#cobweb
Silken spider thread
Cobweb soft
A whispered sigh
Hanging on the breeze
Silent song of hard worked creation
Strung like pearls to catch the morning
Intricate patterns
Each tiny artist works alone
Beauty on the wire
A gallery of infinite variety
Feb 17, 2020
Feb 17, 2020 at 7:22 AM UTC
Like an Anchors
Close to, Ocean blue
Bigger than the horizon
Strong as it’s ties
A simple threads
Full of vibes and colours
Identity explains,
An agreement
Seems freedom on fire,
A helical twist
But they say,
Twisting is mystery
Twisting is strength.
Feb 18, 2018
Feb 18, 2018 at 7:04 PM UTC
Driven energy,
Understanding silence
Familiar wavelength
With sympathetic threads
Invisible bond
A sense of prospective,
A fate of inclusion,
Synergy of trust
Moment of warmth
Bridge of communication
Law of equanimity
Seizing a moment
With a Joy without an end
Adventure of being alive
Worth of human connects
Celebrating a new time.
Feb 17, 2018
Feb 17, 2018 at 7:45 PM UTC
Sinewed by the the ancient art
of tai chi, he forged the forces of the universe
to lure a dreamer into his lair. He stayed
silent as a spider; and with seamless
gliding of limbs and fingers,
he entrapped his prey like a moth
entangled in a cobweb. The sky
was bleeding then when she asked: “How
can I walk through the dusk?” “Just
follow me, I’m a pathfinder,” said
he. He whispered to her ear: “Close
your eyes my child and trust your heart.”
And to the tremor of his voice he danced
her, deeper and deeper into the night. Soon
his lips dripped with her muffled sobs, the stench
of his slobber drifted into her pristine dream;
and he confessed: “She came to me;
I’m innocent.”
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 8:22 AM UTC
Moths float out from behind
an opened, warped door.
I push my face into your clothes,
hung heavy like pearls
in an antique shop.
Stale and familiar,
the scent follows me
like a lost little bee.
It buzzes even after I leave.
Hopscotch down the hallway
to find dead crickets
in the bathtub.
Scuffed wallpaper camouflages
a cobweb. Metallic vines
curve around bursts of petals.
I’m certain you chose this pattern,
but I don't know.
Memories are few.
I fill in the holes with honey
and arrowheads.
Indian feathers and
an old brooch.
Piles of pie.
Did you love to bake pie?
Games of bridge
on that old, scratched table top
with a musty deck of Bicycle cards.
Each deck a photo album
of your face.
Your raisined face.
I remember holding it in my hands.
“This aint a walk for old womans.”
And out the door I go.
Empty handed and independent.
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 7:14 PM UTC