Spindles Poems | Examples

My Perennial Garden

My perennial garden is peaceful and tranquil
A timeless place of beauty where calmness will instill 
Vibrant blooms emanate sweet and savory scents
No fake or synthetic wafts among the floral presents

Birds flutter and dip in the rustic metal bird baths
While chipmunks nibble and play along their tiny paths
Swirling garden spinners whisper in the light breeze
An illusion of flying spindles, adds a whimsical tease

The solar fountain is a balance of sounds and silence
As water trickles and flows and provides some reliance
Bees and dragonflies hover and then stop to take a drink
As butterflies flutter in vibrant wings of purple and pink

Asiatic lilies open their bright orange petals of luck
Their beauty instills feelings of awe and wonder struck 
Hummingbirds often visit the garden to stop and sip
Delicately feeding on phlox while wings flutter and zip

My perennial garden is a sacred and treasured place
Where nature is welcomed to visit and take up space

Shared Torch Lake

I rock in this outdoor cheap chair
Its cushion foam like ice cream
Half-eaten by the winter mice in storage
I don’t mind

Don’t need a full seat to see before me

The drop off on Torch Lake
Its fine line drawn between sky and space
So turquoise on one side black and blue on the other
Top to bottomless cliff
A mere step to reach one side from the other

If I dare walk on water

Wind carves the lake into slices of pie
Pulpy blueberry squeezes out the sides

Dragonflies bob in lilac updrafts
Broke open moments ago from their crawling lakeshore nymphs
Split open on the rocks

Their brittle wings snap in the wind
Snacks uncrinkling to a Kingfisher’s snatches

Fate born that way is hard to take
Of course many of these spindles escape to the flowers and meadows
But not all

I stand up

Boy to Dad to Grandpa

When did this happen? To survive this long?
To still hunger these many wonders?
To grow to know I am no more important

Then this oozing lake
Divided
And Memorial Day wind colliding with dragonflies and Kingfishers.

Writer from Within

The less
I move my lips at my 4:00 am Saturday morning sessions
The more
These words are trees standing still beside a racing river

A long way away
Freight train bores the night
Moon without light

Its alto horn
Projects from nowhere entangles everywhere

Uninhibited
By barren maples and icy roads
Abandoned homes and snowdrifts
A shadow walking his dog under planets of street lights
All powerless against the elk’s forlorn cry

The long sigh reaches me in my living room
Like a rope
Or an armored snake
That takes its slithering life with such mangled ease

Iron bolts
Shackles jolt and shudder to the lumber spindles

I have no name but I am story

Clack clack
Clack clack
Clack clack

I count the halved steps of thunder from the mysterious miles
Waning afar

As the Rolling Stones once sang Love is like our music
It’s here and then it’s gone

I am magician
Make things appear and disappear
Conjure things to move
Erase the past and future with Bastami’s ink baton

I am startled back to life

Perfect quiet

Train absent if it ever was.

Ode To a Fallen Leaf

Image by: Kimberlee Baxter
The nonpareil of a a violin plays late into a golden era
its "An Autumnal Farewell, by Debussy"

With magnificent beauty in dazzling colors of dying
she spindles and pivots in outer space flaring her
senescent brittle frills into thin air *
Unmasking after a long summer dream she drops from a tree
prepared for the deep mulch, free falling
she is beckoned to the ground  without making a sound
Transcending a seasonal time she lives within my memory
this little leaf that clung to my childhood sapling;

Oh I remember many many things, but what I recall the most
is the way she trembled, just before the big fall.

Written by: Mystic Rose

I Word Iceflower

To the ice, you will not succumb.
Formations of ice crystals
Short furry spindles.

For you to form
It can no longer be warm,

For You to emerge 
The surface must be still without a surge.

Your beauty will show,
So others will know,

A beautiful flower you have become,

Turbulent

Blank horizons, desolate space
Oblivion in this place
Grey fibers, blank wonder
Losing its luster
Exhausted dreams, taunted hopelessness
Emptiness in this openness 
Ruptured dreams, fractured spindles 
Ideas are hindered 
Stamped with astuteness
Reality refocused, thank goodness

The Old Rusty Gate

That old rusty gate, goes way back in time 
It's body of metal holds memories 
Through the hinges and spindles- Ivy climb 
Almost hidden from the thick leafy trees 

The gate still swings in the wind of a day 
Do the ghosts of the house; past- come and go 
If that old gate could talk, what would it say? 
In its squeaky voice- "I've seen the wind blow" 

It out-lived the house, still standing alone 
It holds memories of a hundred years 
Tulips of color and roses- once grown 
If the gate had eyes- it would shed some tears 

The gates still alive, though rust grasps its face 
Don't think, it ever, wants out of that place 


One In Five Poetry Contest 
Sponsor: Joseph May  
7-2-2022

I Could Write About the Smile Shared With Dog

Know that this purr-ing cat
will probably eat my face
how many wings are stored
how many insect spindles
how many bugged ladies
too little buttered flies
not a bad word for the cloud
drizzle doesn't frazzle
A bed without an azzled
cursed by my humanity
if only i could get
out of me
but then youse would still
be here
c'mon the rip
the tear
did he meen mean
was the tear a tare
Humanity's the scar
reality will never share

Archaic Like Spindles

old bookshelves dwindle
        one page holds all ~ big swindle 
                 new hardback kindle


Sponsored by: Kai Michael Neumann 
Bookshop Poetry Contest
10/3/2021
Syllable counter PS 5/7/5

The Thingamajig

D ug it out from under the stairs,
I  knew it would be useful someday.
S aving it I was for future repairs,
C huffed I never threw it away.
A ll in good order as good as new,
R atchets and spindles all spinning.
D amned if I know what it used to do,
E minently too good for binning.
D on't care what the missus might say,
...........I'm keeping this sucker for a rainy day.

Weavers

weaver’s 
spindle fulls the cloth
teasel



Note: Scottish thistles were once used by weavers as spindles.

If It Takes Forever

drove wife to doctor
counting wheelchair ramp spindles
~waiting for Godot






7/10/2020

My wife smiled at this one.  Or was it a smirk?

Waiting for Godot is a play by Samuel Beckett

Lost Trees

 Lightening aims and shoots at my baby apple tree and with one searing snap, shears it into; smoke rises from the black trunk, curlicues toward sky.  Not old enough to birth little ones, I had it out, down and re-planted another one.  Soon, we lost our spruce to the winds; a home to doves, it was uprooted.  In my yard a huge ball of squiggly spindles with a tree on one end, lay as if someone plucked it from Gaia’s breast and tossed it aside.  The poor homeless doves moved to my window air conditioner and braved the icy spring; thrilled as fledgling wings bounced her around, till she finally flew.  

trees weathering storms 
sheltering many bird species- 
prime real estate  

doves only build 
a twig pile-
one wind obliterates

Pink Flamingos

Can anything be better
then a pair
of plastic pink Flamingos?

necks slinking gracefully
as a swan
glides upon calm waters.

Steel spindles
established firmly in soft soil:

          No food
          No care
          No toil

so self -sufficient.

And should I mention
the beauty
they display
until incessant sun rays
begin to fade
pink bodies away

Can anything be worse
then a washed out pink Flamingo?

Shot In the Dark

A heart felt prayer with four chambers alights on a maiden voyage

Meets valves and percussion awaits tenderly to be tuned into harmony


Passion where had been void and stagnation and pulse been icy and flat

The mind once arrested in dangling contemplation halts its corrosion

A wandering soul solders confusion towards awakening warmth while

Destiny folds its narrow lapels onto the fabric of chimes of the time


Tim had enough of canned laughter mocking his elegiac mourning

Surpassing melancholy contempt he ventures an unknowing path


A map shadows mountains temples and valleys in starlit desire

His labyrinth mazes amazing adventure looms spindles of thread

The open book threatens no longer all gloom and fear has been bared 

Closing chapter and shimmering verse find beginnings in ends


Trenchant acrimony cast aside Tim arises from pulverized trenches

Reminds himself gently that happiness is more than a smouldering gun

02 February 2019

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