Charcoaled by the flickered USG light,
Crocheting living diaries of rose-glazen silk.
Colossal musings bloom through whispered stillness,
Doppler drifts its waves across sea-green marmoris.
A radiological quest through the wisteria of thought—
The sincere scalpel surrenders, a vow stitched in veins.
Cocooned beneath the autumn leaves,
Carrying the MRI of faraway stars.
Sowing scanned seeds in the ebony chambers,
Remember me when it rains on the petals of purgatory.
All seems peaceful on a normal day, cheerfulness is no disarray;
friendly neighbors greet us with a warm good morning,
we wave and smile back, wishing them well and speed away:
slow was the life of yesterday, many happy tunes to sing!
The only person in the house is Emma sewing a dress for Jenny,
she had promised it for her birthday, two locked lips on her part....
secrets are kept to oneself, it's surprises that excite and delight;
a Colbert dress that matches her eyes can make her look pretty!
Why is the house quite, the hushing wind brushes her silver hair;
granny is crocheting a blanket for her couch, the other her chair,
" Everything gets old including me, " It's her resounding lament,
" Winter comes for all, it's a sad season so ghostly and so silent! "
Time sat with her antinomic daughters two :
Destiny the elder, tall, fastidious and hard ;
And Luck, the merry, playful conjuring guard
Who averts the pre-ordained, out of the blue
The old lady crocheting together events odd ,
Twisting her head ,opened up the dispute :
'Why need you meddle with and transmute
'All that ensues along Fate's heavy, firm plod
Considering the plight on the marked path ,
"Mom " , said the other with a wry smile
" I let my picks find the vicissitudes wile
"That favour the brave who bear Life's wrath".
Thus went the dialectic , neither did concede ;
Striking an attitude, blurted the one serious ,
That every act has its effect due and various ;
The other winked and shrugged, to plead :
Hope induces vigour in crisis and breakdown
As morbid defeat glides like an avalanche ,
And committed strife finds enlivening chance
If death is certain , survival is winner's crown .
Optimizing hobby moments with zest
While indulging in creativity’s flair
I do exercise my handcrafting best
Producing work of art my soul can share.
Delighted, I bask in crocheting bliss
For cellphone cases bearing vibrant hues
As birthday gift to either lass or Sis
Grateful to God* along poetic muse.
Oh, with needle's help and garments to mend
My hands excel in repairing delight
Fixing well along embroidery's end
Showcasing a new version of good sight.
Then as my special child joins me with mirth
Together, we bond midst handcrafting spree
Using strings and yarns of workmanship's worth
Maximizing hobby times, gladly free.
*Colossians 3:17 - And whatsoever ye do in word or deed, do all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God and the Father by him.
April 30, 2024
2nd place, "Tell me about your hobby in 8-20 lines of rhyme" Poetry Writing Contest; Sponsored by Tania Kitchin; judged on 5/5/2024
They get tangled when crocheting.
Much like hair, they weave dreams.
It changes shape, changes form,
when touched with barehand,
it crumbles, triggers a storm.
They say, 2.537 million light-years away,
is a galaxy like our own.
The tiny fiber, there too sway,
weaves supple fabric, alas it is
made of stone.
When I look up at the sky,
I swear I see. A slender yet,
long thread flying up high,
inter-galaxies, it is free.
They say, 2.537 million light-years away,
is a world, neither young nor old.
From nebulae to supernovas vast,
these cotton strands, secrets hold.
Connecting all from this world
to the other, the fortune changes.
Enlightenment is unfurled.
Every fibre lives, every fibre
dies. Every stitch questions
Who am I?
They say, 2.537 million light-years away,
there is a land so divine.
Where gods walk the earth, humans
collude with the stars
and disrupt the time.
Prompt: Cotton Strands
The golden light of four o' clock comes fast
Country comfort and camera in hand
Orange, yellow, red, brown, pumpkins all around
The hues, the colors, a feast for the eyes
Hot coffee, creamy and smooth, warm to the bones
The golden light of four o' clock comes fast
Apple picking, pumpkin pie, eating snacks
Trick or treat candy galore in my sack
Cornstalks, corn mazes, hot apple cider
A cornucopia of many things
The golden light of four o' clock comes fast
Sharing your bounty, a time to give thanks
Thanksgiving harvest, gratitude abounds
Sweaters, scarves, flannel shirts, warm cozy socks
Crocheting blankets and hats and mittens
The golden light of four o' clock comes fast
These rugby-playing girls -
or women, should I say? -
are so rough and ready,
dashing down that field,
conveying that oval ball
from this end to that,
gritting their teeth.
Oh, what might! Such a sight!
Or do I not prefer
to behold delicate white frocks
on ladies whose fairylike fingertips
hold their tiny needles,
sewing and crocheting,
or simply sitting in silence and smiling
as we fawn on and fancy their fine, fine faces?
Yet would I not receive a slap around my head
for even daring to dawdle on such thoughts?
It is so easy to spend so much time pondering
before I wake in fright:
which sight might I hold tight in my sleeping eyes
moments before I rise - and rise some more?
(19 May 2023)
Away now pure soul
This world of strife and pain
Like a loose noose enclave
Untamed maned unashamed brave hailed praised
In the depths of your disdain
A new life with insight
With strife proofed frames
And a burnt bush cane
To fight through sinister nights
Till their darkness burst to flames
May your name be proclaimed
May your joy be the stain on the face of the shamed and wicked enslaved
That are chained
By bitter guilts crocheting their quilts that causes their light to wane
Away now pure soul, upward and away
Pure serenity
Mindlessly crocheting
Listen to the music
But do not process
Do not think
Do not think
D o n o t t h i n k
Find pleasure in the simpler things of life
Enjoyment should be in your vocabulary
Take up crocheting or playing the fife!
Find pleasure in the simpler things of life
A walk in the woods can dissipate strife
Eschew arguing and merely being contrary
Find pleasure in the simpler things of life
Enjoyment should be in your vocabulary.
Written April 12, 2022
I know how to party,
On Friday nights, really,
I have crocheting, you see,
A stash of yarn, and coffee,
I'd say that's quite a party,
Hope all the crafters agree!
Crocuses, daffodils, and
tulips, harbingers of Spring,
sprout: announcing life's rebirth;
fueled by warmth and sunshine.
Nature's garden gets renewed,
while songbirds sing nesting songs,
rejoicing, as April rains
ink the Earth, emerald green.
Unfolding their leaves, the trees
start crocheting canopies,
creating shadows, dappled
with golden beams of sunlight.
Wildflowers inject color
to the scene, displacing white:
while Spring initiates change
and Winter snows, melt away.
The normal joy of Christmas is dead in my house.
No enthusiasm or anticipation of laughter
It will be another day without family or friends
I may have a twinge or two of loneliness
But I will quickly tamp them down,
crocheting them into quilts of frolic and madness
The frolicking and madness of one.
One who can entertain herself easily
cartooning, painting, writing poetry,
and pretending it is not Christmas today.
If someone Zooms me, I probably won’t answer.
I will be too busy, playing.
Unless the loneliness creeps up.
Then I will Facetime someone.
Technology has become my new Santa Claus.
Senectitude is Re Wreck Ta Tude
My teeth are failing, my gums blowing darts
My hands are spotted,
Grandma hands, and she has been gone fifty-five years.
Yet I look down and there they are
Surprising they are not crocheting
Or knitting or soothing a crying child.
They are perpetually typing.
My eyes are going; they have lost their lilt.
They no longer sing or play or skip or dance.
They do not light up a room the way they once did.
I am invisible now.
Not sure when that started,
But I am sure now.
People walk by my cellophane self,
Not seeing me in any human way.
My teeth hurt and my soul is raging mad.
My grandma hands are spotted, but no longer laughing.
Senectitude is Re Wreck Ta Tude
I am a cellophane woman
The twelve year old girl I see in the mirror
No one else has seen for a long time.
Floaties crowd up between me and interstate signs.
I am breaking the mirrors, slapping them down on the highway,
Angry that my teeth are failing
Did I tell you my gums are blowing darts
I hope they stop soon.
My mind is not dancing
any more.
And my soul
is crying.
zealous woozily throbbing
quintessentially narcotic
karaoke humble ecstasy bubbling
yawningly vibrantly
singing praises motivates
ineluctable fancy caparisoned
zestfully whooping tellingly
quaking novel kindles
heartfelt essence
blubbering yipping vocalizations
sincerely pronouncing
myriad jubilant gleefulness
describing absolute x2c
unbridled rhapsodic
obeisance loosening
inimitable fabulous communication
zeroing wakened tremendous pleasure
marinating joie de vivre
gurgling dynamically aspiring xylem
unstoppably roiling
overtly liberal fawning calculus
zinging wordy tome
proclaiming motive jangling
glorifying divine adulating
x uber rants obediently liberating
inducing fantastic crowing zestfully
warbling tenderly quiet nursing kingdom
harkening enjoyment bestirring
x unnumbered remarks
outlining linkedin impressiveness
from crocheting zany way
this poet marries juxtaposed grammar
describing atypical xfinity urging requiem
oozing libation inside
fleshly corporeal Zen wordsmith thyself
questioning messenger's (mine) jabbering
gets decoded accurately.
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