#spiderweb
BRIDGE
The bridge between our hearts
as fine as spiderweb threads
along it soldiers march,
workers trample, children skip
with ***** of light
cows graze, horses gallop
Between our hearts the bridge
is held by the Tree of Life
sung over by rain
its roots tangled
in the molten centre of
Mother Earth
Below it gurgles River of Intentions
on the banks rural maidens
with feathers in their plaits
play reed flutes
lilies grow in its crevices
whilst dragonflies sweetly hum
African mothers sing rhymes
whilst suckling fat babies
spiders delicately continue
to weave below trodden cobbles
I longingly listen for the trample
of your brown leather boots on
the other side of the bridge !
©GhairoDanielsPoetry2018
Jul 10, 2025
Jul 10, 2025 at 6:09 AM UTC
My mother is a spider.
Carefully crafted webs fill my childhood home.
With great care, she weaves day and night,
trapping her family inside.
We struggle but only doom ourselves further.
I am a fly,
buzzing as I wrap myself in her silken strands.
My sister is a butterfly,
flapping her wings as the webbing pulls off her beautiful scales.
My brothers are bees
who once sought bright flowers and hives of others like them.
My father is a moth,
guided to the web’s shimmering light.
Now, we all lie still, drained of life,
slowly being consumed by the weaver.
Mar 7, 2025
Mar 7, 2025 at 9:06 PM UTC
Can one be hopeful without being a liar?
That line is as thin as the silk of a spider
Hope left glistening, like a drop of morning dew
Praying that the thread won't break too soon
Would a fly in the web find sunrise beautiful, too?
Dec 26, 2024
Dec 26, 2024 at 1:32 PM UTC
~
*Bring your whirlwinds with you;
in the snow angel summer
bring Margot the sun.
In the hour of red glare
a rush to pick slowberries
before getting caught up in the silk.
Prisms, mirrors, lenses!
strategies for combatting visibility:
keep your eyes closed,
face away from the window.
The myriad threads of people in hiding,
they eat their own web each day,
and yet something always shines
in the heart's secret annex.
Men and women are
separated from each other,
the girls are on a train
to the Bergen-Belsen,
"white founts falling
in the courts of the sun."
Margot now cries quietly;
so silently she weeps over
sunshine and hate.*
~
Jan 4, 2024
Jan 4, 2024 at 3:41 PM UTC
Walking into a spider web temporarily turns you into a ninja.
Oct 19, 2020
Oct 19, 2020 at 10:07 AM UTC
~~~
Hello there
insect buzzing through the air
why don't you come & sit in my snare...
...I mean chair
I have six legs, see?
I'm just like you
oh, these? my arms?
why yes, there's two
so come, little one
dawn has begun
take refuge from the sun
in this hammock I've spun
there, isn't that nice?
what? your legs?
you said they won't move?
there, there my winged friend
I know just what to do!
🕷🕸🦟
Aug 12, 2020
Aug 12, 2020 at 1:36 PM UTC
your words tangle
in my mind, a spiderweb
a mosaic; a garden
your words twist
they splinter, they collide
a million things I have felt
you summarize in a single line
i feel a deep connection in what we share
like looking in a mirror
i see all that could be mine
i see you conquering the world
one sunrise at a time
Feb 27, 2019
Feb 27, 2019 at 11:11 AM UTC
the dreams fall from the sky,
into the children’s hands
a small child reaches her open and filthy palms to the sky,
a girl sets aside her books,
cradles a spider web of rain droplets
tucking in her heart,
the deepest corners of her brain, they’re one in the same.
love is so good when love is young
she knows this herself,
a sweet taste so different to the fires she knew
snatched away from her by her own hands
her own hands -broken as a scholar’s, as a child’s,
but never as the youth
never broken as a youth.
she breathes life into her spiderweb,
wrapped around her back
lacing itself around her
up her neck and behind her eyes
with each stroke of her pencil
each late night
each missed night
she sets her web free and begins to climb it as it grows inside her.
all her laughs,
shared with her spiders,
are we spiders or are we girls?
making our own webs, climbing them
-we look like girls
we look like girls as we wield our weapons,
watch our love die.
we are red widows,
hands dripping with blood.
Feb 16, 2019
Feb 16, 2019 at 2:56 PM UTC
deep in the forest
green and brown;
and yellow of the sun
between the trees
a spiderweb traps morning dew
but nobody’s home
a fly buzzes-
carefully below the web
without threat
dew struggles to let go
and gravity calls for:
a spiderweb with a fly
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 11:39 AM UTC
Your love was the equivalent of getting tangled up in a spiderweb
Mar 21, 2020
Mar 21, 2020 at 9:36 PM UTC
A lonely spider,
No bigger than a tack.
He has built his home,
A sturdy web between two great wooden pillars,
Overlooking the lake.
His silk is strong as steel.
His web is a silent monument to his will.
Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 9:44 AM UTC
*You shake me like a spiderweb
Reverberate the edges of my mind
Until the very essence of you spreads
And you are attached
To every corner of every structure
Which I've slowly built up inside of my head*
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 10:01 AM UTC
*The spiderweb catches glistening water
jewels in the newborn sunlight.*
Oct 27, 2016
Oct 27, 2016 at 11:58 PM UTC
It sits,
As it spins
In the veil of night
It thrives,
As it survives
On the liquefied viscera
Of its prey.
Its many eyes
watch
As its many joints
Crack
Its many arms and legs
Bend and move
As it crawls
And climbs
Silently
It speaks,
Inaudible words
Slide past its teeth
And the venom drips
As it breathes
With piecing fangs.
I dare not say its name.
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 4:41 AM UTC
Paths have been laid
far and short
narrow and wide
coarse and moist
brown from dirt
gray with asphalt.
Spiders lurk and creep about
legs poised and fangs ready
craving another injection
to feast just a little
further, just a little
longer.
We are the prey they seek
stuck in their strands
reaching everywhere we walk
catching us as we tumble and fall
not for comfort nor salvation
just the cold strings of wrapture
before the color of blood
the color of life
is taken from us.
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 1:48 PM UTC
There are two images
On the wall of the room
Where I live in;
One is ‘Gandhi’ on his way to Dandi
Another is of a **** with his gun,
In between the images there is a
Sprawling spider web,
Networking peace with warfare
Or warfare with peace!
My soul mate said
“Spider web trying to network
Post-modern peace with humanity & masculinity
So, that everyone agrees to it before deconstruction
out of trepidation.”
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 3:40 PM UTC
It sat there, as still as the dead, waiting. It had to keep very still; it was listening, waiting for the right feeling. It checked, cocking its head to the side. Nothing yet. If it could huff, it would have. It had been there all day yesterday and all night. Waiting. It shook its head; the sun would surely be out soon. It suddenly felt a bit insecure – would all this work, this art it had worked so hard to build, be for nothing? It shifted its spindly legs; it was getting uncomfortable just waiting. It stretched them out long, then retracted them once again. It was still listening; still waiting. How much time had passed? A minute? Two? An hour? It wished it could tell time. Yet, it acknowledged, it didn’t need to. It could make art, and it could eat and it could walk. That was enough it really needed, in the end. It admired its artwork this time – really admired it, with its sweeping symmetry and complex patterns. It had simply outdone itself. It felt quite proud, and might’ve rubbed its legs together for joy, if it had not been for the small vibration it felt. It paused. It titled its head left, maybe it could hear more that way. Nothing.
No; wait. There was something…yes! It licked its lips.
Quickly and with so much joy it could hardly contain itself, it scrambled up from its position between the apex of the leaning wooden shovel and the wooden wall of the little shack. It felt the vibrations more furtively now, and that just made it crawl all the faster. It scurried until it finally reached its prey.
Once, it almost felt sorry for the poor thing. But that once had been long ago, and now, it knew the wickedness of the world all too well. It had to take every chance it got when it came to spinning. It approached the buzzing creature with compassion. It spoke in hushed tones as it slowly wound the fly in its silk – a soft lullaby of peace and serenity. The fly seemed to like this, for it yawned and almost drifted asleep. Slowly, so very slowly, the fly’s multi-lensed eyes drifted closed, a calmness coursing through its body. Suddenly, the fly's eyes burst wide open.
Oh, the taste! What a delicacy this was, oh what wonderful juice! It lost itself in a haze of crimson. Nearly torn apart in ecstasy, it smiled, teeth glowing with what little moonlight there was. The fly stared back at it, aghast and eyes filled with cold, dead fear.
This was its favorite part.
Dinner.
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 3:25 PM UTC