I open my heart and let them rest in memoirs
Whispering secrets and thoughts that take a lifetime to say
But a second to realize
Mysteries never really bothered me
If everything was known then why should I blink
To renew tears for sorrow and tears of laughter
I’d love to know most of it but I’ll be fine if I die without knowing it at all
As long as I know how it feels to live then I’ll be fine
Molecular Biology and Genetic evolution and all terms fade
From textbooks and minds
Awakening dreams and aspire to devote themselves to dew drops
Disciples of a flawed world
Defects are perfect to judge the worth
Of perfection
Inside endless worlds there lies just a simple dew drop
Prisms reflect giving ideas of complex
Intricate weavings and deeper then deep thoughts
Everything to you has to be a little more then less
But less is maybe exactly what your looking for
Despite riches and greed infiltrating peace
I have more wealth in a glitter of an star
Then in a stock bond
Laugh it up and respire
To expire and depart this life
With handfuls of luminous memories inside of balloons to help one float up
Into the Sky
Grandma shivers,
and to warm her, I wrap
an old faded shawl
around her frail frame.
A shawl she had hand woven
many years ago.
I hold her, and while she sleeps,
she touches the worn threads.
Her fingers move over the old design,
of two faded red roses.
Her eyes are closed.
Perhaps, my Grandma's dreams
are somewhere in the past,
reviewing all her life's weavings.
Suddenly Grandma's eyes open.
She reaches out as her hands
tremble over the old shawl.
Her fingers seem to be tracing
a new design over the faded roses,
as if an intrinsically beautiful pattern
is being revealed to her.
Now I understand!
Grandma is weaving a new shawl!
Eagerly she leans forward.
I watch her pick up one old loose thread,
and firmly tie it to the new.
A song is heard
In the dead of night
Her tears are shining in the sky so bright
Tears of star light
Her voice is delicate and drifts on the breeze
As a jade flute sounds in the Cold moon palace
Her weavings drape the icy halls in colors
Warming up the room
The smell of herbs and tonic flow throughout the silk laden halls
As the rabit with hair
as bright as precious jade
Works diligently making the immortal cakes
The sound of cheng'e is heard bouncing through the cold hallowed halls
As she hopes this year Her loved one returns
There she sits at her make up stall
Eyes painted with blue starlight
Rosy blush adoring lips.
She dresses in her best silk hanfu
Embroidered with the fenghuang and the longwu
And wears her moonlit crown high
As she waits for the bridge to be made again
To reunite with her beloved houyi
(Pema on Turkish Rug, 2023)
The Sweet Spot
Remarkably, right on the cusp
Between the tangible and intangible
Sit the old tribal weavings
Of the near to far East.
I’m sure to many
Both there and here
This subtle distinction of delicate balance
Goes right over their heads.
But to others,
Surely more than just a few,
It goes right to the heart
Which is of course the place we all long to be.
It’s such a fine line to find
Between this and that
The known and the mysterious
And yet…
What else is there worth finding
Where else would you rather be
Than at the sweet spot
Where in and out are one.
(5/24/24)
The dawn is breaking
The eve is dawning
Escaping dark this evening
Now truth; dark is sleeping
Truth is key is leaving
Key to my heart, buried in his weavings
Weave dark does, crafting his lies
Light lies in discovering my oldest allies
But the weight I carry cannot be lightened
Waiting on nightfall, my senses are heightened
To make it out alive and whole
Or wholly separate body and soul
This place is poison, slowly killing
Escape or not, new places come chilling
Chilling thoughts come of my new destination
Heaven thought I, for there's no sin in preservation
Sin in the staying, curling tightly within
Within me hides coward, afraid of the dark
Deeper than deep down, it's dark in my heart.
I feel the fiber of our lives,
the intertwining threads of our existence,
like weavings on a loom,
join together.
As if made of the other's own fabric,
our life stories play in and out
of
each
other,
like repeated patterns,
interplayed between us.
I shall lay this burden down.
I give it tour our Father time.
Beyond all reason, it bends the mind.
We shall call on Father,
In seasons diverse, his manner
Flows to many seas,
Too heavy too great
For us to perceive.
Then vanity pour sine squeal
Like lusted weavings
Round your neck a death march.
It is dry portion sus offering sin.
Cast down ashes they be,
Of death, burnt shadow of spirit
Do rise like moths to flame.
Heaven's testimony ,
Is a net of pain.
Their insence weave a bitter
Web of stencheful shame.
Father forgive them their
Almond obeisance
Weapons to
Destruct the mass,
CIRUS garden,
It does burn,
Its mustard grows painful gases,
But worse the purple powder,
Rend the heavens
Stretch them out
Send my spirit burning through
Toxic snare, so
Chemical veil impart us your Sun
So we may see truth Father of all and one.
Poems about Flight, Flying, and Birds (III)
Songstress
by Michael R. Burch
Within its starkwhite ribcage, how the heart
must flutter wildly, O, and always sing
against the pressing darkness: all it knows
until at last it feels the numbing sting
of death. Then life's brief vision swiftly passes,
imposing night on one who clearly saw.
Death held your bright heart tightly, till its maw–
envenomed, fanged–could swallow, whole, your Awe.
And yet it was not death so much as you
who sealed your doom; you could not help but sing
and not be silenced. Here, behold your tomb's
white alabaster cage: pale, wretched thing!
But you'll not be imprisoned here, wise wren!
Your words soar free; rise, sing, fly, live again.
Performing Art
by Michael R. Burch
Who teaches the wren
in its drab existence
to explode into song?
What parodies of irony
does the jay espouse
with its sharp-edged tongue?
What instinctual memories
lend stunning brightness
to the strange dreams
of the dull gray slug
—spinning its chrysalis,
gluing rough seams—
abiding in darkness
its transformation,
till, waving damp wings,
it applauds its performance?
I am done with irony.
Life itself sings.
Lean Harvests
by Michael R. Burch
for T.M.
the trees are shedding their leaves again:
another summer is over.
the Christians are praising their Maker again,
but not the disconsolate plover:
i hear him berate
the fate
of his mate;
he claims God is no body’s lover.
My Forty-Ninth Year
by Michael R. Burch
My forty-ninth year
and the dew remembers
how brightly it glistened
encrusting September,...
one frozen September
when hawks ruled the sky
and death fell on wings
with a shrill, keening cry.
My forty-ninth year,
and still I recall
the weavings and windings
of childhood, of fall...
of fall enigmatic,
resplendent, yet sere,...
though vibrant the herald
of death drawing near.
My forty-ninth year
and now often I've thought on
the course of a lifetime,
the meaning of autumn,
the cycle of autumn
with winter to come,
of aging and death
and rebirth... on and on.
Keywords/Tags: flight, fly, flying, bird, birds, hawks, plover, wren, songbird, cage, song
Time's Weavings, As I Brood Upon Them
Shut inside windows open W I D E
I age 1,000 years
To your one.
The Past turns in tight circles upon the Present,
Inscribing itself in memories
Lending textures to the future,
Pains and pleasures,
Loves and losses,
Bitter, sweet,
All fall together to become tomorrow,
To break apart and cycle on again.
Outdoors, beyond a window full of November's clouds
A child runs gaily past,
While up the street, with ancient, measured tread,
A crone approaches;
Youth and age will meet and cycle 'round again.
I turn grey thoughts within my mind,
Composing poems as Significant Others
Drift in and out of the rooms of my life,
Now babe, Now child, Now youth, Now adult
Now gone.
Friends and lovers weave the warp together,
Light and shadow chase one another through the rooms,
Whispering secrets of change.