Fibre Poems | Examples

From Ashes, I Arose Anew

Your love flew wingless with the summer wind,
And left me stranded, hopeless, in a pit.
Alone I became too much for my mind,
With my love jailed by your self-written writ.

I was consumed by the flame of your rage,
Yet from the ashes, I arose anew.
I found a heart whose kindness could assuage,
And clean even a faintest thought of you.

Your cruelty bent me but couldn't break me,
I rode the distance on your stormy wave,
Till real love brave the storm to free me,
And polished my heart, making me feel brave.

Each fibre of my heart now flows with love,
At last, your wickedness has fallen through.
Joy walks with me, hand in hand, hand in glove,
Made whole by love thats's steadfast, strong and true.

The monetisation of black death

The greed of the white man knows no bound
It transcends life, it transcends death
Their eyes gleam with profit
Their mouths salivate at another black death
Prices heightened on a casket
Won't be too long till another black body fills it
Money earned from this purchase
Used to pay their rent
If there is anything left they'll use it to pay for their children's education 

They don't see us as human 
But they do see us as a money making scheme
They target us and then
Up the prices of our funerals
Their own system to monetize our deaths

Acting is their forte 
When they look in our eyes and lie to our faces
Sending condolences our way
But inside brimming with happiness
Not an ounce of sympathy 
Not a fibre of empathy
Just pre dug graves and unnecessary funeral bills
To them we are products ready to be exchanged

I Wonder

"mOnce I sat down
With all my frustrations,
With the desperation to murder each inhibition living
nowhere but within me,
It would have been nice if I had a knife
However, weapons weren't lethal enough to put the
inhibitions down.

Sitting there, wanting to cause harm to these demons,
My eyes fell on a thin white sheet of plant fibre,
Along with it was a innocuous object, that’s what I
thought.
Picking these objects with no expectations at all, I
poured all of myself into the sheet through this object
of different shades,
To my surprise, it frightened all the demons or
probably tranquilized them.
That was the time I sat, With all my frustrations
And Found something to control them with,
to frighten them with.
I guess I had a shield now.

Again, I am sitting, With some of my frustrations.
With the desperation to murder the rest of inhibitions,
Perhaps I enjoyed slaughtering these demons with
something so ordinary,
But I wonder if I have over-exploited the only guard I
had.
Or my womb of ideas has gotten barren.
Now, I am as clueless as before. Did it change
anything at all?
I wonder and I wonder and I wonder."

Terminal Gate

Frightening silence pervaded 
Swelling of ground here and there
A tree adjacent the gate with a GHOSTLY stature
Unfurling a dark blanket by its broad canopy
Even birds don’t like to perch in the GODFORSAKEN place.
Except the bulging- eyed owl
A silent witness for GRIEF-STRICKEN hearts
The fibre art of GOSSAMER aglow in the sunlight
Floating gently like sailcloth 
On the gates, they’re like murals of pinwheel flowers. 
No gusts or downpours can annihilate it.
The gates are half-shut.
When they are fully opened,
Macabre music of GROANING erupts from the coarsened hinges. 
Scent of geosmin from a freshly dug GRAVE
The tired soul along with the retired corpse 
Comes again through the terminal gate.

Tinea

A day escaped, 
released from the sticky womb of night
held firm in the arms of midwife morning,
listen to its infant cries 
the wails of a newborn child unfed 
demanding of your bed and sleepy scant attention,
it matters not that you turn your back and try to block your ears
to tears of open-window traffic rage 
and screaming gulls that dance on bins with shoes of lead
invade your head and work themselves within 
to violate your peace with a surgeons skill,
phone alarm vibrating shrill and shaking 
leaking decibels that penetrate each waking fibre of your skin,
you know you must begin, attend that fractious babe
fill its hungry mouth to stop the bawling
lured as ever by the bathroom light 
Thursday screams, and you her faithful moth come crawling

The Power of Raw Vegetables

Recently my nutritionist – a health
freak if ever there was one – suggested
I eat raw vegetables like cabbage, kale, 
asparagus, brussel sprouts, cauliflower 
and broccoli, all of the cruciferous family,
all packed with vital antioxidants, 
vitamins, minerals, phytochemicals
and fibre, (relieving weekly straining
bouts of constipation.) As for results 
he assured me with an assured smile
I’d be stronger and feel years younger,
though vouched cautiously I could expect 
a few typical but minor side-effects, 
but easily adjusted to, notably when 
spring sets in and my ears grow like spires
and to everyone’s amazement I start
hopping about, my libido supercharged 
after years of living celibate! – And as 
he sees me out with an aside and wink
he says: You'd do well to forewarn the wife.

Spring Original

The tight fibre of spring
budding out of its buried shell like cove
coming on as battle fatigue camouflage
redirecting us from the throttle of Winter
Liquid green like tomato feed
The Angiosperm of the root structure
teases us all

This vast uniformity of hope
flawless cherried blossoms
forging a challenge by the promenade
creaves to us all
daffodils and tulips together,
resplendent in their perfume
How I love Irises

I like his heart'

Paul Thorpe London man.' Not much on frills; is making
His stand.' He offers his heart.' So i note..And i think for
What I am worth? Its not just rote.' I wouldent say he's
Perfect.! No not at all..Yet i see in his very fibre he intends'
That his country shall not fall.' What say you Britian is it
Time to start.? In small or big ways; you can all play a part.!

Every fibre

See how they run
for every birthday they besmirch
See how they stand steadfast
isn't that a sad thing
Although my heart is crying
my soul is dying
Hear their laughter, every smidgeon
every fibre in their being

'All You Left Me Was A Feather'

All you left me was a feather—
The greatest goodbye I could ever receive.
And, hidden somewhere within its delicate intricacies, in every fibre;
Buried beneath the tiny atoms that make up who you are:
Are written the words "I love you".

Let me love you with my words

let me love you with my words,
Surely it will never get close to 
How I'd love you with my soul.
But then, words easily rest on my tongue
like magic ink.

As I mean every word,
I'd love you to be my catalyst.
Precipitate me,
Galvanise me.

Jazz me up!
Elevate me!
sedate me!
stimulate me!!!

I wanna love you,
But for now please
Let me love you with my words
For, I plan to touch your soul
And I know words would do me honor.

For, they hold power 
to mend a broken heart.
And keep it alive.
They move with a dazzling lightning,
And shoots up a thunder.
They create a storm in my favour
And finally leave a flavour.

So Please,
Let me...
Let me love you with my words
For, in a lifetime I wanna love you 
with every fibre of my being.

But, for now
Let me love you with my words

Acme

Zenith of perfection is the aim of my existence.
My pilgrimage towards this, I know, is my persistence.
I align my senses like a predator towards prey.
My physique and psyche are synthesised in every way.
The social fibre in me, like thread in linen, is knit.
Doesn't the quiver of optimism endlessly transmit?

I dig the mines of cores of self-searching for the truth.
Thoughts, words, and actions are in unfeigned perpetual youth.
The fulfilment of feelings flows towards fullness of life.
Between uprightness and vileness, there is a constant strife.
Virtues, like treasures of vast oceans, are hidden within
Could stains of sin, before relentless goodness ever win?

Divinity, like vast skies, endlessly gets expanded.
Fullness of spirit within innermost shrines is implanted.
Values are revalued. Sensual pleasures are channelled.
Hindrances towards integral liberation are annulled.
All that the almighty meant for humans to be is won.
Eternally, in everything, the divine will is done.

Horse, gun, dollars five, and White House

A few things laws may him deprive,
Still, to White House Trump may arrive.
And if serves felony,
May collect a bounty
Of horse and gun and Dollars five.
A law’s renown as ass,
And at times laughing gas,
He that looks for logic is naïve.
___________________________________  
Happenings |01.06.2024| America, political
Poet’s note: In US of A, a convicted felon may run for White House in November, and may well become president. Some countries are not attacked from outside, but face danger from within. Worldwide moral fibre has gone low. A Manhattan jury has found Trump guilty of falsifying business records for paying hush money to keep a **** star’s mouth shut. Now, in USA, when a felon is released after a jail term, he is given a horse, a rifle, and $ 5 to help him settle down in life. In addition, Trump would get a house, a White House, but would he ever settle down?

A Pearl

Circular and square. And a little glimmer
Of peace -
Or agony.

Cool beneath the waters. A small touch
Of green -
Or sunny coral.

Clanking in mine ears - 
But beauty in these eyes -
Through cornea and through 
…Retina.

A painfully perfect tube is drilled - the long days 
Pierced as if a sharp stare of a swordfish 
Glare. 

And a breath-taking fibre passes through the
Scar…and the blood covered by a glistening 
Price sign.

Cosmic Tapestry

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

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