Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Juhlhaus Apr 24
Behind the sky the Weaver knits
All beautiful and ugly things
Together as with perfect wit
She severs and she stings.
Each and every little soul
Safe to her downy back she brings
While their forgotten lullabies
She strums on silver strings.
anonymous May 2020
I am a seamstress
stitching life together in harmony
creating beauty every place my needle breaches
You are the weaver
you dart in and out of lives
loosely dragging us along
to the knotted finish line
weaver and seamstress met
and you are persuasive
performing the drama
and I believed
seamstress and weaver could create
a masterpiece so fine
to last for all our days
and yet
you have taken your dagger through our greatest tapestry
destroyed what I had birthed
you laugh because you do not know
the seamstress's needle knows no bounds
and your eyes
always too far apart
please give me validation I'm sad... jkjk... unless?
Jake Welsh Nov 2019
i open my windows in October
when i sleep

i am alone

still candle flame through frosted stone

a warm milky glow
& cool crystalline air

these things weave me together
from "salve" 2019
available @:
Pagan Paul Jun 2019
Walk through the silence
of a lonely tapestry,
its mute single thread
trying to Canute the night,
knowing it must ride the Moon
to dance with the stars.
Blood red ink.
Ink red blood.
Across pages it falls,
words of needlepoint pain
screaming at the audience,
the Moon has been deflowered
and the stars dance alone.
Cedar wood smoke perfumes
the stench of lethargy,
from an open log fire
throwing flickers of hopeful light,
flame fingers burn the Moon
as the stars cry for the weaver.

© Pagan Paul (02/06/19)
6th poem in Fool's diary series.
Star BG Nov 2018
Knit one, word.
Pearl, a verse.
That’s what a poet weaver does.

Pen becomes needle,
to wrap around visions.
Periods slip markers,
giving writer pause.

Lyrics surface in mind
to cable cast upon poem.
Daisy stitch, field blossoms
within a poesy song.

And in deepen breath
weaver binds off
to end with love stitch, word...
Perhaps, giving reader chance
to Run Stitch with eyes
cross finished textured page.
We are all weavers creating lives for the soul. Some do it in the tapestry of a poetry. Others Weave inside their lives to manifest experiences. And some even weave, with paint to make a masterpiece as DaVinci did.
We are all expert weavers constructing a road of stitch like steps. Steps that with focus can lead to peace.
Smoke Scribe Sep 2018
I am the smoke of return and rest,
sky inscribing,
knowing your precise needs and the
screams and the years unfair taken,
screened through five perceptions

I am the word weaver
setting the loom for each peculiar requisition,
a havened place of restoration
as best I can,
for this weaving my eye’s recollections
no imagination needed

imagine that
PhoenixPoet Mar 2018
I create a dream and then lose myself into it.

My whole self.

I create the biggest most soothing dream that I could ever imagine; all of my wants and all of my current needs I put into it.

I invest all of my life energies into the dream and then I crush it.

I really mean that I crush it.

It gets scattered into millions of pieces of stardust and meteorites sprinkled among the mountains and dales of the galaxies and beyond.

Nothing fails as nothing is started. I am nothing. I become nothing and I stay as nothing until a new dream appears and the process is repeated once again. It expands and shrinks as it blinks back at me.

"It is all a big joke August."

I can hear the voices of the gods.

It is all the mystical nature of it all.
I am the Phoenix
Lady Bird Jan 2017
like paint through bristles
ink is spilling out
of my overfilled pen
bleeding onto the paper

scribbling notes
in a usual cliche
curling my words
hoping they stay

for a weaver of words
I am without any
I couldn't describe
snatches of my sanity

writing is an extension
of the mind and
I am out of mine
Dhaye Margaux Feb 2015
I met a man, a man who talks and talks
He weaves fabrics and makes them into socks
Then sell the socks and buy some antique clocks
The clocks are then put into a precious box

This man I met, is man who talks and talks
Even he sits, or whenever he walks
He also writes stories 'bout the docks
Or clouds and trees, even worlds of faux

He is the man who loves talking to himself
In front of mirror kept so long from a shelf...
Having fun with rhymes :)

— The End —