Long Weavings Poems
Long Weavings Poems. Below are the most popular long Weavings by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Weavings poems by poem length and keyword.
Poems about Flight, Flying, and Birds (III)
Songstress
by Michael R. Burch
Within its starkwhite ribcage, how the heart
must flutter wildly, O, and always sing
against the pressing darkness: all it knows
until at last it feels the numbing sting
of death. Then life's brief vision swiftly passes,
imposing night on one who clearly saw.
Death held your bright heart tightly, till its maw–
envenomed, fanged–could swallow, whole, your Awe.
And yet it was not death so much as you
who sealed your doom; you could not help but sing
and not be silenced. Here, behold your tomb's
white alabaster cage: pale, wretched thing!
But you'll not be imprisoned here, wise wren!
Your words soar free; rise, sing, fly, live again.
Performing Art
by Michael R. Burch
Who teaches the wren
in its drab existence
to explode into song?
What parodies of irony
does the jay espouse
with its sharp-edged tongue?
What instinctual memories
lend stunning brightness
to the strange dreams
of the dull gray slug
—spinning its chrysalis,
gluing rough seams—
abiding in darkness
its transformation,
till, waving damp wings,
it applauds its performance?
I am done with irony.
Life itself sings.
Lean Harvests
by Michael R. Burch
for T.M.
the trees are shedding their leaves again:
another summer is over.
the Christians are praising their Maker again,
but not the disconsolate plover:
i hear him berate
the fate
of his mate;
he claims God is no body’s lover.
My Forty-Ninth Year
by Michael R. Burch
My forty-ninth year
and the dew remembers
how brightly it glistened
encrusting September,...
one frozen September
when hawks ruled the sky
and death fell on wings
with a shrill, keening cry.
My forty-ninth year,
and still I recall
the weavings and windings
of childhood, of fall...
of fall enigmatic,
resplendent, yet sere,...
though vibrant the herald
of death drawing near.
My forty-ninth year
and now often I've thought on
the course of a lifetime,
the meaning of autumn,
the cycle of autumn
with winter to come,
of aging and death
and rebirth... on and on.
Keywords/Tags: flight, fly, flying, bird, birds, hawks, plover, wren, songbird, cage, song
In my personal political library
of capital invested thoughts
about healthier attachment
through co-invested feelings,
Sit-Spot sets
gold lettered Wisdom of Laotse,
Neighboring George Lakoff's
The Political Mind
growing freedom toward
Laotse's YangLeft
liberal strength of repurposed thoughts
for recycling wealthy health co-governance,
And Frances Moore Lappe
and Adam Eichen's
aching Daring Democracy
on his climatic YinRight
conservational intent
for sacred Green WaterBearer Sanctuary.
How could I not have earlier noticed
this empowering alphabetical liberation
co-incidence
of climate co-governing resilience?
Sacred Economic Promise
merely setting statically hoarding dust
here on my shelves
waiting for climate restoring notice,
then commitment,
then multigenerational solidarity
of memory and re-imagination,
creation and re-creation,
intellectual curiosity
and co-empathetic courage,
alpha-rhythmic interest
and slow-growing omega co-investment,
Power
reciting co-empowerment,
light
revealing cooperative enlightenment,
weavings
unraveling reweavings,
frames
blending reframes,
stages
inviting perennial ages,
history
retelling culturally emotived power stories
In my personal political library
of useful commodity-infested thoughts
January 22, 2024
____________________________________
Divergent viewpoints can arise
Whilst triumphant variously savor
Glorious tune of achievement,
Gain glory as godly guile
Whilst booming into spring blooms
In fervor of zeal, vow faithfully
God bestows on them a swish tree
With a bountiful harvest
Its span is boundless
Akin to an everlasting ring,
However, clocks tick down
Daily weavings of divine honor.
Amidst lustrous obelisk
Unbeknown overall aesthetic
Sprawled across stars haze
My cosmic frame oozes to apex
I harness the strand in crimson
Widening warp and woof
Over that magnificent loom
Queries seldom yield effectiveness,
Sadness for their plight emerged
In bows and flowery swags
We ought to remember
Fetching a fresh format forward
Divine devotion developed.
We could detect tangles and flaws
Fairness shares justice and equity
The quest implies grace and faith,
A gorgeous layout with a top-ounce
We are haughtily proud,
Divine is eternally supreme
His work never stops, and
His weaving is always wise,
But we must remember that
We are an essential portion of it.
Let us embrace each day
As a raw opportunity to weave
A Halcyon design
With dedication and patience
We can grow the warp and woof
Over that majestic loom
Until we blossom, akin to flowers.
I don't want to wander those places where our footsteps have long since passed,
Down shaded alleys where our memories whisper and stand guard like stone sentries,
I no longer wish to hear those songs, symphonies of the past, nor let them steal my thought.
To wrap myself in your now absent shawl of longing and your kisses, as though they never were.
Echo of laughter, tightrope walker on the heart's string, I won't let you spin me around,
To recall your face, a bastion of joy, which I would have painted in the most playful hues.
I no longer desire to search for you among fragments of memory, to see you in every little detail,
To excavate your visages from the neglected corners of time's dusty albums.
I miss 'us,' but I don't want to rewrite our story, each page bearing our joint signature.
To no longer yearn for what's been lost, for the echoes of your footsteps that resonated in my chest.
I don't want to cry again, to let the tears of missing you wash over my face.
To let the pain sink into the abyss, no longer feeling each caress that brought solace.
Noon when I no longer summon your laughter, thunderous waves crashing over my soul,
Nor how your face, once an island of happiness lost, could be my guiding light.
I don't want to make you cry or to hurt you, to break the wings of your dreams with my inadequacy,
Please, do not inflict heart scratches anymore, in this ongoing war to remain standing.
I don't want to hear you say you miss me, words like arrows into the vulnerable veins of 'us.'
Nor to utter, even in a whisper, that I miss you, for longing burns like a brand that is not there.
To no longer feel the red-hot iron of love trouble me again,
I'm afraid... To not fall into your net once more, into the weavings of your heart. I don't want to… I don't want to…
A song is heard
In the dead of night
Her tears are shining in the sky so bright
Tears of star light
Her voice is delicate and drifts on the breeze
As a jade flute sounds in the Cold moon palace
Her weavings drape the icy halls in colors
Warming up the room
The smell of herbs and tonic flow throughout the silk laden halls
As the rabit with hair
as bright as precious jade
Works diligently making the immortal cakes
The sound of cheng'e is heard bouncing through the cold hallowed halls
As she hopes this year Her loved one returns
There she sits at her make up stall
Eyes painted with blue starlight
Rosy blush adoring lips.
She dresses in her best silk hanfu
Embroidered with the fenghuang and the longwu
And wears her moonlit crown high
As she waits for the bridge to be made again
To reunite with her beloved houyi
~
Winter breathes in sepia tones along a lonely two lane street
divided amongst the sweeping frozen dunes
now forced into shouldered amnesty
Street lights shiver in snowcapped bonnets
while sidewalks sleep ‘neath blankets of flittering flakes
The air, frigidly crisp…moves of tiny chiffon sparkles dancing
Rooftops, plump and soft, show off their frosted padding
as evergreens find alabaster fingers tickling their branches
in chilled teasings and frozen dustings
Footprints, once there are gone, covered and recovered again
all evidence of life is erased beneath pearl clouded skies
and faint outlines of distant thoughts
White on black stripes drape in glacial wanderings
spanning the slush of asphalt weavings
in straight line piercings across the wintry landscape
January reigns brutal, subzero ponderings swirl
from high above the icebox wasteland, once brimming with color
now opaque in its arctic seasoned disguise…
~
Written from memory…no winter here. : )
Time's Weavings, As I Brood Upon Them
Shut inside windows open W I D E
I age 1,000 years
To your one.
The Past turns in tight circles upon the Present,
Inscribing itself in memories
Lending textures to the future,
Pains and pleasures,
Loves and losses,
Bitter, sweet,
All fall together to become tomorrow,
To break apart and cycle on again.
Outdoors, beyond a window full of November's clouds
A child runs gaily past,
While up the street, with ancient, measured tread,
A crone approaches;
Youth and age will meet and cycle 'round again.
I turn grey thoughts within my mind,
Composing poems as Significant Others
Drift in and out of the rooms of my life,
Now babe, Now child, Now youth, Now adult
Now gone.
Friends and lovers weave the warp together,
Light and shadow chase one another through the rooms,
Whispering secrets of change.
(Pema on Turkish Rug, 2023)
The Sweet Spot
Remarkably, right on the cusp
Between the tangible and intangible
Sit the old tribal weavings
Of the near to far East.
I’m sure to many
Both there and here
This subtle distinction of delicate balance
Goes right over their heads.
But to others,
Surely more than just a few,
It goes right to the heart
Which is of course the place we all long to be.
It’s such a fine line to find
Between this and that
The known and the mysterious
And yet…
What else is there worth finding
Where else would you rather be
Than at the sweet spot
Where in and out are one.
(5/24/24)
(19th century Tibetan Wangden rug)
Primal Properties
I look around at all the art I have collected
An assortment of inherited, home made and bought,
Ranging from African to Asian to Persian
With a smattering of European and American
In paintings and ceramics, carvings and weavings,
And the quality of primitive earthy energy
Is what strikes me most.
There is a refinement of technique in many
But it’s the primal essence
This technique is serviced to express,
The marriage of natural materials
And natural sensibilities
Through the transpersonal lens
Of a supernatural force
That defines it,
The definition being one of feeling/perception
More than verbalized thinking.
What is this irrepressible force
Our bodyminds create with these primal properties?
Life.
(11/18/24)
Crossing a sea of bitterness, voids curled beneath my ribs lie hidden,
I drank from the cup of vices, chewed on stupidity, laboring in vast fields of error.
My mind lay with disillusionment, embraced by phantoms, boundless in its futile thirst,
To unearth the simple essence, through furnaces and the ashes of a world that was once my home.
It was necessary to dance with shadows, through confines where the light drowns,
To look despair in the eye, to flirt with the final thought, without hearing the dawn's song.
Only thus, with a heart gnawed by this mad journey, could I return again as a child,
Able to start from the earth's root, detached from the shields and weavings of the transient world.
In that fall, the dream of death nearly touched my lips, cold and tempting,
But in delving into the depth of the self, I met mercy spread upon a bed of new leaves.
I had to lose myself, to become the nothingness from which all things come and into which they disintegrate,
To ultimately perceive grace in the clarity of the world's first breath.
Thus, with every misstep, with every fear swarming in me like in a wild hive,
I was purified, burned, decomposed, and mixed with stardust and trampled pains.
And now, my rebirth—a sacred surrender, an opening of eyes in gentle light,
A wisdom that comes only after the taste of despair teaches you that grace is what follows the storm.