Lies slip from her mouth
Waiting for the web to be unraveled
She watches them stumble and fall into her trap
Disappointed, everytime.

The strings of fate wait
It is a game that none but her see
She grasps them and weaves a story from threads and her friends
All around, people become beads

She weaves the strands of the game
From her fingers, a tapestry unfolds
Showing a path that few have ever seen before
Once, a game masterfully won

golden threads of sun,
weave a flashy evening dress;
nature wears it pleased!

Disjointed reflections of vertebrae
that were fluid in the synapsis of
                       my subconsciousness.
they were inadvertently disjointed
              from my walking thought.

Then I fell beneath the tower that
I had build within,
               collateral damage of life.
Broken windows of reflection that
I tried to close, but lacerated my
cognitive actualization of self.

That which severed my validity of self
             was pendulous, but with a
string we can weave something new.
Not as it was before, more worn and not
so luminous, but what was lost is gained
for that voice a lingering a shadow of before.

Open your eyes, your true eyes,
and look deep down inside.
See your life and ask yourself,
"am I satisfied?"

Can you grasp at the threads,
see the weave that is your life,
change from black to red
and change anything from tonight?

Thirty-two cents is all you need
just concentrate
put everything you have into it
and you’ll get there.

     Yes, but what do you miss
     from the whole cloth
     from which those few cents
     are cut?

I see the cloth
I’m poking through it
cutting from it
holding it in my hands.

     Did you feel and see the fabric’s weave
     the imperfections and texture
     making it unique, interesting
     and beautiful in its landscape?

I got what I needed
from that poor piece of cloth
to put in the bank
to buy the factory.

     The future stretches before you
     in your race to the finish line
     don’t let that ever-changing line
     shrink the wealth of the present.

“The Sense of Fabric,” Copyright © 2017 by Glenn Currier

A pin ***** of an emotion,
Like the nomination of a leader.
Like a call to move forward,
Is this sensation's invite.

Follow the weave of these piano strings,
To find the stars in these longings that seem,
So eerily unattainable.

You know it as well as I.
The spark to light a flame,
And the scent to wake a memory.
A memory to invoke desire,
And desire to seek an end.

Follow the weave of these piano strings,
To find the stars in these longings that seem,
So eerily unattainable.

Mysteries hidden in these coves,
Crystal beaches all made of light,
Winter cold warmed by cabin stove,
Above caverns deep all made of night.

Follow the weave of these piano strings,
To find the stars in these longings that seem,
So eerily unattainable.

How sweet the linen
that grandeur weaves,
unseen by other's untrained eyes,
yet seemingly hard to sew
into the fabric of our own
immediate lives.

Mama, why does the spider spin its web?
Bright and silver above my head, she twirls her thread.

Baby, the spider is a teacher of yours,
She spins her thread when she sees an open door.
A door for her to enter in,
A door to seek a brand new spin.

She is scary, mama, and crawls all night,
How will I sleep if spider leaves me in a fright?
And why my door –
Couldn’t she go looking for more?

Ah, my child, but this spider is home,
Ask not me, but the spider, what you must be shown.
A spider knows where to cast her net,
And because of this, you mustn’t fret.

I see, but how can I ask her so?
I can ask her questions, but she wouldn’t know!
Talking to a wall, and watching her weave her thread,
She will have nothing to offer from her little head.

Baby, sweet baby, you’ve got it wrong,
And why towards this creature do you feel so strong?
A spider is what a spider will be,
A wise spirit and a blessing indeed!

If the spider is a blessing indeed,
Why does she show me her net where she catches her feed?
I do believe she is here to scare,
But I shall ask her why she’s in my hair.



Miss Spider,
Hello! And how do you do?
Could you tell me why you spin here,
Before you are through?

I figured you wouldn’t,
You can’t even talk!
Only sound that is heard
Is the ticking of my grandfather clock!


Mama, you told me to ask Miss Spider in the night,
Why she spins her thread at such a great height.
Yet she did not respond, and continued to stir,
Silent as the moonlight, her thought never even occurred.

My child, you must not ask and expect her to talk,
Especially as she spins her web, preparing to stalk!
For animals use language that is beyond our own word,
If you are patient and still, her message will be heard.

Mama, I trust you,
But Spider is gone!
Her silvery web is all that remains –
There was no trace of her at dawn.

Ah, but the magic lies within her thread,
She uses her silk so her stories are spread.
Watch as the moon takes over the sky,
The glistening in the web’s great eye!

Stories and thread,
Spider’s blackness has spread.
Tonight I will watch,
And listen as you said.

Go now, child,
And remember your deed,
For to question the web
Is a blessing, indeed!

I stitched each of them on to me, knitted
It tight on my flesh. I bleed for a moment
But it was just another etched on my flesh.

Each perforation was another that joined my flesh,
Entwined on my soul I made their hair in to fine
Cotton and each was given a place upon my being.

"Eye,
      "Neddle,
                    "Backstitch­,
                                     "Scissor,
                                                   "Seam,

A honour of their offering was felt as I seeped on
Their twine. Pain was a lust that was sort but
Never harvested and my culling was full.

Flesh was just moment of time aging ever moment
Decaying since birth. Their hair lived longer than
What was but food for thought now no more.

My limbs like a puppet on stings, but I am their keeper
Of life on me, in me they live on. I stich their memory
So many colours do  I weave on to myself.

Blonde,
             Brown,
                         Chestnut,
                                     Ginger

But the ones that are lucky that never grace my being,
They are those of least crowns on their scalp.
I am one of such no hair on myself. But weaves I
Sculpt upon myself, they live on even though bodies rest.


I have many stitches on my flesh of weavings not my own,
But their essence will always be here as long as I live on.
Seeing those moments which will be etched on myself,
I will weave all into the picture etched on my skin.

*"A stitch in time ebbs your existence your soul to mine,