Mama pulled out the old pine loom she said her grandfather crafted, next she opened the lid to the hinge-creaking time-worn garment trunk filled with vintage gingham dresses of cotton & wool clinging to colorful memories that shaped us today. "Grandma worked hard as a young mother in these dresses she made" Mama said, "now we're going to make kitchen rugs on the same pine-loom my grandfather built to honor their memory " pieces of each dress will stich the passage of time, but we'll hang them on the wall for future generations to admire and remind. Some pieces bore stains from a life well-lived, vegetable dyes, colorful store-bought yarns of wool and cotton all created with toil of her nimble fingers, "if they could talk, the stories they'd tell!" mama said. Generations have passed indeed, a few rugs remain, some were given as gifts to family members through the years , I'm a grandma now, with memories to share.
September
2025
Fall with its limpid deep blue skies
Flamboyant leaves dipped in garish dyes
Place: 1st
Annealing bypass accountant funnel package routing
Die stream play overlays
Towards function
Away from heat regulator
Mobile O.S grid independence
Semiconductor dyes/dies
No grammatical syntax coupes possible
The sound of breaking is late.
Thunder shatters gray clouds after
lightning strikes the damp soil.
When pieces of sky pierce flesh,
the scream is slow to rise—
The sound of breaking follows pain’s echo.
The sound of breaking is gentle.
Raindrops tiptoe on my eyelids—
each sting a secret pressed down.
Earth's unbridled tears fall for my dried irises
like a mother weeping for her daughter’s sorrow.
The sound of breaking soothes the broken.
The sound of breaking is silent.
Breaking is walking beside the light,
but too dim to cast a shadow.
I watch as the sun clears the post-rain sky,
dyes its silk blue with the arc of a rainbow—
the sound of breaking
mutes even the birdsong at dawn.
Descending s p l a s h infuses brook.
Falling from on high, cockcrow skies.
E a r l y risers, on boat, take l o o k.
O bittersweet g r a c e …angels’ sighs.
P a i n t e d hues, (God never forsook
the human race) the bright dawn highs.
Passionate-red, the orb’s e y e wise.
Even if man’s blind, still God dyes
Yellow-orange, sunny s u n r i s e.
Truth is not for everyone --
some prefer lies...some prefer
dyes, and not natural soul color.
Some prefer love~ and some just mouth
the word...never to be heard nor
felt deeply nearer the heart. It's like that with
most things, the prose and cons of openly
living as opposed to falsely revealing:
Some contrive a story-line, while other
authors bare their internal organs, whether
well or wildly diseased! No composition
ever entirely cured beyond remission,
the literary beast, fed, caged,
though only temporarily appeased.
My mind drifts loose
into the moving art framed by train window.
Houses in the field glitch by—
brick red roofs and windows
that hold sunset across the champaign.
I wonder what it’s like to live
in that world, where you
wake and rest with the sun.
My gaze drifts to clouds
light as swan feathers.
Their dance—effortless, unrepentant
as the sunset dyes them tangerine and pink.
I wonder what it's like to live
in their world, where you
count days with how the wind blows.
——A sharp whistle stole my attention.
The train slowly comes to a stop.
The city busy flickering
neon signs that can give a girl seizures.
I collect myself back,
just enough to function—
The rest can stay loose
with the clouds and the lovely red roofs.
The slow budding, turn up of coloring; the tincture
in pinks, yellows, magnolia greens, and bluer skies.
Smile of eyes and mountain cheeks; a Springtime elixir.
Winter white and tawny skin absorbing sunny dyes.
She leans against the grand old oak, invoking a look.
The umbrella will soon cascade; lithe limbs of plush green.
School days, encroaching on playtime’s evergreen yearbook.
Cassie’s sleeveless wardrobe contrasts with season; serene.
The dandelions coaxing; red-rosiness of hair.
A dew-like rain gently tickles; surging honey bees.
This robin hums sweetly; will she meet harmony; pair.
John joins her freckles dot-to-dot; his eyes lemon squeeze.
All about them, in the park, a buzz and tweet; sweethearts.
They could meet; is he even in her class? Matters not.
She stands out in due season; perhaps when Summer starts?
Linger not, John, till Fall-Winter season; take a shot!
Only in the wretched
Broken locking
Of the safe
I was beaten into
Which refuses
To hide
Privately, despised by standards
Breakthrough! Simple
To be your sickness, in fiend
In the fiend you
Rusting edgework of him
And her and his fathers and hurting
Me better
Thanking myself always
Your cursed reproach of silence
Uncontrolling the illness
People please themselves in the dyes
My Love,
I write to you from a place beyond compare,
A fragrant haven, where the soft breeze sighs,
A sea of roses stretches everywhere,
Beneath a sky of endless, azure dyes.
Imagine, love, a boundless, crimson tide,
Where velvet petals drift and gently sway,
Each perfect bloom, a symbol of our pride,
A testament to love that lights our way.
The air is thick with perfume, sweet and deep,
A heady mix of passion and desire,
Where secrets whispered, tenderly we keep,
And hearts ignite with an eternal fire.
I wander through this ocean, all alone,
And dream of you, your touch, your loving gaze,
Each rose a memory, a love that's grown,
Through sunlit days and starlit, moonlit ways.
I long to share this beauty, just with you,
To walk hand-in-hand, where roses softly gleam,
And in this sea of love, so pure and true,
Find solace, peace, and live our cherished dream.
Come, join me, love, within this fragrant space,
Where roses bloom and time forgets to race.
Yours always,
Happy Wife
An old friend visited today, no longer young Men
Our hair changed, not with dyes or clippers anymore
Two silver foxes, a little rounder than before
We both have partners now, I have kids
Where once warehouse raves and Oxford st debauchery stood
Now roast pork and red wine abound
A bottle shared, just slightly older than the story of us
The bonds that held us together remain unbroken
We laugh and shared our tales, those funny sayings we had
Where’s so and so now, and how did we get here?
Twelve years, as if no more than a weekend had passed
Promises to make it sooner next time
A warm embrace and gently to bed
I love you brother
Three years ago was only yesterday:
at dawn I opened my eyes and the blinds.
Bouquets you'd left before you passed away;
those on my window daily I would find.
From your consideration my sun rose,
my very own, through those petals it shone.
It's hard to grasp in poetry or prose
how all you'd picked has taken root and grown.
Yours is no grave, yet all the gloom is mine
without your daily sunset-imbued gifts.
How am I to place roses on your shrine
if roses after you have gone adrift?
Only remains the warmth that's in those dyes
of moments so surreal they don't die...
R.I.P
Leaves of Lilith, fall like butterflies
as I slither in souls, secluded by time ~
where treacherous tulips still mourn the death of magnolia moon,
hidden within scentless sepals, which couldn't be their evergreen anchor...
Hear the echoes of grieving dawn,
whose tamed scars forgot to unfurl my truths beyond memories ~
scripting me like misplaced intuition, surfing on those whispering waves,
for I've always blossomed upon heartaches, in gardens of metaphors ~
hibernating as the turmeric taste of melting sun...
I'm the untouched ink of sin ~
swirling across silver patience ebbing along the starlit peacock-golds,
where daffodil dryads throb in ancient dyes and I'm caramelised...
above sonnets soaked in skeletal promises,
my reason rests within wisdom, an ageless mirage...
When midnight flames flicker aesthetic reveries,
releasing ashes of rainbow petals,
upon the canvas of undressed seasons,
I delve into blue blurs of butterflies,
framed in floating colors of nostalgia,
aching for dried dyes to home this scraped heart~
hanging loose, within smoky imagery,
as if every pigment will sprout from lilies of longing.
But can memories thaw frozen zeal,
illustrating steamy sunsets with liquefied rubies,
to unveil a timeless era, retouched and restored,
from the dust of dusks composed in surrealism?
And I, the splattering of an ink-blot,
persist as a dramatized kiss of tongue-stroked silence,
like a portrait, isolated in artistic utopia,
as love is more than a metaphor that speaks to the moon;
a pastel palette textured with melted roses~
saturated stars can interpret…
When the tie dyes break out.
I try not to shout.
T-shirts, all my size.
How they turn out is a surprise.
Out in the yard.
Making a mess isn’t hard.
All sorts of splatter.
Patterns and colors that matter.
In the washing machine.
Awaits a treasure to be seen.
With hands still stained.
Fun patterns causing my eyes to be strained.
The brightness came out well.
Trying it on is swell.
The tie dye is all used.
But money in my account is ready to be abused.
To start the process again.
I will make shirts as gifts so we all win!
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