Intertwined but the thread loosens.
Do you still feel connected?
Drifting slowly into pieces.
Fabric shredded, work of art.
Seams untangle in the start.
Have you not felt this?
Turning twisted opposite directions.
Fragmented linen, holes unsightly.
This dreary separation strikes nightly.
Can you save this?
Complacent attire, routine rags.
Still my favorite sweater.
Thank you, India!
Thanks for your skill with fabric.
Thanks for your looms of magic.
For centuries in our World,
Your cotton threads were firmly twirled.
Thanks for clothes that keep us warm,
That help save us from the storm,
But there is one swatch that brings me joy.
Hail to that awesome wonder,
Beautiful, beautiful corduroy.
Thank you.
a life so quickly passes
one blink and we can barely comprehend
~ the cycle in perpetual motion
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
Broad-Cast Fabric
Weeds Flower And Seed
With The Same Innate
Needs As All Desperate
Seek Some Survival.
They Have No Word,
No Sanctuary, No
Desire For Hatred.
Not Like Humans
Who Will Hate Just
To Hurt…
For The
Name.
-Gray Squirrel
07-10-2025
Do not be quick to cut velvet
It costs a hundred dollars a yard now
All the pieces must be pinned in the same direction
There is waste, but your efforts will be rewarded.
You do not want to construct a catastrophe
Do not put velvet in the washing machine either
She must be dry-cleaned
Velvet must be heeded and revered.
Stars spangle this verse,
Fabric-love's universe,
Love so unilateral,
Dude still loves this gal,
Magic continues for us,
Flickers, love needs no fuss,
We're abstracts, we rhyme,
Cosmic lovebirds for all time....
Life is what you make it
findingg a purpose and what you enjoy to do
cherish time, life is a fabric you can knit
Life is what you make it
Hold onto humor and maintain wit
Keep your mind as clear sky, blue
Life is what you make it
cherish time, life is a fabric you can knit
Heidi Sands
4/28/24
(C)opyright
In the fabric of spring, the map of life renewed unfolds –
A vibrant painting in a blend of young shades of birch, acacia, and ash;
A symphony of colors that come alive in the effusions of triumphal dawns;
No fading like it – each ray reawakens the verdant glade.
Beneath the steps of Spring, the flowered carpet, dust of dreams and fruition,
The undulating tapestry – a living canvas of the blossoming present;
The seed of life sketched by merry sunbeams, now vibrant and vast,
Gathered in the bouquet of a new beginning – the fanfare of a fresh salute.
Spring stretches out its billowing dreams, yet a flower still persists
The fresh green has shed – the resting renewal blooms –
Radiance once yearning to grow – a network full of life revealed –
A delicate covenant of pollen, in an ode to rebirth, in fact, glorified.
The black holes in my mind, never to be cleared
All light tried to shine, into a vacuum it disappears
Is the fate of my mind to have memories seared?
Does the emptiness hold nightmares my younger self feared?
Why is it that my memories fade before eighteen?
And fogginess and grey on top of shadows is what's seen?
What's caught in the moments is stuck in-between
The mysteries of my brain, an unknown machine
If I went back in time to my scared younger soul
And stepped in front of the monsters of old
Would I be able to protect her, from such burdened toll?
Or would my mind still be lost down that same endless hole?
Can the demons that tortured me ever be tamed?
Destroyed and forgotten, never to become named?
The thoughts in my head leave my heart inflamed
Such despicable beasts deserve to be left maimed
Trapped between the defined present and past
Is where my dying innocence is killed at last
Can the weight of trauma ever be surpassed?
Or are all of my fading efforts simply outclassed?
Perhaps one day I'll be made whole once more
The acoustic resonance of written poesy,
Is like a fabric of silk, warm and cozy,
The letters, the words are a silk thread,
Interwoven into verses and couplets they spread,
Into a blanket of stanzas and sonnets,
Similes and metaphors of a purpose to recommit,
Over and over and again for gains,
Until words flows freely in our blood veins!
Fondling on articulate, chromatic hums,
Rhyming into a musical reprise it becomes,
The letters, the words, like aurora dancing along,
By syllables, softness and density doth they belong,
Each word so radiant that seems to sing,
Upon sweet skin senses that want to cling,
Gradient of a sonnet free of speck and whole,
Composing mystic melody as our souls extol!
You're clothed in the nuanced expression
of variety, in the unique alchemy
of weave in proximity to the bridge
of wear and wearer at Gaia's boutique.
Where light and shadow dance together
in exquisite harmony.
The creatures run out to the day to be seen as material
witnessings.
The rustling of leaves in the wind, the patter of rain on.
the ground, patterlings
a g loved fit of symbiosis in alchemy gauze
of secure medicinalings.
The laughter of children playing,
and the sweet melody of birds' wingmanning and.
bopping the swaying, surrounding the displaying.
Knitted in comfort of scene like an Uonion.
Umbrellic extension of womb.
A closeness grafted in our canvas of
muse as color and hue,
swatch to match of ensemble curl ie qued
swirl of
coffee cream heart to the batch of daily brew,
togetherness stitched message,
A tip of the cap to you.
Why is that bolt of fabric bolted to the ground?
I did not realize the guy was a werewolf until he turned around.
I wanted to bolt, but I had to be politically correct, right?
His teeth were enormous; they gave me a Halloween fright.
"It’s got witches on it, they come alive," he growled toward me.
His two canine teeth were gleaming bound to rubber bands I could see.
I wanted to bolt now, but I stood my ground and asked innocently
“How do witches come alive from material, if you please?”
He said let me get a bit of dust out of the way my dear.
When the dust flies in the air as I dust, it will become clear.
He took a feathered duster from the pocket of his duster.
They floated into the air and spelled “Muster Cluster Buster.”
This told me nothing, but I wanted to bolt nevertheless.
Werewolves are storms I do not want to weather, no matter how pure.
I weathered away quietly, as you may have guessed.
That’s the last time I will go into that fabric store for sure.
Carolyn is a fabric artist, she has a rare gift
I watched her work, her fingers are swift
She was making a wild flower the other day
Colorful and pretty, it blew me away!
The patterns were beautiful, her machine was a buzz’n.
I am glad to let you know that she is my first cousin.
She has a blog with followers from all over the world too.
Her gorgeous art will lift you right out of the blue.
The wildflower is finished now, she is working on a dog.
She has made a raven, two cats, a pelican and a hog.
Her ideas are plentiful, her gift is amazing for sure.
I watch her working in cottons, linens and fur.
logic evolved
to become...
as mental sew-wings
such that thoughts...
threaded meant what
was seen...
in some 'now' scene
that be as of...
some picked-sures
pictured...
stan sand
All nature’s linked, the heavens with the earth,
in star formations, gas, galactic dust,
elusively in roles of death and birth
however random seems their wanderlust.
We peer in space with telescopic sight
that oft may miss the tracery that’s there
as when our past assumptions take to flight
in view of being further made aware.
Vast fabrics interwoven in the sky
that starry gazers spy amidst the mists
and what immensities they might imply
may only be a whit of what exists.
…The poets with their phrases hem and haw
…yet fail to other than profess their awe.
~ Harley White
* * * * * * * * *
The poem is in the form of a Shakespearean sonnet…
A source of inspiration was the following…
NASA’s Webb Reveals Intricate Networks of Gas, Dust in Nearby Galaxies…
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