little pin cushion
hidden among thread and cloth
mom's old sewing kit
She eases into the stillness,
lamplight gathering softly at her arms,
a gentle warmth settling over her
like a shawl laid down by evening itself.
Her shoulders ease, unburdened,
as the glow coaxes the hours
to loosen their hold at last.
The needle glints softly~
a slim sliver of silver light,
moon-fine and obedient,
resting between her steady fingers.
The room is still.
Wallpaper fades into amber,
shadows gather politely
along the baseboards,
and the chair beneath her
creaks in a language
only she and time understand.
The world outside is dark, almost bleak,
but here~
here the lamplight makes a sanctuary
of small things:
the curve of her wrist,
the soft fall of fabric,
the quiet devotion
of mending that which can be mended.
I can almost smell the warmness
of linen, dust, and a hint of lavender~
the scent of evenings
when nothing urgent calls,
and the simple act of sewing
becomes a way of keeping
the world stitched together.
and Mother needed the comfort
of being held
in its gentle, golden reach.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The skeleton wears taffeta,
all ribs and rust~
her hollow waist a cathedral
of pins and dust.
She stands in the attic light,
leaning slightly,
as if listening
for the hum of a Singer,
the whisper of shears,
the sigh of satin
unspooling its threads.
Time slips through her seams,
but the darts remember
where the body has been~
each curve my
grandmother’s faceless ghost.
The dress form is a museum piece
of vanished touch,
a still life in gingham,
holding the shape
of my grandmother’s love.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The needle pricks,
not fabric~
but the space between my ribs.
A threadbare heart,
pulled taut,
threatening to snap
with every awkward tug.
I am not like Mother;
I am no seamstress~
just a woman
with frayed edges
and hands that fumbles
with mending.
Each missed stitch
leaves a gap~
a tiny wound
where the light slips in,
unasked for.
And still,
I knot the thread,
bite it clean,
press my palm
to the uneven seam
Feelin’ stitchy is an old school term meaning feeling out of sorts. Today, the phrase implies a sense of enthusiasm or passion for embroidery and related crafts.
you may read a related memoir vignette at poetrysoup.com/short_stories/feelin_stitchy_13648
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It fits, barely~
this small metal crown
pressed onto my finger,
a relic of Mother’s hands.
She stitched whole worlds
from scraps and thread,
turned hunger into hems,
poverty into patterns.
The thimble remembers
the push and pull,
the slow accumulation
of seams, of days~
how she mended
what was torn
without complaint,
how she clothed us
in her quiet revolutions.
Now when I wear it,
I feel the ghost
of her determination,
the weight of all
those invisible stitches
holding me together.
you may read the related memoir vignette at: poetrysoup.com/short_stories/thimbles_and_thread_13647
The sewing gnome was always home
sewing quilts for his friends and such
Someone said he had written a poem
It’s no big deal, he said, not much.
I wanted to read it and cajoled him.
He thought it was frivolous and sad.
I read it aloud to my husband Jim.
For a gnome, he said, it isn’t bad.
The sewing gnome was having fun on his machine
I dislike the colors, said my Auntie who is glum.
Don’t tell him that, it sounds kind of mean.
Okay, she said, but he doesn’t have to make me one.
He laughed when I told him we liked his poem.
I didn’t enjoy it, he admitted, it was a bet.
When we got home my husband called ….
told him he should post it on the internet.
The sewing gnome thought this was funny.
I’m too busy, I’ve decided to raise bees and stuff.
Like what? A skunk, a deer, a wasp and a bunny.
and today I am fixing my uncle’s favorite coat cuff.
sewing something Sally is on the trail of a pin
she saw it yesterday, and can match it with its twin
slides her tape measure out of the way
and yells hip hip hip hip hip hooray
is this how I’ll act if I take up sewing? I wonder.
Sewing something Sally is always full of blunder.
She speaks of pin cushions, zippers, buttons and such.
I am not sure I would like this hobby very much.
Grandma used to live in a boat, and she was sometimes rowing
But she got rid of grandpa, who now lives with a gardener who is hoeing.
Grandma is surrounded by thimbles, needles, and fat quarters showing
We always say, “If she is not sewing, then she is sewing”
It might not make sense to you, for you are not knowing
That our grandma is always, and I mean always sewing.
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.
Intelligence
Calm and patience
Of the essence.
She fell asleep at her sewing machine again
Don Tee Oh Tee came along with dribble on his chin
Sure he was wearing his armor it looked rusty too
Nothing about the old guy was interesting or new.
Queen of Sewingville came by showing off green threads for hair
There was a moment of expectation that most of us felt in the air.
Don tee Oh Tee was being ignored by most, but I paid attention.
Wishing it had not been so boring at this quilting convention.
These rugby-playing girls -
or women, should I say? -
are so rough and ready,
dashing down that field,
conveying that oval ball
from this end to that,
gritting their teeth.
Oh, what might! Such a sight!
Or do I not prefer
to behold delicate white frocks
on ladies whose fairylike fingertips
hold their tiny needles,
sewing and crocheting,
or simply sitting in silence and smiling
as we fawn on and fancy their fine, fine faces?
Yet would I not receive a slap around my head
for even daring to dawdle on such thoughts?
It is so easy to spend so much time pondering
before I wake in fright:
which sight might I hold tight in my sleeping eyes
moments before I rise - and rise some more?
(19 May 2023)
What are you doing? I asked Little Lee.
I am sewing a new heart, said she with glee.
What is wrong with the old one? Asked I.
It left with a scoundrel, a mean kind of guy.
So you just sew up a new one? I asked with surprise.
Sure, she said. Come see with your hazel eyes.
She was creating a new heart. It said “Jimmy and me.”
We invited him to come visit us that day for tea.
The daughter of a professional seamstress, I am a tactile learner,
I have to feel the possible fabric to make a decision.
If it is rough like linen or denim, I am not a fan.
I like flowing soft, pliable easy materials
Unless I am trying to sew them together
Slick and elusive, velvet, satin and silk fabrics are difficult to maneuver.
And you have to make sure all of the cuts are made in the same direction.
Shiny pieces with beading or rhinestones intrigue and interest me,
But I rarely wear them as they are stiff, hot and uncomfortable.
Plaids are a nightmare to piece together; worse than matching wallpaper.
My twin sister buys fat quarters and makes beautiful quilts.
Her luxury hobby is sewing, she spends hundreds of dollars on it.
I run from a sewing machine in every direction.
Homemaking was a chore, I wanted to take woodworking.
In highschool, my mother used to rip out most of my seams at night,
so I had to start over in the morning.
Mom wanted everything made out of fabric to be perfect.
She was a professional, but this discouraged me.
When I need to create I cartoon, paint or write. I do not sew.
Slip Stitch
gave chase
lost face
Whip Stitch
LaRue
debut
Loose Stitch
sought it
lost it
Old Sewl
pedal
treadle
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