This might have been an astounding scene, once.
Though, cracks and crevices, these days, it confronts
The hedge plants, like uncut hairs, have grown wild.
Waste-hills are higgledy-piggledy piled.
Manholes and potholes are littered around.
One who falls in could easily get drowned.
Flags, once painted on the walls, look faded.
With red-spit splashes, dustbins are shaded.
Here's one; there's one; you'd find in each corner
An artist exhibiting his honor
Are these singers part of an orchestra?
Is earning fast pennies their formula?
Hungry beggars terrorize one and all.
Scaring cat-dog-fowl-swine-cattle groups brawl
Beggars share their alms-bread-chunks with stray dogs.
Everyone sleeps together like dried logs.
Amidst sellers' and buyers' hard bargain
One could hear sounds of much party jargon.
Cutting across them rush the pickpockets.
Thieves hide behind municipal crochets.
Floods of populace flow gushing wildly.
Though vexed within, they seem to smile mildly.
Each one rushes as though under a curse
Indian pavement is a universe.
Great Aunt Rosa knits and crochets,
but lately it's gotten carried away.
bigger and better she'll delightfully say,
while the rest of the family is left in dismay.
It's more than just a color display,
her nimble fingers have gone quite astray,
the biggest project is now underway,
a riotous monster whose name is Sir Ray.
It fills up the house, we moan and we pray,
what else can we do; we must move away,
then Rosa and Ray forever in play
will welcome the pixies, the gnomes, and the fae.
Autumn's crisp, dry leaves crackle underfoot,
adding a crunch to the grandeur of Fall.
Squirrels scamper about, as if hard-put
to gather acorns, and bury them all.
Nature crochets a shroud for Summer's death,
from the colored leaves that fell from the trees.
And the air holds a chill that frosts your breath,
quickly dispersed by a brisk Autumn breeze.
A kaleidoscope of yellows and golds
adds to Fall's ever-changing scenery.
And Autumn's annual pageant unfolds,
as Jack Frost's kiss gilds Summer's greenery.
Scarlet, vermilion, orange, and cerise,
line the pathway south for migrating geese.
In the yard stands a large Bradford pear tree,
Its spreading branches forming a shady canopy.
Beneath this shady haven is a ring of chairs,
And in each chair sits a friend who cares.
Women of diverse backgrounds and ages,
Make pleasant conversation as each engages.
We sit peacefully enjoying the cool spring breeze,
As it wends its way and rustles through the leaves.
We are not idle - each one stitches, knits or crochets,
On which ever crafty project is their forte.
Discussions range from family matters to local news.
Politics and politicians really light a fuse.
We tell jokes, ask and give advice.
Sometimes we just act silly and its nice.
Sharing our high points and our woes,
When we're together just about anything goes.
This gathering of friends is refreshing and renewing,
A bright spot when the darkness of this world is brewing.
These women are a blessing and a treasure.
Their worth exceeds far more than I can measure.
5/6/21
Dedicated to the ladies in my weekly crafting group
Coiled in a blanket
loops joined in winter
crazed by interlude
spring out of cold step
she snaps into life
dusts her cobwebs
crochets a path
season unfolds
promises change
joints aching
fused from rest
test motion
bluebells
seed lush
tunes
As time doth flee like shadow into night
Though quietly, as stubborn as a steed
Which hath not met awareness to its plight
Those heels whose speed shan't yield unto the thief
November knows the bell doth certain toll
Sans stale emotion for the passing fair
Though brides of spring may tarry 'long the road
December's walls lay waste the ill-prepared
Yet preparation merely steels the gaze
For that which breathes to live can ne'er assail
And bars of iron or delicate crochets
Canst not forestall the lifting of the veil
The agony assuaged by false pretense
Enables the impaling to commence
Bandit
Un chat en noir et blanc, Bandit,
Itches for owner’s departure
Slouches on gray couch
Leans against webbed blanket
Lowers and tilts its head
Wrinkles its fluffy fury chest
Fixes its eyes on the camera lens
And Freezes for a still image
Owner scratches and pats its head
And goes upstairs to nap
Bandit stretches its limbs
And licks its paws
Bandit claws the jaune et bleu yarn
Rips its webbed crochets
Loosens its thick fibers
Bandit flees
Covered in yellow and blue lint
By Marckincia Jean
Free Verse
11/26/17
From stiletto heels to flashy coiffures
whether in braids, crochets or something new
They never ceased to shimmer in view
and there, there, these beauts I see...
Three dames and a half
all beautiful and plum
But the half,
has a way with the heart
With rosy cheeks the red
of cherry bubble gum
She upturns every frown
and splits tears apart
And if you stare gently
and also listen close
Then luckily you will
lose yourself in her smiling gaze
...And all your troubles too.
------------------------------------
Inspired by: Little Magneta
& the Cuddly One too
When Meaning Is Meaningless
The value of life is delicious debris
When meaning is meaningless
The victims search bread crumbs in the bounteous stale loaf
The light of nude night blinks blindness
What does meaning mean for life at the edge?
for ant’s feasting in farmished frocks
I find flames from the bottomless fire of life
If you seek meanings on this ploughed lanes
You sing museless songs of leprous crochets
When meaning is meaningless
Those who saw off meaning say:
‘See this sense with little sense and
keep this lunacy living in the silent hut’
The dire strait of sense- less bigots
Stifle the lobes of logic-quotient that can midwife meaning
What meaning is in our meaning?
Around the carnary class of misfiring mermaids
What meaning do we allot a life laden in scars
From fiery vaults and heart brakes from many lovers.
We shall find the missing syllables and symphonies
And sing songfuls in the sweet seraphdom
BEYOND FAITH
) ) ) )
)
. . .
at twilight’s edge
love crochets a soft, trailing lace
at twilight’s edge…
late dusk fondles her angel cheeks
tracing navels of our first start
beyond faith as one, we shall part
at twilight’s edge...
all rights reserved
©rondeau
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
contest: Brian Strand's You Chose Again
written by: nette onclaud
A stilled summer sky saturated and scattered with god song
watches a way fared soldier - whispers to a wary widow.
Creamy clouds canopy the concord of a moment. Minutes become
mercurial - they manifest and meander as the seconds slip by.
Sailboats slice through streams of idle indigo.
A ripple somersaults and softly settles into serenity.
Cooing couples cuddle near clusters of cockscomb.
A lass lightheartedly leaps. A comely colleen crochets -
moment by moment - darning daydreams into days.
Parisians promenade past a proficient painter’s palette.
Social classes collide amidst color and contour and calm.
A smorgasbord of strangers isled and idyllic - spruce a
stippled sanctioned salver, as sanguine seconds smoothly
sweep past the subtle, symphonic swells of the Seine.
Beautiful woman he sees, not me.
Glitter-filled bubbles populate the misty-colored air;
faucets singing rushing over naked wrinkled bodies
rejuvenating, cleansing valleys where time crochets
each shadow and flower
each bird
each bee.
Lifting my chin so shamefully
the parent sun correcting mistakes—burning my eyes
bleaching them red leaving them barren.
Desert eyes are weak; each grain of sand commands a tear.
A water works;
an opportunity to relieve my body of fear.
Million dollar beads of sweat rise from the dead
and appear, moonlighting—dancing—flirting.
Tracing the trails, the stories of my fate,
he warms the sadden dew resting now, sleeping now.
Wiping away the sloppy, unsuccessful words he struggles to find the light in my day.
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