Hemming Poems

Mrs McVim the Town Seamstress

Can’t any other mamas make pleats, take a tuck or hem?
Mrs. McVim, the town’s notorious seamstress asked of Dick and Jim.
Their mother was dead, so she could not help them.
She ended up shortening the tuxes of these two and their cousin Slim.

Slim’s mother was a seamstress, but too pooped at the end of the day
To do any more hemming, or seams, and she was ready to play.
Slim was appreciative as were his two cousins Dick and Jim.
They chipped in and bought a new sewing machine for Mrs. McVim

Witch G Bawing

She eats her lunch while precariously balancing herself on a line
None of us clearly know why, but she tells us it keeps her feeling fine.
Several ebony crows come by cawing, hemming, tooting and hawing.
But does she fall off? Not ever, she’s a professional, Witch G. Bawing.

Autumn Dream

Written: November 12, 2023, For JCB Brul Contest
             __________________________________________

With a balmy wind
nature sings its symphony~
as leaves dance above
Life's cycle will trounce autumn
saffron hemming without dread

Notice twigs slight fall
autumn's mind-astounding grace~
embrace spell lyric
as nature's croon blithely spread
trees sway in hone symphony

The Lady Stands Relaxed

Assimilates with fireworks in the sable blue sky, the luminous daffodil orb emitted from the statue’s torch - twin towers intact. Demi-towers stand tall as the celebrant colors sizzle and whiz, like exploding stars, overhead. The city “that never sleeps,” a memory candle framed over my mantle, hemming in New York Harbor with its endless billowing sails. Red, orange, yellow, snow-white, cerulean passion at its happiest peak. The Lady stands relaxed, welcoming, even the two ‘copters. No one’s unhinged, fearing for ash, no human wears a pair of wings. If only time stood still as a piece of art.

Fifty-Two Pickup

rising and falling
hemming and hawing

fifty-two pickup
jokers included

The Cauldron

I’d rather that my message was encapsulated in poetry
Instead of the hemming and hawing of the world
Seems a curse held under the breath, malodorous 
You know what they’re thinking, as if they were pure
But the cauldron is bubbling with maleficent baubles
Just waiting to spit in your eye, which was dry…

10/29/2020

The Fat End

We are the workers, call us 
an hour before an absent fill shift
The pyramid sprouts atop of
The heavy depths of broad ordinary, 
Breadth mopped and swept

Silent cogs push motion
Everywhere, rarely heralded
Carpet of field mice scrambling

Part of the pattern, crucial 
Expectations remain ingrained 
Pith of the fruit, flavour generic
Bolster of bricks protects 
Lighthouse of blinding brains

Scratching hand to steerhouse
Tightening bolts, scrubbing deck
Nugget behind their high shine

We are the labourers, casual pay
covers days not at work, sticking
To meagre styles, life defined
By the hemming, wage stemmed 
 - Can't afford to ask questions 

Surge of activity, pothole filled
Inhibited by flurry, imagination aside
Menial smooths the cement

Minimum makes no plans
beyond next week, when, - if
I have a job. We will do any dirty
Demeaning chore, and thank you for 
Your grace in giving it to us



6th August 2020

It Sucks  - Contest

Kai Michael Neumann - Sponsor

During Sermon No One Seemed Inspired

During Sermon No One Seemed Inspired

During sermon no one seemed inspired,
Were almost sleeping while being tired;
Hemming and hawing;
Pawing and clawing,
And up congregation finally was fired.

Jim Horn

Brimming Beauty

It's time to do the singing, 
and I ready for my springing 
no need to do any clinging, if looking for me, you will see, and
 always find me Brimming


You will not find me swimming, and you will
never find me hemming
don't' like dirt or stemming
wherever the clouds are spinning, newspapers will be printing
You  always find me Brimming

No need for any grinning, this is not sinning
loving this new beginning
looking for me, you will see, and you will
 always find me Brimming

Arranged Hatred

Evil smirks are on the agenda 
For you tonight my Dear 
Ever so fortunate my beautiful face dims 
The hatred burning across the dinner table 
You're as dense as your guests 
They look at me through your eyes 
I am the luscious 
Silver spoon men like you relentlessly 
Pursue until you capture and kill us slowly 
I concede, by marriage I'm your wife
So when these friends of yours inquire 
About our consecration before God 
After too much brandy and not enough tact 
A blush rises and you feign modesty 
Hemming and hawing 
You out wait the women
So you can give them a detailed account of my very being
At night I turn my back to you 
And imagine you are one of the men you betrayed me to

Hemming

hemming bell bottoms
summer radio blaring
   to seventies tunes



posted on June 6, 2018

The Rose of the Friendship

They are the boats in the river
Hills of the sun and the green leaves
Evening or mornings regardless

Roaring clouds I am afraid of
Oysters of friendship I seek much
Shouting trees I am nervous of
Embankment of the lake I need

Open arms of the jasmine tree
Fill the holes of monotony

Time acquires a pink dimension
Horizons of the moist rainbow
Endless pearls from the confluence

Fountain pens of the scarlet look
Rejoice within the long fingers
In the crisis of the black gloom
Evenings start gathering the stars
Nights slow down the dark descending
Doors greet the soft moon light touches
Sapphires seek to send the address
Hemming the time the blue needle
Instilling the drops of shadows
Pens pick up the friendship pictures
________________________________
May 2, 2018
NEW POEMS ONLY - 2 - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Emile Pinet

He Was Just a Deadhead: Mystic

In a scary nightmare, I woke in a mystical place
where my old Singer floated next to your face
You wore that smirk that always made me twitch
so I used that old machine, and I began to stitch
your lips together to prevent you from lying
and your eye lids shut to keep you from spying

Were my shears too sharp? Was it I who beheaded you?
OOPS! Not a slipsy. It was something I meant to do.
I was able to find a bobbin,  and a needle to thread
and my seams will assure that you remain dead.
I used your hair for hemming black fabric scraps
and fashioned a sort of shroud without holes or flaps

I'll not take a chance that this nightmare might return
so I will set you ablaze; your ashes sealed in an urn.
If this is only a dream, then I've not committed a sin,
but thinking about your schemes and that hidious grin,
I confess I am considering it to be a very cunning idea.
No more nightmares about a deadhead will I need to fear


*With apologies for being a bit freaky, but the photo took control.*

9/17/2017
Image Me A Poem~Image 2
Host: Mystic Rose

Never Again

Man child. Mean manacle meaningless.  
Painfully pondering potent powerlessness.
What and where and why the worst.
Found fear of failing. This the first.
Faced foe fist for fist.
Gaining gentlemen game gist.
Soon shattered, smoked so surely.
Error eternal, earning effects early.
Different daily dues dutifully dealt.
Alone, angered. Agony and anguish felt.
Many memories meaningfully marred.
Solemn son. Soulfully scarred.
Hiding hurt hinders healing.
Frightened, fearful fettered feeling.
Knowing now not known then.
Damage done. Never again.
Life's lessons learned of late.
Heaving heart hemming hate.

-Angel Fatale-

Sentinel

A sun reminds them through a dark cloud, 
long before we are even asleep, or the moon is awake
and they reply, like guardians of simmering,  
blossoming sunbeams, sprouting like wheat from cold concrete floors
A shoreline of long legged stems,  tips that look down
Lamp lighted sentinels, that jaundice the ground

For the dark holds chance, and the hollows hold fright
unwinding a trail of stories untold , 
hemming each row,  that might lead us to somewhere?
Where helter or skelter we're racing like the sheep
Tall stalks of flaxen, sending up flares,  watching us scurry, into night's air
taking for granted, the pace or the glare

An illustrious disco, dances on tires, splashing the street, with stars that ignite
Lamplights will flicker like friendly old ghosts, hosting the present,  or memories lost
Making a halo, of gold at our feet
.........then, dying in shadows that shorten the street



_________________
For Nette's Contest: "Street Lights"
By Carrie Richards 10/2/14
TARNDAI

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