Tympani, thy tyranny.
Prisoner of the noise:
Soulless is this symphony!
Deepen, O my ploys!
Tangled in an oak tree s roots?
Tide rushing in fast?
Succor, sailors? Little boots!
Life preserver, cast!
Where do pining poems go?
Carrion, feed thy crow.
All lost souls to heaven go?
Hell, thy rows to hoe.
Blessed are the blasphemers?
Not entirely, sir.
How the hungry tiger purrs!
Vision, now to blur!
Old diner, thy jukebox.
Play simple tunes for folk.
O Elysian fields, thy phlox.
Dinosaur egg, yolk.
But, in times of warning?
The panic bell is best.
Sweaters wool, thy darning.
Pirate treasure, thy chest.
Sorted out? Without a doubt.
World unfriendly, be.
Cursed demons, give a shout.
Sunken in the sea.
Hope, be with the poet!
Grant shelter to the bard!
Otherwise, you know it!
Fry deeply, O my lard...
There comes a time
When good men must impale
Themselves on enemy swords
And supportive women
Must lay down their banners
To pick up darning needles
...sewing the past with new beginnings
Over and under, over and under
Never forgetting the rhythm, innate
Movement continues, onward and through
Til we shall meet the Pearly gates
This time, maybe this time
Men will cease to seek Father's name
And women, mother's power
Children will gather round
LOVE's lap of gold
Running around continual showers
...of abundant reign
Written by Trudy Schrader on 12-15-2024
Darn, fleeting her soul life, sitting away.
Rests snug against the wall twixt cabinet.
6 pots on the window sill, stalks daylight cross.
The horizon two windows still six pots.
Views of the apartment across the street.
Minded I am nothing life’s so discreet.
Alone-quiet-gray blue antique surround.
Instilled Look N down as I AM knitting.
Solitude and darning in mine silence.
Just an alone, age lady, sitting in.
My mind solitude knitting in silence
As her blessed quiet time, so in her.
Her subdued time her mind she's so alone.
Yet getting into the conversation
10/18/23
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2023©
Placement in Contest 1st place
For Get into the Conversation Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Eve Roper
Contest Judged: 10/20/2023 6:54:00 PM
From what celestial palette
The iridescent cobalt blue
That paints thy gauzy wings?
Thou little insect hovering
Above my garden pool,
So nearly motionless
But for whirring wings.
Dost thou wait silently
For mosquitoes to appear
To assuage thy hunger?
Long, slender body –
Darning needle some call thee,
But thou art not such.
I watch thee, dragonfly,
Not a dragon, but tiny angel,
Come to mesmerize me
With thy heavenly beauty.
As I doze in my hammock,
Awed by thy patience, I smile
Away this August afternoon.
A girl sat sewing beside a clock
Busy darning a holey sock
The needle pierced her fingers and thumb
And sewed them together one by one
The poor girl suffered so much pain
She never sewed anything again
Tasked to continue smooth function of cult compound
Sixteen svelte helpers of mindless vibrant physiche
Hurl their determination found in daily frequency
Milking cows, picking fruit, darning gowns
Draped swathes of cotton smother love worthy curves
Bunches clutched in fervent fists denote proactive
Chores suppress boredom, hours fast elapsing
Hushed among bustle, humbly built church
Rhythmic teat pinching hands press in prayer's commit
Wrists sturdy obedient, cream transform churning
Hundred shelled peas, obligated with urgency
Bound by scripture, called upon to submit
Duty is God's Will, blessed purpose supports hordes
Beauty unrecognised hair spun buns traditional
Released flaxen waterfall for richeous ritual
Sacramental fodder, holiest of whores
Chosen childless worship circle of dedicated wombs
Esteem rodeo results in offspring from Minister
Fallen garland bruised petalled begins her
Observance unto sermons emtombed
31st December
Cursed Yearning
I flow in corners of my not so expensive mind
Coming apart at the seams
ragged edges laughing at my consternation
My muse stuffs me into an envelope
It is not scented, strangely enough
I wish it was lavender or cinnamon
for I am in my full flat out Mad Hatter mood
Soiled ideas with peanut butter eyes
A truth that will be gone in a few minutes
I pick up a darning needle and try to sew things back
As I sew the hole gets bigger and bigger
Of course it would be opposite day
What kind of a rabbit hole did I fall into anyway?
I used to watch my mother
At night darning socks and things
And doing those chores she did
By the light of our black and white
Those days turned over slowly
With such domestic things
And now it seems to me
Darning and such things are not done.
© Paul Warren Poetry
Patches on the quilt of life,
letters sew not rend
Memory darning time to time,
future warmth depends
Words left tattered, words that bind,
ragged breath portends
To stitch it once and have it last
—tomorrow on the mend
(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2020)
Inspired By Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Ronnie Van Zant
“If It Ain’t Worth Remembering, It Ain’t No Good”
"Those were better times. Good times!
Being round my grands…
It reminds me of my grandparents;
Grandma, baba, ouma, bomma grandmother;
Love to read poems sing them ole time songs;
So much love they given each of us;
Those were better times. Good times!
Being round my grands…
Yet they were stern
Great teachers taught my parents as will as me to learn;
They listened to a Motorola on a tall stand;
Nonna would play a little ditty on the “baby grand”
Oh! And Gran made fried pies on Sundays;
Those were better times. Good times!
Being round my grands…
We would have with our dinner;
Homemade chicken soup, meatloaf and cabbage loaf;
My grandpa and his friends would sit outside talkN loud
While listening to the ballgame on a transmitter radio;
The ladies would settle in the den;
Nesting caressing darning with patch qulits using needles and tread;
Joyously giggling laughing while lovingly talkN bout them men;
Those were better times. Good times!
Being round my grands…"
1/4/20
Written words by Genysis DMaurier & James Edward Lee Sr. 2020©
A dedicated verse to Genysis DMaurier
based on words from Genysis to a e-mail to me
Loose Knit
by Michael R. Burch
She blesses the needle,
fetches fine red stitches,
criss-crossing, embroidering dreams
in the delicate fabric.
And if her hand jerks and twitches in puppet-like fits,
she tells herself
reality is not as threadbare as it seems ...
that a little more darning may gather loose seams.
She weaves an unraveling tapestry
of fatigue and remorse and pain; ...
only the nervously pecking needle
pricks her to motion, again and again.
Published by The Chariton Review, Penumbra, Black Bear Review, Triplopia
It is said, that Eleanor Rigby died in a church...
And was buried along with her name
That's because, Father McKenzie got his hands dirty
At the church, late one night, when nobody came
As the father was darning his socks at night
Eleanor had come in and she sat on a pew
Then she whispered softly in the father's ear
"Father, the devil had sent me...to you"
He never seen her face before...
She must have been one of those lonely people
So he locked the doors and grabbed her hand
And he took her to the dungeon in his steeple
He kept her there until she died
Twenty five years she was enslaved
No one had ever heard of her...never
But on a tombstone "Eleanor Rigby" was engraved
Eleanor Rigby Who Was She Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Jerry T. Curtis
8-7-2019
The cat sat on the windowsill,
And stirred a little in his sleep.
Each breath a cloud upon the glass
And outside the snow was falling fast
The children all went out to play,
But he couldn’t be bothered to move today.
The radiator hummed, and the woman hummed,
And the cat hummed in his sleep.
And all about the little house,
The snow was getting deep.
The woman sat beside the fire,
And sung a merry little tune.
As she sung, back and forth she rocks,
Darning a pair of colorful socks.
Her hair is turning silver-gray,
But you’d never believe she had aged a day
Since she and the cat and a box full of shoes
Came to the house on the dune.
And all about the little house,
The snow reflected the moon.
. for public domain
Thread and Weave
Her fingers, more attuned to the thread and the weave,
through years of darning our socks and sewing patches,
by touch alone told her the difference between
silk and satin, which we children could not see clear.
The palms of her hands felt the quality of cloth
of our backsides when we were guilty of sloth,
but never she judged her children's rough texture
was unfit for stitching, was not worth a whisker.
We were the burlap, that often scraped her fine skin,
that brought her to so many tears, then and again,
but "doing hard time" she softened our crusty fabric
for Mother to enjoy our comforting embrace.
Dawning needles darning needles
Everything prefab hole in my heart
I've always said no one cooks meat from scratch
Everyone so in a hurry in fact now no one knows where one is at
Put it in a microwave
Push super X times 2 quick and fast
No time for Grandpa
Nothing left for Grandma
Darn ole socks torn in the drawer
Children leave their holey shirts on the living room floor
One good thing bout' being old
You only have to listen to God and no one else, cause...
of those darn old socks in the Maplewood cedar drawer
No one has time anymore no time for each other
07/31/14
from anthology "Poetry to Bridge Generations Contemporary Age and Poems"
by James Edward Lee Sr.
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