Children, pancakes, needlework
An initial draft, a first book
It’s no surprise they came out weird
No matter what pains you took
The first one is the practice one
You need it, to make a start
It’s okay, it won’t be perfect;
We weren’t expecting a work of art
It’ll be squiggly around the edges
Details not well defined
Awkward, clunky, unpolished
Scruffy and unrefined
If you haven’t got the knack yet
It’s understandable, you’re new
You’re learning how to unlock your skills;
What you should and shouldn’t do
You have to make the cringey first one
So your deftness can grow wild
The next attempt will be infinitely better
By B Philippe (a second child)
Long sleeves hide
long numbed nights.
Thin is the skin
of her world,
needlework scores
a secret embroidery.
Tattoos of despair
on arms and feet.
Once she was,
now she is almost a not.
Bloodroots,
blood clots,
blue tracks
these are her blood lines now,
lines that will lead her
ever further away
into empty dreams.
Will she save herself?
A question mark
swells unanswered in her veins.
Written: May 2nd, 2025 for Brian Stand contest
***********************
spools of emotion
n
e e
d
l
e
stitching memory
a patchwork of thought
A Beautiful Collection
Artistic. Brilliant colours. Dainty embroidery.
Fragile golden hues in jewelled kaftans.
Light multicoloured needlework on patchwork quilts.
Rich silken tapestries
Unusual vestments with xstitching. Yarmulke & Zucchetto.
When my knitting queen aunt
Feels that needlework pull,
She starts knitting some squares
Using leftover wool.
They’re rectangles, really,
With colorful stripes,
Their patterns and stitches
Of similar types.
Then when there are enough,
Using needle and thread,
She will sew them together
To cover a bed.
If no blanket’s requested
By someone she knows,
To a charity’s stockpile
That handiwork goes.
Though some unattached pieces
My aunt did produce
Found their way to my granddaughter
For a new use.
Now her dolls all have blankets,
Two interests in sync,
Crossing ages and miles
In such a sweet link.
To the one who sat here so very long ago
Rooted, I daresay, with so many things to sow
Your needlework is etched upon the faded fabric
Where the story you convey, is interwoven magic
Between the struts and arched divide
Your back you laid, with a family by your side
Each picture on this chair depicts a child you had
And a smiling husband that made you feel so glad
As years move on and life succumbs to change
No longer babes, they're all grown up and in the adult stage
When ceased your work and time you have
To craft upon the chair, those pictures sewn with love
Baby's boots upon the pins, a granny you'll be soon
A time to dress those tiny feet, count toes and really croon
But happiness and loss will at times go hand in hand
Those tears of joy are certain to make the grief disband
You sit and stitch upon this chair, your work so fair and neat
Now the story on this fabric is ended and complete
I wonder at this chair I bought, to see myself sit there
Content with thread and needle, affixed to this old chair
Backstitch
scratch mine
scratch thine
Straight Stitch
boring
snoring
French Knot
pie-eyed
tongue tied
Satin Stitch
glossy
bossy
Feather Stitch
ruffled
plumage
Slip Stitch
escape
artist
Fly Stitch
Help me!
Help me!
Couching Stitch
stick in
the mud
Blanket Stitch
under
cover
Eleanor instinctively knows the language of the great mathematicians
The other women consider her peculiar
She does no needlework
Pines after no man
Her daddy trains her to follow his profession.
She becomes a highly-trained, impressive engineer
Born in the wrong century to be employed,
she starts her own company
I got a SoupMail; didn’t know
Who sent it, so I read it.
A person found a poem of mine
And had the thought to thread it.
By that, I mean embroidery –
She stitched it, oh, so neatly,
To make a lovely sampler which
Just floored me, quite completely.
Although she also sewed my name,
She needed my permission
For in a contest it would be
Her needlework submission.
To think, a rhyme composed by me
In New York months ago
Will be in a hand-sewn sampler
In a prized New Zealand show!
The world’s become a smaller place
As, miles and miles apart,
A stranger reached into my world
And lifted up my heart.
Sewing machine, long idle, gathered dust
Polished now in the hallway, my fond antique
Recalling Grandaunt’s delicate craftwork--
Each pattern of fabric threaded with zest,
As her hands would bounce around pinpoint needles,
Weaving an array of doilies rugs garments
Intently absorbed in a foot pedal’s rhythm
That her hums trailed beyond Nam’s bombings :
The war years seemed like only yesterday,
Calming her through spindles of moon’s quick cycle .
Along each evening’s gloss, we rollicked laughed
Exchanging banters like friends… till she crossed over :
Tonight, I gently pat her own quilt laying on my bedside,
Lining our decades of sweet remembrances…
For a moment, my eyes gazed at stars’ fading wicker,
The candle sputtered, spent, and all was dark.
Viv Wigley’s Contest: One nine and sixteen
Written 5/1/2018
Poets Escape
by Odin Roark
How willing
This heart and mind
Absorbing pain's daily prose
Global flagellation becoming
Best sellers
Top Box-office
Google's lifeblood
Whether Syria's dismemberment
Washington's absurdity
Or Hollywood's Grand Guignol Follies
Exhausted passions and intelligence
Clutter synaptic duty
Excused as collateral damage
Everyday wars of fear
Slowly accelerate
This self-destructive countdown
Repeating Time's insidious cycle
Ashes to ashes
Dust to dust
While few escape
Some find refuge
In the manifestos of metaphor
Using echoes of cranial madness
Illusion's manic voice
Mumbling through the night
Arranging similes
This is like that
That is this
Until...
Dream's phosphoreal mirage
Becomes imagination's reality
Layered tapestry hanging firm
Mind's needlework in progress
Becoming woven experience
To shroud forever
Weakness's acquiescence
For what?
For whom?
Poets know not
They just are
Family heirlooms
Some collect old art pieces, jewelry or photos.
Others, end tables, organ benches, or beds
If it belonged to Grandma or Grandpa it’s a keeper.
Especially fancy needlework and piecework spreads.
And if it belonged to way-back generations,
Better hide it from inquiring siblings.
Like an antique trunk full of precious junk,
Be ready for some serious quibbling.
An agate marble with variegated colors,
A bone handled knife with Grandpa’s carved notch,
Grandma’s wedding ring many memories bring,
As does Uncle Henry’s gold pocket watch.
Many collectibles and few places to keep them.
We hold on tightly like a determined fanatic.
If embedded memories bring such pleasure to treasures
Why do they inevitably drift to the garage or attic?
Relaxing on a sunday afternoon
I love to paint and needlework quilts
I love to relax on my patio, to see the
fruits of my work and smile
I love to create and know, the people
Will love it so
I take the time to envision the work
To be sure every detail is done every needle and stroke
The treasure without measure is there for me
I love to be outside, the beautiful weather, paint the latch hook needle and me
How to behave now
he finds me sketching him with
a needle and thread?
A paper lantern of a girl;
Dim halo hazy, stitched thin by needlework.
A precision seamstress of darker dreams--
Freedom is a luxury, not
A privilege.
"Lanterns"
Jenna-Nichole Conrad
Wordsmith
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