Thieves plotted the street-weaver's doom;
and thus he just rented a room.
So "strange"- the pipes burst
and thieves were immersed...
weaver laughed and left with his loom.
I vaticinate through cypress
prognosticator of folklore
brewing indwelling woodcraft
dasyure and platypus
our unvalued birthright
gnaw at cassiterite
sunburn on cycadophyta
an acherontic turmoil
you , ceres
lent nonlexical rhyme
reform this crisis !
always
evermore
peaceably
(Weekly Magnetic Poetry Challenge • August 17–23, 2026)
I am the designer of my own dreams
Mother can you hear my plead,
Just like when I hear your voice.
Is there anything wrong with me,
My sensitivity feels like a curse.
Everything I can intuitively see,
Sometimes it can be a bit much.
Why am I so deep like this,
Why is my big heart so raw.
Your guidance I now seek
Answer me for I am yours
You show up when there’s a need
As I always answer your calls
To sprout should I let this seed
A consciousness to be reborn
Fear is trying to creep in
It knows I find myself alone
Your wisdom is crucial to me
Ensuring that I am never lost
Emotions that can feel so real
Must try my best to stay above
Your presence I know is near
A web that comes from source
Weaving your delicate silk
So I may have a place to walk
Appearing in all of my dreams
We are connected even through blood
Hear me mother will you please
Through me you can see my poems
The senses say that you’re here
So strong is your true love
Comfort me will you please
I really would like a hug.
Raven Archer
In a valley where gravity
drinks only upside-down,
She wakes, spinning thread
from fractured glass,
Kindling pale fires
that refuse to burn,
Her heart was a metronome
ticking in a vacuum.
She speaks in violet vowels,
Building bridges out of
forgotten whispers,
Holding the sun
inside a jar of moths,
Where nothing is
permitted to die.
He arrives on a wind
that tastes of iron,
A void dressed in velvet,
Swallowing the light
she mightily stitches,
His heart was a hollow flute
recreating in quietness.
He breathes out velvet nights,
Breaking bridges
with a touch of nostalgia,
Stalking the shadows
of her bright moths,
Where everything
is allowed to rot.
They meet at the intersection
of Nowhere and Ever,
She weaves him a coat
of crystal tears,
He dissolves it
into a cloak of ash.
She offers a rose,
blooming backward into dust,
He drinks the rot,
singing a lullaby of screaming,
Two opposites locked
in a dream that bleeds,
Never merging, never leaving,
One holding the flame,
the other the dark,
Binding the shattered
world together,
In a dark, loving, terrible art.
‘The ego shouts, but wisdom whispers.’ —A Zen philosophy.
The weaver bird screeches without pause in the tree,
trying to convince a mate to move in.
I slam the window shut on the noise.
His ego bruised and in pure disgust,
he rips apart the nest that took a whole day to build.
Raising one’s voice has never won an argument.
A whispering voice draws people in,
fragments or whole thoughts shaped by time—
wisdom distilled from discarded ego.
I open the window to a world misunderstood,
gathering the brittle twigs of tolerance, convinced
poetry is born in the pauses between spoken words.
R-ightly
A-nswered
Q-uestions,
U-nderstood
E-xpressions,
L-anguage
D-efinitions,
A-nd
G-rammar
S-imply
I-nteract
©bfa052725
Monocrostic (Birthday of Raquel C. Dagsi)
weaver birds grass nest
over a thousand green strips
lures in female
he works long hours
hopes to snatch a lovely mate
she chooses her home
The male weaver bird is inspired to make a beautiful nest
Female weavers choose their mate based on whose nest is the best
nests are intricate and fine, delicately and artistically made by this guy
excited male hangs it in the sun to dry, waiting for his lovely to glide by.
mountains tumble
across the horizon
twisting the last splinters
of warmth
through heavy hanging
gray soup
listless lifeless
endless sigh
dogs roll over
mown grass
clinking ice
gentle laughter
fluttering chimes
cool breeze
sweet pungent earth
enlivens lungs
ocean cracks
spills sheets
steams stainless barbeque
sizzles fire pit
douses tiki torches
lettuce, tomatoes, chips
condiments
march back inside
under the eaves
gulping rare air
until it freezes
behind the window
white pellets pelt
big red umbrella
guarding the feast
burgers melting cheese
buns toasting
in formation
lining the grate
storm sweeps over
collective gasp
tables towel off
wet dogs play
music marries
dinner mirth
dancing flames
lick black velvet
Friday swells
into sleep-in Saturday
while weaver weaves
another day
A lorn woman sits at the windowpane,
Working firmly, she knits wool, not in vain.
As she darns, she recalls tales from the past,
Her touch grooves slyly as the yarn is cast.
Vases and green plants decorate the room,
Their vibrant shadows animate and bloom.
Her gaze drifts beyond, amid the lush green,
A strange settle where her heart was serene.
Her hands clasp a cozy baby sweater,
A sign of brightness, a pledge to fetter.
Longs for her son, innocuous and pure,
Frame flesh full by filling it with demure.
However, the years have passed and gone by,
Leaving her with lifelong musings that sway.
Her kids are grown and have their lives to live,
Leaving her down while in a lifelong strive.
By the window, she snoops the world goes by,
Yearning for companionship a smooth sigh.
She weaves her story into every thread,
A witness to her strength and inner dread.
Who builds the nest of the weaver bird I ask.
Using one thousand strips of grass, it is a daunting task.
Starting with a ring-shaped frame, it accentuates his life.
Male weaver bird’s building skills determines if he gets a wife.
Weave away, Weaver, weave on
The many layers of our lives
Your nimble fingers weave upon –
Thread the rubric of our hours
Into days and weeks and years
With your persistent weaving power
Lace into the fabric melodies
That raise the songs we know
In warm uplifted harmonies
Which lift in graceful, soulful flight
On wings of breathless escapades
The finest feathers of delight
And weave the summer, weave the fall
In realms of wondrous light
To illustrate the world enthralled
– The breath of sunshine in the air
– The energy of earth and sky
– The flower burning with a flair!
Oh, Weaver! With your finest yarns
Weave a little stitch in time
That doesn’t do us any harm
But spins a story so sublime
We cannot bear the tale to end
And leave our folded wings behind –
And once it’s woven, woven tight
Sew the beating badge – now still –
Upon the gown in sutures white
That it may join the sparks of light
On chariots with golden wheels
Flashing by – one for each life
The old lonely basket weaver
Keep weaving in a moody silence
Great soul always suffers silence
One eyed after an accident
Do a living by weaving baskets
Children are awed into silence too
Weaving baskets
The bamboo pieces
Criss crossing
No carelessness or else fingers hurt
Only hard work, pains, tiredness and sorrows
Being criss crossed tight and firm
No one can help and disturb
Silence speaks the loudest voice
No whispers
I hope God will help him
In his solemn silent world
Loom
Weaver
Together
With warp and weft,
Turns yarn to fabric
Fashioned by designer
Driven by the customer
Jacquard, Harris Tweed, Dobby Weave,
This practical creation of love
Conceived from the form of the simple thread.
Conceived from the form of the simple thread
This practical creation of love
Jacquard, Harris Tweed, Dobby Weave,
Driven by the customer
Fashioned by designer
Turns yarn to fabric
With warp and weft,
Together
Weaver
Loom.
© Harry J Horsman 2022
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