The sun rays from above come into play,
Causing men and beasts alike look thirsty;
They care to stay well-watered every day,
And to protect even each plant and tree.
People opt for light-colored, loose textile,
So they can easily breathe the fresh air;
To aid their body contain heat hostile
Of the scorching sun that's too tough to bear.
Smooth skins apply a broad-spectrum sunscreen,
Wearing hats and sunglasses for their eyes;
They seek shade under the leaves vast and green,
Thanking the sun behind the cloudy skies.
Summer makes us learn symptoms of heatstroke,
Heat-related illnesses say no joke.
The Wardrobe
I opened the wardrobe door
There they hang, suits and trousers
worn so long, looking pale
copies of my figure
This can't go on, in a fit of self-anger
I gave my old clothes to the Salvation Army
Too much textile is a burden
In a suitable shop, I bought a pair of jeans
and a matching jacket
Feeling adventurous, I walked out looking
For a mule, horses are too tall, began
Exploring the landscape of dreams
atop
a garden wall
striped marmalade throw
feline
lazy time
under sunshine
interlaced visions
a weaving
paws dangle in indolent ease
reach
underlay deep
whiskers sense sparrows
muscles tense in their plush
carpet shag
then
drowsy textile head slumps
sun-drying kitty-mat
basking
2 textured images twilled
to fade together forever
later
cat-rug carried away ~
sun settles in a deckchair
In town of Holy Face, now Halez Fax
Are rows of back-to-backs in terraces
Between the mills that spill their thick black smoke.
Industry now dominates hill and dale.
Manufacture is master with muscle.
Sulphuric fumes poison the once green hills
Turning the trees to charcoal skeletons.
The peaceful sound of silence that once was
Is killed by loud clatter from textile mills
And clogs clomping up the steep cobbled streets
With steel segs grinding on the granite setts
As folk trudge to-and-fro in day’s routine,
Between the terrace rows of back-to-backs
In that old mill town known as Halez Fax.
All of our feelings
Close your eyes
Hear each note rise
Father, Mother and children
Your song notes were given
Heaven reminds
Clear your minds
Happy thoughts
Helps a lot
See how you are blessed
Your Angels saw their quest
Compassion always chose to care
We taught them to share
You have served others before yourself
This love has always been felt
What do you say
We watch over your days
Our hearty crew
We are blessing you a new
Remember our laughter
Your love does matter
Heavens champs
Our brightest lamps
Sending joy all the while
Textile
Smile, prevail
Heaven shows us happy trails
Garments
Opened the wardroom’s door, suits and jackets worn
so long looked like sad copies of me.
Gave all my clothes to the salvation army, which gave
them to people not unlike me.
Too much textile is a heavy burden one becomes and
snug in old suits losing interest in adventures.
I bought a pair of jeans and a matching jacket, walked out
at dawn’s first light, began looking for a horse, failing that
a mule to transport me when I traverse the landscape
of imagining, I’m a cowboy lassoing dreams.
Just because I wear black glasses
Does it mean the universe is black?
Just because I find thorns and bushes
Does it mean all face the same too?
Just because I see one side of the globe
Does it mean there’s no other side at all?
When Red signals stop my movements
Don’t green signals allow others to move?
The universe is not a little textile piece
To measure, slice, sew and showcase.
It has gold, yet, it’s not gold;
It has diamonds, yet, it’s no diamond.
It’s a mixture; an amalgamation –
Of colors, forms, shapes, flavors,
Rhymes, rhythms, humans, beasts…
It’s a treasure of philosophies, theologies,
Truths, myths, anecdotes, fables, epics…
Only having removed our color-glasses of
Likes and dislikes; and made our minds
Clear, clean, white papers unsoiled
And perceive through the light of faith
Can we fully know its sacred secrets!
Isn’t true discernment of deserts and
Deserted paths the magic of wisdom…!
Yet, no tree can be fully fruitful
In the ever wide wild orchid of wisdom;
No seeker gains absolute enlightenment
In the endless school of experience
The universe, so far, has never opened
Its doors of secrets entirely to anyone…
02 June 2021
You stab at my manufactured beatless heart,
and tear off my tattered burlap textile.
Puncturing the weakened breath from my tight lungs.
To you, I’m just a naked doll’s unsexed part,
while enduring revenge pain for your feigned love.
Taking mock death with a bent smile from the start.
Your list grows longer, my devotion stays true.
Our creativeness shown like expensive art.
Sharp pins and needles make me feel worthwhile,
from the tight breath puncturing my weakened lungs.
Us two, hand-in-hand, this world we must depart.
Contest Name: A New Abracadabra Poem Poetry Contest
Sponsor Name: Emile Pinet
Style: Rhyme (Abracadabra)
Date: April 14, 2021
I
life's tapestry:
neat surface - chaos below -
not Chinese needlepoint
II
in - out; on - off
life, death, light, dark, cycles:
universal tapestry
A Quote By: Alfred Lord Tennyson "Deep as first love, and wild as all regret "
The sidewalk crackled with heat but I walked on
towards a summer job of textile and lies
the morning sky was a shade of pennied copper
and the bus, an arrival place beneath the burning sun,
I consigned
and my heart ran
like a boomerang
curving me blind
I gave my heart to him alongside nineteen years of youth
then walked away from my yesterday without a single glance
we were two grown up kids making kids of our very own
but then we fell apart when the lies became uncouth
Deep as first love, and wild as all regret
we soon bled on the table of disconnect
when he cheated, I lost all respect
he traded me in with disparage, for a sassy brunette.
Feb. 29, 2020
What Now?
Isn’t This Hell For A Believer?
Isn’t This Nakedness For The Textile Owner?
Isn’t This Fruits For The Promiscous Bride?
This Is Barreness For The Virgin Bride
So What?
Is This Not The Tale Of A Caged Potential?
Isn’t This The Tale Of The Abbatoir Owner;
Diagnosed With Kwashiorkor
Isn’t This Some Juxtaposition
This Is Affluence From A Church Rat
What Can Your God Do?
Isn’t This The Tale Of A Cat On It’s Back?
This Is The Tale Of That Fellowship Brother
That Counsellor;
That Sin Counsels Itself
Isn’t This You?
Isn’t This Hypocritical?
Should I Be Writing This To You,or Myself?
Isn’t This Samson?
My Ancestors slogged in Scottish bogs
Washing wool for the textile folds
And dancing with the spinning jenny’s
Apparently, there were some English blokes
That I can count among my folks
Well what do you know and what was the chance
Someone hailed from Normandy France
Add to these a lady of the Peloponnese
And this makes up ninety eight percent of me
Tribute to Dawn of Day: Stories from the Underground Railroad
From
Tennessee
Virginia
Mississippi
Kansas
Wisconsin
To free states in the north and Canada
I grieved upon the grave of the slave
Tears circling the tomb
Securing his name
For their bloodshed
From whips and blows
By the masters and relatives
On the countryside
Down south
Oral histories and tradition passed down
Children
An investment
Field hands
Skilled labor
Textile production
Seamstresses clothed the slaves
A hovering over of threat of violence
And a whipping
Secret prayer meetings held on the plantation
The Underground Railroad
Station masters housed runaway slaves
in logged cabins
Conductors run the wagon
$50 reward for their capture
Images of faces with no names
Abolitionists regarded as extremists
A threat to the order of the day
******* fought in the Civil War
Share cropping
And Jim Crow
Then migration to city ghettos or slums
Marckincia Jean
Narrative
09/26/19
Hailing from Spindale
By Franklin Price
9/17/2019
Hailing you from Spindale
That was once a textile town
Now the factories are empty
Many of them torn down
No longer do the workers
Move the fabric through the loom
Their jobs are in some foreign land
Where lower wages spelled the doom
All to raise the value of the stock
And to benefit the rich
Transportation is far cheaper
Than the labor for the stitch
That was many years ago
Long before we found this place
Where the workers are still living,
At their meals still saying grace
Go out to church on Sundays
Many go on Wednesday's too
Still believe that God is with them
In everything they say and do
Still love and hug their families
Have a sip of 'shine for you
When we came here, we were strangers,
Now they've made us family too
We came here to retire
We thought of all, it would be best
More than a dozen years ago
It's never failed to pass the test
There might be another place
Would not be better, I believe
The fabric, of our life, is here
The one, together, that we weave.
Crystal Waters
Crystal waters
And foreign rain
Bring
Fluffy clouds of
wool and tweed
Cashmere, engineered
Cotton fields of fiber, seed and flappy lobe
Supplying fabric, textured textile
Thread and string
Spun into spheres
Layered and interwoven
Seamed, stitched and hemmed
A sheet, a leaf , a membrane
Chained captives
Held in bondage
Man-made machine
Black bodies on an assembly line
Harvesting white crop
Their sweat hide their tears
Rag cover their frame and cadaver
Mere androids
Their soul caged in
The whip , their law and discipline
Sighs of weary hands and tired feet
A mercy plea
The church of suffering
Shall render no more
Madame and monsieur ,dignity restored
Marckincia Jean
Free verse
08/24/19
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