#knitting
while trying to gather
the unravelled yarn
from the clenched teeth
of the mischievous puppy
hoping it remained
intact and unbroken
able to be wound up
into a ball or bullet
for future use
i realised it probably
wouldn't matter
even if it had
snagged and
snapped in two
as not all knitted items
are made of one
continuous strand
new and old can
be joined easily enough
overlapping or
weaving together
to finish any pattern
unnoticed by most
Nov 6, 2025
Nov 6, 2025 at 8:55 AM UTC
My fingers are fluttering, and I am slipping the needle out of possession.
It has run away from my touch.
My mind waves goodbye, pursued with a guilty feeling of jealousy.
Clink
Clink
Clink
within the sensual folds of the old sheep’s skin.
Its new existence.
The bubbles of wool smoothed.
Smoothed from the stench of **** and blood
and bruised with vibrant colours.
Finally.
I can travel in which the needle did so.
Reaching into the intense warmth of the powerless skein.
I slip my hands.
I don't want to leave the irritable sensation
which tends to my wounds.
Wounds of a victim
inflicted by the violence of the cold.
My breath is as vivid as the colours I grace my hands with.
I hope to never find my needle.
She must stay.
Stay so I may stay warm and safe within the sheep’s forgotten skin.
Mar 5, 2025
Mar 5, 2025 at 8:35 AM UTC
Are you the one that plots and schemes?
knitting below the guillotine
Are you the one that hastens gloom?
by shielding sun and clouding moon
Are you the one that plots and schemes?
knitting below the guillotine.
Are you the siren with sleight of hand?
who wrecks young lives on rocky land.
Are you the one that plots and schemes?
knitting below the guillotine.
Are you the one with the underhand?
who builds a promise on shifting sands.
Are you the one that plots and schemes?
knitting below the guillotine.
Are you the one on either side?
Devil's advocate, friend and guide.
Feb 16, 2025
Feb 16, 2025 at 11:28 AM UTC
Something as innocent as knitting
Reminds me of us
Two needles and One strand of yarn
Creates thousands of stitches
Unbroken and uncut
The V's and the U's of the fabric
Repeating rhythmically
A needle enters a loop a thousand times
Repeating rhythmically
Sometimes the hand falters
And needs more guidance
The needle slides in a thousand more times
And continues the V's and the U's
Unbroken and uncut
Dec 29, 2024
Dec 29, 2024 at 1:13 PM UTC
She says,
"You should know, dear
"The world doesn't stutter when it walks,
"Not the way you
"Stumble through your thoughts." And
I wish I could untie
The spool of my mind
But I
Keep feeding it thread,
Hoping it will spill out my mouth in
A rainbow scarf
Nov 21, 2020
Nov 21, 2020 at 1:56 PM UTC
I’m unknotting myself
To knit myself new
Unpicking rows with too much tension
others that are too loose.
What else can I do
in this lockdown time
but search the lines for a new
pace and time
rhythm and rhyme.
To find a style of pearl and plain
And hope we can knit together again
Hear the needles click in an untick time
warming the heart
in a different way, awake to the day
What else can we do but
discover a pattern we can knit together
uncover our hearts to something new
and maybe true
Me and you
To get us through.
May 10, 2020
May 10, 2020 at 4:57 PM UTC
I started the scarf
That I'm making for you
I **** at knitting
So don't be surprised
If the whole thing unravels
In your gentle hands
Just like I did
When we first met
Sep 10, 2019
Sep 10, 2019 at 11:14 AM UTC
Picking up wool with your needles
A long straight line turns into a sweater
Change
The rule is that we move towards the unknown
Or away from it
Which one do you want it to be
Hatred rises from below
Reaching the maximum ability of vague comprehension
It starts and ends in the same moment
I think
I can imagine myself without a final point in this Cosmos
Knitting myself out of
the dimension I was destined for
is futile
All understanding: science,
religion,
merchandisable forms of expression,
art, philosophy
manipulates a piece of us but
I am left devastated
No amount of material will make a sweater thick enough
to keep out the universal cold
Jul 30, 2018
Jul 30, 2018 at 12:27 AM UTC
this cautious man (bobby jean) born in the u.s.a.
grownin’ up in the badlands of atlantic city
bonded with blood brothers
felt born to run along backstreets
in brilliant disguise that did cover me
frequently blinded by the light
of the full moon
casting silhouettes against darkness on the edge of town
which lunar shafts pierced candy’s room
while immersed in book of dreams
describing better days on a Cadillac ranch
where devils & dust - visible dancing in the dark
celebrating like calendar showered 4th of july
or other glory days in darlington county
even though I ain’t got you.
livin’ in the future
mine hungry heart hankered and felt like I’m on fire
for you, this fire in me craved human touch
desire - roaring into the ole factory fire because I wanna marry you
because the night populated with girls in their summer clothes
each dazzling like 57 channels (and nothin’ on)
in imagination of my american skin
descended from when adam raised a cain
before last to die forecasting kingdom of days
now dwelling in celestial mansion on the hill.
now rightfully claim status of I’m a rocker/
local hero and I’m goin’ down
meeting across the river
if I should fall behind
on the downbound train as living proof
within light of day magic jungleland
policed by highway patrolman i.e. johnny 99
alias johnny bye bye – held up without a gun
defending this lucky town established on Matamoras banks
from an incident on 57th street
thus celebrated as local hero every independence day
when with ****** incorporated firing point blank out in the street
that staccato new york city serenade from no surrender outlaw pete
originally from nebraska.
it’s hard to be a saint in the city open all night
within my hometown
once my father’s house, now my city of ruins
where tis moot to ask does this bus stop at 82nd street?
one step up
into the pink Cadillac
hops the ramrod queen of the supermarket
teasing audio dials sans radio nowhere
a red headed woman
racing in the street toward secret garden
to save my love – with thee angel rosalita (come out tonight)
offering reason to believe roll of the dice real world
and to prove it all night
from spare parts – shards of roulette wheel
housing souls of the departed
please save my love and stolen car
for sherry darling – that spirit in the night
she’s the one among souls of the departed
no longer stopped by state trooper
precinct based along streets of philadelphia
some crackling like streets of fire
straight time mandate for those armed to the teeth
along tenth avenue freeze-out.
requiem per terry’s song – what love can do
accompanied by e street shuffle
performed in somber tones
rumbling down thunder road
for souls of used cars
two hearts crushed
along this hard land
for: the ghost of tom joad
the last carnival homage to wild billy’s circus story
the price you pay when you’re alone
working on a dream
now wreck on the highway.
we take care of our own from youngstown
when heading of to the promised land
the rising distant mystical eden
where you can look (but you’d better not touch)
espying the river of salvation
joining eternally the ties that bind
a tunnel of love
or like the wrestler
pinning opponent tougher than the rest
like laborers working on the highway
chiseled like this hard land!
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 8:17 PM UTC
I would rather
be a
wanderer
a belongerer
to no body
to no country
a loose end
than to bob
eagerly
at every tug
of the yarn's
end
whose
wound-up
mass
amasses me
a wriggled up
ball of
wriggles
I would rather
be alone
than
scooped up
in a basket
with others
of my
supposed
ilk
and held in
by the
over-under
wicker
edges
domed up
for containment
ominous
clicks and
scrapes
of my
destiny
clattering
and chattering
above
fraying
frizzled
frazzled bits
smoothing out
as my length
is tugged
up and up
like a long
slurpy
noodle
I would rather
be loose
and scrappy
and stumpy
and ragged
the one that
nobody loves
the discarded
refuse of a
more discerning
eye
than be made
surreptitiously
into somebody
else's
jumper
© 2017 Adelaide Heathfield
Feb 25, 2018
Feb 25, 2018 at 8:21 AM UTC
I'll spin your yarn
With no embellishments
On the twilled roles you've spun;
I won't tink your knitted history.
I'll needle for pearls of wisdom,
And wear you as the fabric of my life.
You fit like a woolen hoodie.
Jan 31, 2018
Jan 31, 2018 at 10:11 AM UTC
I get sent socks at Christmas,
So I can have safe walks.
When I tell my friends about this,
Everybody talks.
There is no innuendo,
Nothing to confess.
Without those cushioning blankets
My feet would be a mess.
I know a friend who knits socks,
In many different hues.
So long as she keeps knitting,
Our feet won’t have the blues.
So Wendy sock it to ‘em:
All that stitch and purl.
Make them good and roomy,
So our toes don’t have to curl.
No chance of any frostbite,
With these things on our feet.
For comfort on a cushion,
These socks just can’t be beat.
Paul Butters
Aug 16, 2017
Aug 16, 2017 at 1:06 PM UTC
"When you learn
to knit," he said.
"It's not a mistake
you make; it's
the thing that
makes your work
unique.
"Each one,"
he said,
"is a signature."
I think of my
life--with all
its lumps,
tangles, rewoven ends,
dropped stitches.
You are all
my signatures.
Aug 10, 2017
Aug 10, 2017 at 12:48 AM UTC
My beautiful blue skein of yarn,
Here in my bag you sit,
I'd love to pick you up to knit,
If only for a bit.
But clothes need washing and babes need baths,
And food needs cooking too,
Besides, I'd have a hard time choosing,
What to make of you.
You see, my stitches were not even,
My gauge, no one could guess,
My beautiful blue skein of yarn,
You would not have been impressed.
But oh how I've practiced, how I've improved, I'm sure you'll find it so,
My stitches fly right off my needles and sit in pretty rows.
My gauge is constant, my edges neat, now I am ready for you,
But still that nagging question comes, what with you will I do?
Maybe I will make of you a felted wooly bonnet,
And everyone would stop and gaze and cast their eyes upon it.
I'll wear you on holiday, we'll march in a parade,
I'll prance so proudly, show you off, and say, "yes, you're handmade".
Maybe I will make of you, a purse, like those I see in Vogue,
I'll put in you my favorite things, and then, we'll hit the rode!
We'll travel round the city, and everyone will see,
How beautiful and remarkable a skein of yarn can be.
Maybe I will make you gloves,
My baby's hands to cover,
And everyone who saw her'd say,
"her mother must really love her".
A hat, a purse, a pair of gloves, your beauty for all to see,
But, only if I stop and knit,
Now look what you've made of me,
Your potential's not all I see...
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 11:28 PM UTC
those sounds you make
with air and your voice box,
they're all made for me.
the words...that's what you call them.
when you pen down these words for me,
you're knitting my clothes:
black thread
embroidered on white.
always the same always so different.
that's how everyone gets to know me:
with your name, (always) the right fit
like a shoe that goes with every dress
I am the soul of all your creations
that part of your soul
that resides in white
I am all that energy that has bled from you
I am your soul - your soul is in me
I dwell in the blood that sweats through your pores.
I am the thrum of havoc in your veins.
I am the reason your heart beats.
it beats to my name.
you're mine.
you will never forget me.
I am your arrogance
I am the reason butterflies flutter
I am truth, I am redemption
I am lies and smiles
and that story you ache to write...
I am alive in the human touch
that keeps you hurting healing bleeding
tumbling in pain agony hate
through the impossibilities of your humanity.
I give you strength warmth courage tolerance
to go on,
to keep on living
and to keep me alive...
I draw life
from that
weird goofy and frankly whacked out part
of your mind
that thinks
I can talk to you
like
at
this
very
moment...
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 12:39 PM UTC
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 –
Upbeating ceaselessly.
Strips of tiny loops
And eyelets like dewdrops
Of condensation
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.
(9/11/13 @xirlleelang)
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 10:10 PM UTC
It's 10 PM and I can't fall asleep
Try as hard as I may
It's frustrating and I wonder why I
Can't have this energy in the day.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 1:06 AM UTC