A 1,000 sailors have nothing against a few well groomed tailors
However a rich man could not last a second in a pile of quick sand
The call to sea is the same as that of a call to a tree
They are both living and dead, Their growth is the giving bread
One serves their master at the bay, the other spends time selling hay
The water is fresh in both cases and both men have seen many faces
A sailor never retires, but a tailor does as such
For when he is no longer a tailor, he considers himself a failure
Yet he continues on, looking for a cause, never taking a pause
Until one day, walking by the shore he sees something so beautiful his eye begin to sore
So he takes his riches, buys a ship, summons a crew, and plans his trip
Heading to nowhere in sight, only to see the beauty so bright
And so the man was once a tailor, he is now a sailor
weave your spell
Harken groans that
Smell the fragrance
of her tomb
I left there a
bloom of dew
Light me please a
path to dead
Hollow are the
Since she left a
wail for tune
Seals do chant the
Foggy days are
now live in
Gulfs and shores the
Groves are emptied
fays have gone
Nature strolls in
weave your spell
Let me go to
Why is this tragic?
"We reap what we sew"
Even if it ended in failure
Did you not see your face glow?
As you held that fabric
And then started to weave....
You made that suit
Not only that, it's cute
That's why you became a Tailor
You must believe in your own sleeve
She’s a dimple and a drag, corner of Worth and Magpie, French Vogue idioms and her mother’s red flowery hoop earrings. Aloha! Aloha! Oopty-oops in contract loot thru streets and backyard parties, concrete larders, her eyes lie like presidential promises, a slipknot of licorice around her neckline to keep her rising tide from the Menarche Moon.
Anything to keep the little penny featherweight dancer from slipping. Her siblings poke fun at her funny way of speaking, her bath tub is just an excuse for chiseling at her innards, taking a drag at her lungs and punching her duck-billed platypus in the kidneys; a heavy-weight champion of the worm.
That until all the saints come writhing off the fishing lines. Until the ballerina’s edema coexists with Tokyo extremists, serial killer behemoths that keep body parts and *** toys in the freezer. Here, here! Wrath goes to the fella with the wicked demeanor. In an area of limited sight, this country, it’s people are sickened at the sights of themselves, and the wackos are coming out in large swaths, minerals and dimples strapped to their waist belts in the throes of a menopausal demagogue heaving OxyContin down El Camino Real.
My eyes to Slava my seamstress say,
"I'm begging you,
sew me a new skin
in your living room
to hold me together now
because I can't seem to anymore...
I know you know,
how the thoughts inside me
you've known my childhood days &
it's not me here.
Who's this dead thing in the living room?
I feel the bones inside me,
they're too loose.
You see me falling apart,
these eyes of mine the noose.
Catch me dear friend,
I'm begging you,
change this stitch in time
You might think you need a tailor
But here's the only one you've got:
A poor choice of cloth
Married to a poorer thread
Over budget shops.
So you may as well invest,
For it matters not a jot
What you think you choose to wear,
It never really lasts.
A tear here, a cut there;
With cheap cloth,
It does not take much
To turn your life ragged.
An allegorical poem over the attitude and life choices of people caught in deprived areas with little hope of leaving.
Lost to backdrops scrolling past,
She sits knitting
in the carriage of a train.
The vague needles
They scintillate and glimpse
With the cadence of the wheels –
Strips of tiny loops
And eyelets like dewdrops
Grouped on the superior rim.
Once in a while,
She gives a heave
To loosen more yarn from the skein
Of Filipino-made wool,
brushed worsted weave.
Spun and carded
from the richest fleece,
Deeper in the wicker basket by her feet.
The needles flash,
With ancient rhythms and attack
Of duellists in their chainmail coats.
With little hesitation she can tack
From plain to purl to blackberry.
Count back by rote or slip a stitch
While the fish-eyed gimlets gleam.
All gather profusely in her lap,
As windfall trove, rich-patterned
And warm with peach-fuzz nap,
All crafted from a single line of yarn.
Marvels fall continuously from wise
Spell-binding hands and all is well for now.
Here is a thimble.
Your finger is protected from ******,
when sewing a passionate garment.
Yet the blood of a tailor,
is a blessing in dark garb.
Discard metal and thread carelessly.
My skirt is wine red and parched.
— The End —