The pattern maker measures his guest
neck, shoulders chest, and breast,
arms, back, wrist, waist, hips,
pivots for darts on a block bodice
drafts designer dupe requested
a choice rose-beige mini is invested
on paper made of parchment
a muslin fabric fit first garment
The dressmaker sews the formal
zig zags seam ends, snips as normal
finishing floral, attaching appliques,
the courtier knock off is complete
I get out the chips and merlot
It’s time for the fashion show
An eye looks down from the Andromeda void,
threading a needle with silver starlight.
It sews your hand into mine,
a pattern on a tapestry that screams in neon.
We were charted before we had shadows.
I remember the ink of destiny
spilled upon the zodiac’s table,
where fish learned to fly in sapphire air.
Your eyes are two planets navigating my skin,
a collision written in atomic dust.
If you peel back the skin of the midnight sky,
you will find the ink is still wet.
Your laughter is a supernova,
a sudden punctuation mark,
making everything we do…
simply inevitable.
Looks like it has a firm foundation
A nice yard for kids to play
Walls sturdy and insulated
And a long rounded driveway
There's a paddock in the back
A barn fit for royalty
A stream with fresh fish
And an owner known for loyalty
He made a promise, unprovoked
I received, and drove on, down the road
Losing friends, cars, homes
As the grief kept piling on my heavy load
Again and again, the path winds
Hills and valleys come and go
Hope barely remains in tact
When will I reap the harvest LOVE sews
Today I passed a marker on the way
No, it was the threshold of a door
My fears are the enemy
That have kept me from having more
Money and men seeking power
Stood as black smoke over my eyes
But today I see the ARCHITECT
And we rejected the lies
I am worthy of all I desire
The jewels of my heart proclaim
I open and welcome
Blessings and honor assigned to my name.
Written by Trudy Schrader on 12-21-2025
my sister sews
Has a Cadillac of a sewing machine
it cost as much as her first house
it has gadgets, dials, electronic commands
intimidates me
She plunks me in front of a serger
I never even heard of a serger before now
I am going to have to look up how to spell it
On a regular sewing machine, you do not sew off the material
on a serger, you have to sew three or four inches of stitches off the material
It takes me a day to get used to this
fancy sister
fancy seamstress
fancy machines
Tingly skies full of surprise oh how I love when with surmise,
the little rascal aims his dart as if it were, poetic art !
The juvenile lyrical mind under infantile skin,
like the sweetness of the fruit ripe already,
will have the mute desire to reach and win
with artistic heart pulsating within puerile body.
Rising from the depth of ageless emotion,
spreading like waters of the flooding river,
love assumes a heavenly halcyon dimension
in a delightful art framed with platonic fervor.
When the yarn of yearning sews the closed eye,
on the flapping eyelids the bird of passion flies.
The flight makes all the dreams to rise high,
float like shapeless clouds in the seamless skies.
If in the same rhythm the two hearts beat,
time arrow will stop for you, making no sense.
Past forgotten, in the present two souls will meet,
sunk in the depth of blind love without pretense.
When cupid's arrow aims for you, there isn't much that you can do !
The beak has broken, and I settle on the shore of painful thoughts,
while the sea sews salt around a shell of feathers—
a cradle carved from a time long vanished, a vapor dream of the past.
I touch it gently—the wings contract like secrets hidden in evening shadows—
fragile bruises, a poem of memories passed through rains of forgetting,
hidden beneath an old echo of lullabies that the wind whispers voicelessly.
But still, the shell splits and leaves behind only silence that drips into the depths,
beautiful things, shattering harder and harder now,
its beak caught in the shell's emptiness, wide and unmoved, a scream transformed into sculpture of silence.
And I—I remain stuck, dreaming with open eyes at skies of memories,
dragging myself through the sand of time, with knees scraped by edges of dreams,
still trying to fit into a space where I was never meant to be.
And the only question left—how many times can you bury a falling star,
that never asked to be held in the palm of an unknown desire?
The outrage spills
sews evil seeds
reaps injustice
as innocence bleeds.
Misguided few
opinions flawed
fallacious minds
spurred by fraud.
Seek what's true
for better aim
this acting out
shall bring you shame!!
Violent destructive acts upon the property of others, (Tesla) for whatever reason, cannot be justified, you are a criminal and you should be severely punished!!
He is not someone you bump into on the road and fail to notice,
he is the one whose presence you feel in the empty corridors he traversed,
he doesn't wear the falsehood of a feigned smile on his lips,
but sews his bleeding truths onto the contours of his soul.
He won't accuse you of gazing too long at his flawless face or measured steps,
he is not the subject of the town's empty chatter, but the whisper that slips into shadows,
he is an ordinary person who hates attention, too hesitant to meet your gaze,
he doesn't care about appearances or the silent knives that wound his back.
He is someone you all know,
he is someone you all judge.
He remains an enigma revealed only in the silence between heartbeats,
a story that stretches like an echo among the cold walls of indifference,
a presence that asks nothing but leaves a deep mark in the silence it touches,
a soul weaving its path amid gazes that lack the courage to see.
Flitting hundred times
she sews home to perfection
sings to-whee-cheeup
Woven threads, of fate's design,
A girl child's future is intertwined.
With education's needle, strong and fine,
She sews her path, a destiny divine.
Each stitch a lesson, a wisdom gained,
Her tapestry of dreams is unchained.
She weaves her life, with skill and grace,
A vibrant future, she will embrace.
Where mind sews cobwebs,
I take out a dissolving spyglass.
The space between this self
looks back seeing nothing.
That which holds,
rolls over mind-clouds,
finding no anchors.
The day will take me soon,
make me be what I claim to be,
but in any next pre-dawn
surfacing,
I will know again,
that I am not.
In this moment, I stand tall,
Grateful for each rise and fall.
Life's journey, a gift to unwrap,
A joyous clap, life beautifully sews.
With each year, wisdom grows,
Embracing laughter, shedding tears,
A dance of hopes, conquering fears.
So here's to another year to share,
To cherish moments, love to declare.
On this birthday, in a world so grand,
I'll celebrate and take a stand.
For the beauty of life, in every way,
Thank you, Lord, for this special day.
With gratitude and a heart that's light,
I welcome this year, shining bright.
a moment be as...
a 'mow-meant' to clear
any space we be...
in
so time as change be just...
so that whatever any mom-meant leaves behind
sews a new space-time present...
that
be for what follows it next and...
be itself as the new space-time moment that will
become a staircase to another new future...
stan sand
time …
takes no hostages
but for those let with dearest blood
if there IS such a thing as chaos
it is in the scrambled madness
that intent, circumstance, fate, and impulse
leaves upon our plate …
we trade the futures of our youth
for the memories of age …
the dearest cost -
each moment, each instant -
given without a thought of how
incredibly precious it is
how valuable its utilization …
and it’s amidst that casualty that we
lose sight of the little things
the in-between happenings that become
the thread of our lives -
that gold braid that binds all we do and
think and feel and find
to our desires and achievements
and sews the seam of
existence, grace and hope …
yet …
we all have the option
(and it is a self-conscious choice)
to not accept time’s tariffs -
to appreciate a moment with the
reverence it’s due
and not assess our worth by accomplishment
but rather how fully we embrace the now
and the only true lasting, timeless
treasure …
love.
Blue faded.
The same horizon, the same clouds
changed by brushes from an impressionist painter.
The lavender sky blushes
and the crest of the cheery trees beams
as the wind hums, enticing belated bumblebees.
Twigs rattle waking a little shepherdess bellow.
Amber eyes browse the dusky glen.
She whistles, summoning her hound
and ties her undulating hair with a butterfly.
She engenders a ballroom below the tree’s canopy.
and abandons her boot, her cap, her apparel.
A blushful wind sews a new dress with dead leaves.
She tiptoes on the top of the grass blades
and two small primroses flourish on her face
as the tender breeze takes a rhyme from her lips.
The tangling grass tickles her feet
and a perishing sunray slips between the leaves
to reach her cheeks.
She hoovers free and twirls making herself a target
for distracted bowmen…
.. her dog barks and she eyes down
to a basket with four remaining heart-shaped berries.
Night arrives and starlight precipitates.
The little shepherdess greets the drops of rain with a spin.
Listen, listen to the lingering melody.
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