#wool
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
He pulls on the sweater, unasked for, ill-fitting and probably itchy as hell, but he knows the ritual by now and pulls until his head births and he opens his eyes ready for the chorus of smiles and laughter, but they're not there.
It's dark and the scents and chimes of Christmas are gone, he's spinning and falling in a force 10 gale battered by the sound of breaking waves. So he reaches out for an anchor; his hands sink into a hedgerow, prickly with Hawthorn entwined with Holly, but he can't pull away and the momentum thrusts him forward through the pain into a field of sunflowers which swing their heads to face him, accusing him of trespass. That’s when he becomes aware of distant gun fire and what looks like a star falling towards him. Their heads duck down, forcing him to his knees and he's on all fours, his hands deep in Aunt Maud's **** in front of the fire, his head ringing, shell shocked, shaking and weeping while the family help him up.
- Easy there, Sam, you okay? You look like hell. –
He looks around for his aunt’s face, and she smiles.
- He'll be fine, it sometimes takes us a while after our emergence from Mid Yell. It's my first attempt at a Mid Yell and Ukrainian mohair blend. Bring him some water. Sam dear, have a seat and make sure you come and find me when you want to take it off, but not for a while. You shouldn't Walk the Goat too often, it confuses the soul. –
His siblings stare, full of questions and relief for their scarves as he studiously ignores them, and stares into the fire, shivering, hands prickly, the gun shots resonating in his gut and the aroma of sunflowers filling his head, knowing he needs to find that star.
Dec 27, 2024
Dec 27, 2024 at 5:11 AM UTC
I wish I could write something
That pierced the wool
Pulled over your eyes.
Your depression, your nihilism;
The things keeping you coupled
To the miserable lense of your life.
Cause there are so many things,
That are just perspective.
And everything else,
We could work through together.
I fear you can't imagine, what
It would be like, to improve.
Walk the world afresh, renewed.
Just so long as you're comfortable,
It doesn't matter if you're happy.
We could be something wonderful,
But you can't see.
That's the real tragedy
Jun 19, 2023
Jun 19, 2023 at 11:18 PM UTC
conversing with you
is the equivalent to
using a piece of wool
to travel across skyscrapers.
terrified,
tiptoeing,
timorous.
Jan 6, 2021
Jan 6, 2021 at 10:38 PM UTC
I live for a world without,
dependency
on imaginary friends..
Because at the moment,
Twelve Thousand gods fight
for ********** of your will...
To be hateful and **** for them...
I used to believe in the tooth fairy,
and Santa...
But the reality is some mother *******
grow the **** up.....
I read fairy tales but I don't,
**** hate..
Morality of fallen morals
in imaginary words..
People need to recognise,
that every story is just
a third hand view..
Rewrote from the reflections of
that time.
But some are sheep and some
are wolves...
But the wolves never feed,
they
just try to prune the wool
over others eyes to let them howl
at the moon..
May 22, 2020
May 22, 2020 at 5:03 PM UTC
Really, there was no need to fuss,
I signed on with Yarn Anonymous,
Here I stand to confess,
I bought more wool, not less,
Then I did sign the pledge,
I took abstinence to the edge,
Here I stand and say,
I have not bought wool for ten whole days!
Aug 5, 2019
Aug 5, 2019 at 9:56 PM UTC
blue chiffon roses
pink ones
made from tulle
yellow
from cotton
green ones made of wool
orange made from linen
purple made from flannel
but the prettiest ones of all
are the blue chiffon roses
Jun 17, 2019
Jun 17, 2019 at 12:46 PM UTC
i am not the lost sheep, for You know exactly where i am. but i am a stupid one.
i know i shouldn’t lag behind the flock or wander over to the edge of the cliff repeatedly to check how far we’ve come, but i do anyway.
i’m weak and my wool falls into my eyes so i can hardly see You, but i make only half-hearted efforts to swipe it away.
Father, i am not worthy of Your love in any way. but You give my hooves strength to keep following You.
thank You, Jesus. please, keep me close to You. I will wipe this wool from my eyes and keep stumbling after You, no matter how much it costs.
for You will be my strength and my song and my salvation.
Feb 20, 2019
Feb 20, 2019 at 2:38 PM UTC
Mortality is surprising as it should be.
That you should die is not implied by life
Or pain. There is a sweater hanging in his closet.
If one were to look closely at the
neck the thread begins un
raveling the
re. No one will
notice
she s
ai
d. But it is his sweater and he noticed.
But it is only a sweater and really no one will notice.
It isn't what they look for.
Dec 18, 2018
Dec 18, 2018 at 11:05 AM UTC
this is my favorite pair of jeans.
they fit my legs tight and then loose and the color keeps to itself.
this is my favorite sweater.
it keeps me warm and it’s the color of moss.
i’ve been wearing the same shirt for three days, but i’ve showered between those days
i’ve been seeing you for a week but you’ve talked to your girlfriend between those days.
my neighbor threw my clothes on the floor cause he needed the dryer
so now i have to wash them all over again and i don’t have $3,
the machine ate two so i only have one left
your copy of rear window is on my floor.
your copy of monty python is on my floor.
thick hair, thick hands, thick wool,
i’m thinning but you’re only getting warmer
i’m tired of men entering my life and taking all of my heat right before winter comes.
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 4:26 PM UTC
My fear is like a worn blanket;
it keeps me bundled safe from cold,
Protects me from intruding talons
that reach to break frail bones.
Its edges are torn and tattered;
Hairy strings scratch at my throat.
I sometimes hold it all too tightly
and it wraps around my soul.
It sees that scary people scare me,
and knows that everyone is scary.
But this blanket isn’t just a haven,
the people claim it “unhealthy”.
They tear at fraying threads and seams
and I screech for them to stop.
It’s so comfortable and warm in here,
and it very rarely gets too hot.
I’ve grown accustomed to its feeling,
but the mad people do not care.
They tell me “Be more social.
The world shouldn’t scare you dear.”
But this itchy blanket shields my body
when people venture far too close.
When they try to shove ideals and dreams,
down an already suffocating throat.
Why can’t the scary people see
That this blanket is home, is mine?
They cause the frightful disrupt.
They make the blanket make me blind.
Jun 13, 2017
Jun 13, 2017 at 1:26 PM UTC
i long for damp gold tears
from the dying trees
for me to inhale the summer's death
and exhale the winter's birth
when the air is hangs low with drowsiness
and cinnamon settles in the wind
what more can i want-
than cold nose and warm chest-
so loosely wrapped in ochre wool?
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 10:18 PM UTC
Do you remember my wool sweater:
How the fibers used to catch on your wristwatch
And tangle themselves in the buttons on your checkered shirt?
Those loose threads said what I was too afraid to—
Don't let go;
Stay just a little longer.
Fiber after fiber, they unraveled,
Until that old wool sweater was tattered and frayed and scattered—
Softly curled strings on shirt edges and neckties,
A memory begging not to be forgotten.
Even after all this time,
I'd bet you still find specks of red on your pillowcases
Or on your jacket as you ride the bus to work.
I hope you do.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 2:16 AM UTC
His love gives me static electricity
mixed with waves of fragility
feels like my wool sweater
—so good, nothing else is better
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 1:27 AM UTC
She spent all her time
Knitting with crimson wool
Because there was nothing more tragically
beautiful
Than unfurling grief
Into woven harmony.
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 10:04 PM UTC
I wish that I could crochet in the bath.
I would lie a board across the ledges, if I had one long enough
As my fingers intertwined in the soft wool
Little water droplets would settle
Like frozen tears of glass.
That would just be for a moment, before it grew heavy
and sodden.
I've read like that before,
the pages have become crispy and smudged
That shows love and warmth
But wet wool seems cold and miserable.
If I dropped a needle in the water it would become rusty,
Useless and uncomfortable.
I would crochet in the bath, but I don't think I could find a board long enough.
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 9:09 AM UTC
as soon as these blue speckled
socks go, that's it. A new bright black death.A solemn weir on a stark horizon.Give me a reason to wear color. My hueless affidavit
runs me into the Earth, where I sprout up
a pallid keb- brain orf'd, you could drag my etiolated ebon
body through the ovine fold or take me to the theater. When I was just a minor teg, I sheared my mim kip, I fuckinggave it to you outright. In this little
cote my wan mien nigrifying; my calamitous black, quaffed full of congou in demitasse, of souchong & saucers. My atrous wethered body albicantly degenerating in the atrous sun. I'm crusting over with wanness and you, you're fortifying in the cwm where I used to yaff and stray. Your ovivorous hunger,something I never knew, when first you came for my jecoral flesh, just another bot digging through my soft toison. Like Dall's Prometheus being sheared from the flock-you cut me away. In this drab and achromic world, you put the wanness in my flesh, the gid in my heart. Still.
Just these blue socks are left.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 5:20 AM UTC