Long Embroidery Poems
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I wake up startled, knowing I'm not alone; unseen spirit is here.
Sophie Helen is asleep next to me. and she simply does not care.
I explain to Sophie we are getting up, and she buries her head in.
I knew better to give her a blanket, but this is now and that was then.
I stumble to the bathroom and hear a familiar laugh, my Dad.
"I brought you a unique present," I telepath to him. "Stay right there!"
I return to a different sound, a neonate's baby cry and whimpering little bawl. "Hush, I say," you little doll."
Not realizing I am getting a magical peek at a future grand-girl who will be so beautiful and tall.
I wonder if she is the same child who yelled "Grandma I'm coming,
please let me choose my own colors, okay?" when I was embroidering squares for a cute baby quilt of love.
Yes, knowing without knowing how I know, is a great thing, and my dear ones, she was my third grand-girl, who picked out her own embroidery thread colors from her heavenly room way above.
The baby quilt is beautiful - created out of joy and pure love times seven.
Anyone who can see a new brand new baby and not feel this pure joy,
are nowhere near ready to get into heaven.
Swirling Thoughts
So many thoughts spin through my mind like a swarm of butterflies of silver and sapphire,
I let them glide in flight like incense smoke ascending toward ancient constellations,
some stop with the force of sacred things like anchors in the ocean of my soul,
others vanish like wandering clouds that dissolve in the abysses of the velvet sky.
So many thoughts knock at the window of night like lost angels begging for asylum,
and disturb the peace of my sleep with their whispers troubling and bewitched,
some extinguish like the fire in the hearth leaving lunar ash and dead stars behind,
others ignite in my chest like green flames unquenched that dance eternally on.
I gather them gently in my palms so I don't break their fragile and transparent wings,
for each thought carries within itself a hidden path toward worlds still unknown,
some bring upon my lips the caress like a touch of seraphic wings descending,
others take me back to all the tears that I have shed in cosmic silence alone.
When I lay them on the white and cold pages of morning they bind themselves together,
they weave into verses gentle and magic like embroidery from threads of lunar light,
some remain with me forever engraved like invisible tattoos upon my heart eternal,
others are lost in the void like echoes that die in cathedrals made of crystal bright.
They gather around me like sacred rain when the heavy sky breaks apart at dusk,
some wash my old wounds others heal the illness that keeps my soul captive still,
I don't force my words to be grand or righteous I let them flow naturally free,
some are light upon my stairs others are the sweet lie that keeps me alive until.
And if at dawn I reach you in thought know that I come from my pure soul within,
some are sighs others are songs all from a longing carried eternally through time,
and even if time will erase what I've written from the pages left behind in my wake,
some will be words that have killed others proof that I truly loved once upon a time.
we stirred our cauldrons in earthy heat
buck and goats gave sweet meats
stories around bonfires our grandma’s told
holding us close dearly, as we boldly unfold
across brown hills we trekked with our shields
seeking fresh rivers and green hills for yields
found wild red roses as we danced with drums
porcupine quills giving us thrills, alongside plums
across Africa’s heart we bled our treads
found our queens, their tribal dresses intact
hands were painted, herbs on their heads
everlasting were ancestral wisdoms a fact
myriads of flora and fauna gave us inspiration
spiralling our spirits across continent’s populations
rainbow dues blood red with orange sunsets
emerald were hearts until we reached the north
here crimson held cobalt and pale blue hues
peacock feathers fluttering fell into wild heather
often we held reviews, as warring tribes withdrew
rise was our inspirational purpose, wearing loin leather
from belly to heart to throat and foreheads
immaturity an impetus for evolutionary expansion
our whole was greater than sum parts with four legged
adventure, surrender, boundlessness our
satisfaction ~
__________________________
Fabric Art Wall Tapestry : Appliqué & Image Embroidery : ‘From the Belly of Africa we Rise’ : Ghairo Daniels : 2020
Canvas & Carpet with various fabrics & haberdashery : feathers, beads, sequins, ribbon, buttons, porcupine quills : 105 x 105cm
Style: Expressionist Story Quilting
Source : Private : LINK TO PICS AT COMMENTS SECTION OF POEM
Placed : 7th Premier Contest
Sponsor : Brian Strand : April 26
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Wearing whirls, swirls, paisley too.
A jazzy, snazzy, bell bottomed you.
Slinky hip huggers with large chunky belts in style.
White Go Go boots that never walk a country mile.
Faux fringed jackets, fake fur vests, tall high boots too.
Gypsy skirts with mismatched patterns of every hue.
Please let your belly button show, my dear.
Wear the tightest jeans to accent your rear.
As long as your jeans flare out as wide as a skirt
And drag along enticingly in Woodstock’s dirt.
Homemade embroidery on blouses, and dainty braids.
Unless you deem to do an Afro, beautifully made.
Tight mini-skirts that show off your thighs.
Nehru jackets with high necks are a prize.
Headbands made to match every outfit.
The 70’s was strutted. Don’t you doubt it!
Vietnam War in black and white, every night on TV
Burning bras seemed okay for everybody but me.
Hippies and flower children seemed pretty wild.
To me in the Midwest, pregnant with child.
A torn tale ere was sewn b' time's tool;
''f haggard hemisphere 'n' nocturnal nude,
'n which porous promiscuity 's oft draped -
furred fabrics, scales embroidery.
This tale 'n which cursed clothing was hexed;
porous past oozing sassy spell.
Makes marred maidens scarce behove laud,
but fractured flaunts cum odds grilled galls.
Tell those who 'gain sew this torn tale,
that nosy needle anon 'll break,
'n' sewn sanity would foster pawn
''f bruised beauties, gaunt graces 'n' plagued pores.
Let throbbing themes ''f this taunting tale
'n' wools ''f sewn silk canvas wits, fame 'n' shame.
'20:07:23:13:41
Note:
a) Of fractured fashion.
b) Written apace with Middle English lexis:
i) Ere - before
ii) oft - often
iii) Hexed - cast spell
iv) behove - suit
v) cum - and
vi) galls - biles
vii) anon - soon
c) The following are used with no syllabic consequences:
i) b' - by
ii) "f - of
iii) 'n' - and
iv) 'n - in
v) 's - is
vi) 'll - will
I was going to pick up a pair of blue jeans
Found some at the second hands store for eight bucks
I could cut strips in them
No! An inner voice hollered inside my head.
Surprised me, as I was not serious.
On my way out a jacket with embroidery caught my eye.
It was unique. A gold star, rainbow, pink unicorn, green leprechaun.
Hand stitched. Inside in marker someone had written Jessie.
I tried it on and it fit me in a great way. Red t-shirt! The voice said.
I bought a red t-shirt at the Target across the street.
A week later Jessie’s photo came out in a major magazine.
She had been missing for over three years.
She was wearing my jacket – gold star, rainbow, pink unicorn, green leprechaun.
With blue jeans and a red t-shirt.
Where are you? I asked.
I am fine she told me in a dream that night.
I mailed the jacket to the police in San Francisco,
hoping they can do something with it.
Also hoping my DNA is not on it.
You fixed Mongolian stew
on a two ring Russian-made burner.
It was understood,
that we would not be drinking
salted milk tea
in Ulan Bator anytime soon.
I would be moving on,
you would be moving into
this one room, bed-less apartment.
Kazakh embroidery,
added an exotic ambience.
to the threadbare living-space.
Later we laid down on goatskins,
imagined that this cold room
was a warm yurt.
Our bodies were a perfect fit,
for an imperfect love.
We kept ourselves warm
beneath thick woolen Deel's,
which we both knew
were the national costume,
of the desperately lost.
Dedicated to Ed Sheeran
Inside the glass the dry leaf was manifested, as a skeleton is prominent with all the inside structure and artistry.
I went to the voting center. I had nothing , completely nothing in my mind. Beto O'Rourke, some democratic other names , but I was not daydreaming, I was not dreaming at all, in a grown up body, I learn so little, after putting so much efforts, I feel I am getting washed away, and nothing sits there, nothing gets deposited there, as silt, sedimentation of particles, nothing too much sensual either. It gets washed away, as the river flows, as a present body embedded in the nature, out in the flora and fauna.
I had a ride. She is a beauty, with headscarf and white skin, she is a mirror of the past. flavor of cooked mosul of next door neighbor, where we had a big big masjid on the other side of the road, the name of the masjid was Minar Masjid.
The minaret was truly beautiful, and the curvature , also. Older days, in Bangladesh.
We reached the destination. She met a random person. I had so many complicated nuances in my introspection that I hardly talk about that. There is a narrow lane to be tagged as inferiority complex, and opening up about truer issues, where lights are making the pathway as our intentions are reflected on that.My mom was a old fashioned beauty, an old one, but vintage enough like the most delicate motif, as I touch the threads beyond time, without cherishing too much, without mourning too much for perishing either.
She was never an outspoken person. My older sister had a maxi, a long gown, a greenish one. Amma mended the gown for me, a downsized one, and did embroidery on the chest with pink and green threads. Her knitting was with a style, a reserved one.
Not every morn brings her back. Not these days. Not too often.
2025.09.??
Another happy birthday.
It is normal to wish for something
On one own birthday.
It is always significant on that special day.
And it has been true to me any way.
I will be one year older, 21 plus for sure.
It has a double figure and if just one more of it,
It will associate with a symbol of devil.
I must focus on something positive,
Something that makes me happy,
Forget about the past, forget about every body.
Just me and my hobbies,
Piano, embroidery, travel, writing and music,
In fact, every week, I want to play one new piece.
Lately, one of them, I heard it on the radio,
I was young and did not even know its title.
It has been my favourite for decades,
Back in those days,
I played it on my guitar,
Somehow it was out of sound out of mind.
Now, it is time to play it on piano.
Its name was "Romantic De Amour".
Today, I treat myself with a big favour.
I have been doing it before.
Visiting St Pauls Look out, and Jubilee Points,
Maybe Diamond Bay later,
Even Bays of Island after.
Little inclining sand path,
They spread out 3km apart,
But the views of the continuous shore line.
Worth the efforts of doing it.
I come here every year, with or without any body.
All I pray for was a sunny and blue sky.
PS.
Once, JC asked about my birthday,
It is every day and it is today.
It will be fate if we meet again,
Leave along if we will be friends.
I used to wear hats all the time.
Maybe a baseball cap that looks like a slice of lime.
Or a teal beanie that feels slightly warm-ish.
Maybe one that has embroidery of a fish!
Where did these hats go?
I don’t think they get lost in the snow.
Just in my bedroom all over the place.
Orbiting my mind like outer space.
My favorite hat of all.
Got lost in a bathroom stall.
Was covered in stripes and mostly pink.
Could it have been set down by the sink?
I liked to wear hats when I was younger.
I had so many, it was a hunger.
But when I lost her.
I lost all interest right after.
When she was gone like a flung rubber band.
It felt like howling sand.
So I stopped wearing hats and felt bare.
She wasn’t there to notice or care…
It wasn’t just my style that was thrown away.
It was us who hung out all day.
And she was gone as fast as that pink hat in the bathroom.
As if down the drain but we can’t assume.
The accident happened and tore me apart.
She was like a straw hat, flying away from my heart.