Samara: "Opening the thimbles under the waxing moon, you'll wish it was waning in clock town's too soon."
Samael: "Over the mountain and through the woods to grandmother's house we go, with hand grenades and razor blades high-ho, high-ho, high-ho."
Uraeal: "To be so uncomely by the waxing moon is retarded at best, she picks too many daisies to be wolfish at a fest."
Helel: "Helel, or so I've heard, let's make this short and sour, for the dithery young girl."
Aurora: "Time passes like Time was incarnate let's ask the others here, if folly is so comely."
Gladius: "Moving the orchard like agrarian gregorian fools?" "Who made the large ice-bath beside the stilled moon?"
The Pro: "I came I saw I thwart not, sold out shows are not my conifers."
(Anonymized character) "I still build palaces on the moon, where stairway to heaven crosses the dark side of the moon."
---End of act IV---
Could that ruby-throated hummingbird be God?
Fanning smiles-igniting sighs in brief thimbles of time.
To help temper the graying emptiness of our swirling lives.
Then just as quickly God flits away with our pinkish sighs.
Leaving twin pits of black and blue endless emptiness.
we sit on the what knot shelf
thinking we are all that the first week
feeling the woman’s excitement in finding us
But week after week goes by
the glass doors open and she pushes in new finds
thimbles, bells, miniatures, marbles,
most of us have not been taken out since day one
when she was excited to purchase us
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.
The leather tethers kept loosening.
I had to pull at them until
they dug into your body
binding you to a rocking cross.
It was all for nothing
you died snapping at unseen knives,
arching up, bending time into
frozen waves.
You once said you were Irish/Scots,
Appalachian.
You called yourself: Applachan.
Sinewy girl --- wiry poppy stems
in you, and engine oil
to soften tenacious roots.
The fever racked you up.
It shook your bones loose.
It blossomed,
pouring you out
in thimbles of awareness.
In those intervals,
blue hills filled your eyes
with summer rain.
I would talk to you of Ireland.
We went there on that last night.
We made a hasty camp
in the dream felled woods,
the deep raw stumps
were already greening.
Then I watched,
and kept watching
as feeble death broke its teeth
on your blood.
Silt collects at the outreaches of an ancient, murky marsh.
Twisted tendrils of white oleander form archaic symbols.
Deviant rituals, cocooned and lost eons ago, lie awash—
Taken to the surface, unleashed by a cacophony of demonic cymbals.
Now, time suddenly stops by this grotesque swash.
War is waged, and humanity becomes a mere memento, just a collection of broken trinkets in otherworldly drawers, like lost thimbles.
God bless the searchers.
Wandering through this maze.
That we call yesterday and today.
The pollen of living on their battered bee faces.
They flicker into our lives, then back to shadow for a while.
Their sky mirages always brightening our eyes.
Along bent paths they pick up
bushels of pollen and thimbles of poison.
Wings growing weary. legs ever heavier.
They're the purist type of brave.
With bloody bee faces walking straight into
the pugilist of indifference.
I'm envious of them.
God bless the searchers.
1950’s walnut what-knot-shelf
small compartments with tiny doodads
crystal doohickeys and miniature thimbles
variety of teensy ceramic trinkets
displayed in woman’s living room
every mother I knew had one back in the day
1950’s go-to accessory for the modern woman
Red shingled roofs rise and sink,
slickly buoyant with new showers.
Cars drive behind cloud-skyscrapers.
The park is soggy with small dogs,
colorful umbrellas are set aside
beside paddling pigeons.
Dewdrops slide over hanging buds,
while lush leaves
breathe their own green aroma.
By evenings tide, an amber shine,
has walked us through a dripping sky,
we are both empty and full,
beneath the warm spill of moist thimbles.
Above us, the washed-out mural of a rainbow,
remains to fish in low ponds of mist.
Wispy showers spray a disappearing horizon.
A soft falling rain lingers between us and tomorrow,
weeping’s that by the early light are rinsed away
by fresh tree-dancing winds,
and the bright beams of children at play.
Grandma’s craft cottage was a magical place.
A room with thimbles, embroidery, beads, bits of lace.
Multifarious fat quarters were folded into neat little squares
There was always a hot iron close at hand.
We cousins loved stopping in to listen to a story.
Or tell one of our own, watching Granny’s nimble fingers create magic.
This was our haven, our heart, the epitome of our safe place.
Even though Grandma was gone now, her legacy remained.
Each one of us came by to tell Grandma how much we loved her.
For we felt her presence in this craft cottage
More than any other place we had been that day.
The church had given us no such comfort.
Amestecul his name Spiral Tantu
Who wishes my fiance as his wife
Wast makes her stall to marry me.
Her name Allus, she cursed me in
the detail of there romance. She is
nepasator and unkind. I often wait
for the translation of these details,
oh God am I fool? Am I a fool!
Getzen Kaiser
Tiny protection for
Those seamstresses ' small fingers.
Thimbles come in sizes.
Test the samples, ladies
Thoughtfully get right fit.
Thrust on embroiderers.
Threads will become great art!
The leather tethers kept loosening.
I had to pull at them until
they dug into your body
binding you to a rocking cross.
It was all for nothing
you died snapping at unseen knives,
arching up, bending time into
frozen waves.
You once said you were Irish/Scots,
Appalachian.
You called yourself: Applachan.
Sinewy girl --- wiry poppy stems
in you, and engine oil
to soften tenacious roots.
The fever racked you up.
It shook your bones loose.
It blossomed,
pouring you out
in thimbles of awareness.
In those intervals,
blue hills filled your eyes
with summer rain.
I would talk to you of Ireland.
We went there on that last night.
We made a hasty camp
in the felled woods,
the deep raw stumps
were already greening.
Then I watched,
and kept watching
as feeble death broke its teeth
on your blood.
My heart is a drum,
My hands are symbols,
I have a voice like a cat
And people use thimbles.
They plug up their ears
And over the years,
All of my peers have…
Purchased from Sears.
I think I have learned,
That music is lovely,
I listen and hum,
I play on above-ly…
What does that mean, you may ask?
In heavens own orchestra,
I will be correct and on task.
The Master knows my talents
And there is no mask.
His Glory in all things,
His Grace Renown.
I wish I could play better,
If only for now.
A thousand thoughtful thimbles
On as many thoughtless thumbs
Conspired to throw the throne
By the water's edge on Threadmesomes
A prick on a prince's finger
Produced prints on a Royal blouse
Thimble protection once provided
Protected not the Royal House
They struck throughout the kingdom
Thick leathers and thin garments alike
Proper thongs and pretty things
Disappeared in the Threadmesomes strike
3-24-19
Contest:Pick A Title,Vol 3, Alliteration
Sponsor:Edward Ibeh
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