"crocheting" poems
Crafty, they say, He's getting crafty
crafty with my lies and my made-up meals
crafty with my sound-blocking tactics
crafty with hiding the burning lines of white and red.
Baking, they say, He's getting into baking
baking my binges
baking my restriction
baking my omad
baking my sad-looking low-cal low-fat low-sugar low-carb high-protein
'meal'.
Crochet, they say, He's getting into crochet
crocheting ankle warmers to make my legs look skinny
half-finger gloves in an attempt to curb the permafrost that has begun to
knit itself around my bones.
Healthy, they say, He's getting healthy
as i workout until i faint
and do sit-ups until i have bruises on my spine.
fruit and veg and vitamins take priority
and suddenly i have taken an interest in running.
Sep 18, 2022
Sep 18, 2022 at 12:40 PM UTC
Like an alien in a spotlight
With her magnifying glasses on
My mother as she worked, up all night
Did invisible weaving till dawn
I would watch her when I couldn’t sleep
Honing in on that hole in the suit
Intently, her concentration deep
Weaving tiny threads enlarged like jute
In other-worldly light she labored
I was afraid she’d lose her eyesight
Watching her focus never wavered
Her face all aglow in the lamplight
Invisible weaving, I inquired
How tediously she plied her craft
Worked for the money that she required
Made the warp and weft of fabric last
Reconstruction, undetectable
No more burn, or tear, or fabric blight
Weaving magic so incredible
Its wound now perfect by morning’s light
She taught me much that I’m still making
From her life that now I’m grieving
Sewing, crocheting and great baking
But never invisible weaving
The picture of her life that mattered
I now see how she toiled so finely
And that the wrinkles in the fabric
Of my own life splayed out so blindly
The vision of my eyes, bedazzled
Incandescent, her face in the beam
Unaware how her mind unraveled
As Depression stole her ev’ry dream
The threads of DNA defining
Who I’ve become I’m now believing
My mother’s hand in that designing
Of my own Invisible Weaving*
*In honor of my mother, Edla Sylvia Fitzpatrick, on this International Women's Day
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 1:01 PM UTC
I'm weaving with yarn
crocheting stitches
across my heart
sewing up my wounds
allowing release
through art
a slipknot here
a whipstitch there
I weave and weave
as I crochet into repair
the frayed edges of my soul
Sep 14, 2011
Sep 14, 2011 at 8:16 PM UTC
I have a Gumbie Cat in mind, her name is Jennyanydots;
Her coat is of the tabby kind, with tiger stripes and leopard spots.
All day she sits upon the stair or on the steps or on the mat;
She sits and sits and sits and sits—and that’s what makes a Gumbie Cat!
But when the day’s hustle and bustle is done,
Then the Gumbie Cat’s work is but hardly begun.
And when all the family’s in bed and asleep,
She tucks up her skirts to the basement to creep.
She is deeply concerned with the ways of the mice—
Their behaviour’s not good and their manners not nice;
So when she has got them lined up on the matting,
She teachs them music, crocheting and tatting.
I have a Gumbie Cat in mind, her name is Jennyanydots;
Her equal would be hard to find, she likes the warm and sunny spots.
All day she sits beside the hearth or on the bed or on my hat:
She sits and sits and sits and sits—and that’s what makes a Gumbie Cat!
But when the day’s hustle and bustle is done,
Then the Gumbie Cat’s work is but hardly begun.
As she finds that the mice will not ever keep quiet,
She is sure it is due to irregular diet;
And believing that nothing is done without trying,
She sets right to work with her baking and frying.
She makes them a mouse—cake of bread and dried peas,
And a beautiful fry of lean bacon and cheese.
I have a Gumbie Cat in mind, her name is Jennyanydots;
The curtain-cord she likes to wind, and tie it into sailor-knots.
She sits upon the window-sill, or anything that’s smooth and flat:
She sits and sits and sits and sits—and that’s what makes a Gumbie Cat!
But when the day’s hustle and bustle is done,
Then the Gumbie Cat’s work is but hardly begun.
She thinks that the cockroaches just need employment
To prevent them from idle and wanton destroyment.
So she’s formed, from that lot of disorderly louts,
A troop of well-disciplined helpful boy-scouts,
With a purpose in life and a good deed to do—
And she’s even created a Beetles’ Tattoo.
So for Old Gumbie Cats let us now give three cheers—
On whom well-ordered households depend, it appears.
4.2k
Like an alien in a spotlight
With her magnifying glasses on
My mother as she worked, up all night
Did invisible weaving till dawn
I would watch her when I couldn’t sleep
Honing in on that hole in the suit
Intently, her concentration deep
Weaving tiny threads enlarged like jute
In other-worldly light she labored
I was afraid she’d lose her eyesight
Watching her focus never wavered
Her face all aglow in the lamplight
Invisible weaving, I inquired
How tediously she plied her craft
Worked for the money that she required
Made the warp and weft of fabric last
Reconstruction, undetectable
No more burn, or tear, or fabric blight
Weaving magic so incredible
Its wound now perfect by morning’s light
She taught me much that I'm still making
From her life that now I'm grieving
Sewing, crocheting and great baking
But never invisible weaving
The picture of her life that mattered
I now see how she toiled so finely
And that the wrinkles in the fabric
Of my own life splayed out so blindly
The vision of my eyes bedazzled
Incandescent, her face in the beam
Unaware how her mind unraveled
As depression stole her ev'ry dream
The threads of DNA defining
Who I’ve become I'm now believing
My mother’s hand in that designing
Of my own Invisible Weaving
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 12:24 PM UTC
Fond woman, which wouldst have thy husband die,
And yet complain’st of his great jealousy;
If swol’n with poison, he lay in his last bed,
His body with a sere-bark covered,
Drawing his breath, as thick and short, as can
The nimblest crocheting musician,
Ready with loathsome vomiting to spew
His soul out of one hell, into a new,
Made deaf with his poor kindred’s howling cries,
Begging with few feigned tears, great legacies,
Thou wouldst not weep, but jolly and frolic be,
As a slave, which tomorrow should be free;
Yet weep’st thou, when thou seest him hungerly
Swallow his own death, hearts-bane jealousy.
O give him many thanks, he’s courteous,
That in suspecting kindly warneth us
Wee must not, as we used, flout openly,
In scoffing riddles, his deformity;
Nor at his board together being sat,
With words, nor touch, scarce looks adulterate;
Nor when he swol’n, and pampered with great fare
Sits down, and snorts, caged in his basket chair,
Must we usurp his own bed any more,
Nor kiss and play in his house, as before.
Now I see many dangers; for that is
His realm, his castle, and his diocese.
But if, as envious men, which would revile
Their Prince, or coin his gold, themselves exile
Into another country, and do it there,
We play in another house, what should we fear?
There we will scorn his houshold policies,
His seely plots, and pensionary spies,
As the inhabitants of Thames’ right side
Do London’s Mayor; or Germans, the Pope’s pride.
1.7k
Days turn pages
Sinking in the night
Abysmal aromas
Wrinkling skin so light.
Crocheting another blanket
Whimsical notes astir
Falling on the carpet
Bits and pieces of her.
A feudal interruption
White noise begins to blur
Reflections being casted
A comforting allure.
Sons decaying in the sky
Poinsettias set on tomb
Empty syringe on the grass
Dead fetus in the womb.
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 1:59 AM UTC
bye, bye, pie in the sky
I made a dream
I made you out of nowhere,
Out of the mountain snow and out of the air.
I was spinning your head
On my spinning wheels
Out of warm sunshine and out of cool moon beams.
For months and months,
I was spinning your head.
I was weaving your hair
Out of silky threads
For weeks.
Carefully pedaling my old fashioned,
Singing
Sewing machine,
I spent nights
Stitching adornments on your pockets,
Embroidering your cuffs.
Crochet crazy,
I crocheted laces for your sheer enjoyment
And for your windows,
Hooked on the crocheting hooks
Way up high.
I knitted sweaters
For your sacrificial lambs
Of colourful wools.
You are almost finished,
My just a dream, just a dream,
I'll let you go
With the African hot wind.
I am all done
With you.
Sorry, I couldn't hold on
To my golden
Knitting needles
Any longer.
(1-16-07)
Oct 14, 2010
Oct 14, 2010 at 3:38 PM UTC
I know how to party,
On Friday nights,
I have crocheting, you see,
A stash of yarn, and coffee,
I'd say that's quite a party,
Hope all the crafters agree!
Aug 14, 2021
Aug 14, 2021 at 5:59 PM UTC
I was doing a little jig down the sidewalk
When all of a sudden
This red, bulbous, obstruction pounced into my field of view
I said, "Whoa, hotshot, cool down"
He/she/it did not reply
"I'm talking to you kiddo
Can you please communicate with me?"
It just sat there staring at me. Why?
You see, hydrants can be little stinkers sometimes
They'll talk your earlobe off one time
Other times they act like a sack of taters
They're just little drama queens
"Meow meow" said the hydrant
I take a look over yonder, than ask the **** target,
"Are you talking to me sir?"
"Meow," it said "I'm not sure I like your tone"
"You must be some sort of mind type hacker dealio
Cracking into my cerebellum, what are you doing in there?
Seriously man! Come on!
You must be going through emotional trauma. PTSD I don't know."
"Calm down buco, let's talk about this
Over a bucket of churned goat milk, I love that stuff.
How's Shirley? I hear she took up crocheting
I respect that"
"Grr, graa, paa?
Me oh my, this reminds me of pick up sticks all over again
Hey look at this man,
If you walk without rhythm, than you won't attract the worm."
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 2:27 AM UTC
the process of crocheting an
afghan is about just that
the process
you make an afghan looking
forward to the nights you will
curl up under it and relishing
the way it fits over your
legs when it's halfway finished
or thinking and hoping
how much someone you love
will love and appreciate
your gift of time and callouses
weaving a container for whatever
emotions you need contained
i realized this that first winter
deep in february when i began
my long nights of scrap yarn
desperately trying to piece
something together out of
the not knowing why
i told myself that this was it
the sum total of my works
the item they would fold up and
place on the table next to the jar
of my ashes come september
and it was done by march
a slow and roundabout way
of pushing myself through
the suicidal smog
smeared through my mind
my friends had blankets wrapped
around them that bright morning
of the anniversary we all cried together
my tears falling on my afghan
i made them each an afghan
plus a few more
always pushing myself
to look forward
lost count of how
much yarn i used
how many stitches
passed through my hands
but by the time the next
march came around i
had made or charted
out five more
to fill the void
clawing at my insides
spent a year making
myself another
in tight ripples of
time and television
and now
my fingers
slow
and stop
seven afghans
in two years
is an accomplishment
that might send the
head of even the
highest caliber of
grandma spinning
i have no more afghans
left in me to make
so instead i crawl
down into bed
two i made
two from friends
and one from
my mother
and lie
head pounding
eyes puffy
void of energy
in the space
between my afghans
Apr 20, 2018
Apr 20, 2018 at 10:07 AM UTC
(In English, we were supposed to write a poem based off of George Ella Lyon's poem "Where I'm From" and this is the one I wrote)
I am from picture frames,
from Dove and Suave.
I am from the white house on the corner of the street
(far enough from the train tracks, close enough to the park).
I am from lilacs,
from the rose bush on the side of the house,
always humming with bees.
I am from crocheting and complaining,
from Edith, Rachael, and Susanne.
I am from blind eyes with a blue glow,
from "Speak up!" and "Sit up straight."
I am from "Now I lay me down to sleep..."
and old, golden cross necklaces.
I am from Ohio,
turkey, and sweet tea.
From the night my grandparents ran away togethers,
and the glass wedged into my father's finger,
the day god lifted him from the driver's seat.
I'm from the upstairs closet,
sitting beside childhood memorabilia.
Images of faces I never met,
and those I'll never forget.
Bags of animals,
stuffed with imaginary souls,
and boxes of books
which tales will never grow old.
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 12:30 AM UTC
i will save time,
littlest brother.
i will wrap it up
and put it into a box
to mature,
like a rare cheese
only for you and me.
on the day
that you come to me
and want to know
what it was like
before mom left
because you won't remember,
i will open our box
and show you.
first i will take out
a lock of mom's blonde hair
that used to fall
down to her waist
and i will tell you
what it looked like
in the sunshine
while we made
daisy chains.
i will tell you
how it turned brown
later on
and how mom let me sit
on her bed
and twist, twist, twist
for hours,
because i didn't know how to braid.
and how me and Erika sat
in front of the space heater
and dried off
after a bath
mom crocheting
on the bed,
singing.
then i will remove from our box
a crisp, shriveled leaf
from the Big Tree
and i will let you smell it.
i will say,
this is what
home smells like...
never forget,
littlest brother.
i will sit you on my lap
and paint you pictures with my fingers
i will reveal to you little indian huts
and smoky firepits
and ***** chipped toes.
lastly
i will steal from time
and will take from our box,
what is rightfully ours
and i will give you
the last shred
that i have saved
for so long...
just for you, littlest brother.
i will give you mom and dad
together.
happy.
i will give you mom and dad
in their funky, attic-smelling bathing suits
mom's tummy protruding with another older sister for you
standing on the hot stones
dad's big, funny glasses
glinting in the sun,
a sun that shown down
on something whole
something perfect.
i will give you mom and dad
snuggled under a blanket
on the couch
watching a movie together
mom giving dad 'the look'
as he chuckles...
littlest brother,
i will do all i can
to create memories for you...
because everyone deserves to remember
something happy...
littlest brother,
i will steal from time
all i can
all for you...
until time decides to take back
what is rightfully his.
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 8:57 PM UTC
date a poet
she’ll immortalise you with her words
and she’ll see you at 3am in the last embers of a fire
she’ll hear your name in a breeze
she’ll feel you when the sun kisses her skin
date a poet
and feel yourself weakening upon the hand-scribbled notes
carefully concealed between the pages of her favourite, dog-eared book
and inimitable mix CDs
oh, you’d never guess how long she spent composing them
date a poet
for no moment will be dull
whether it’s crocheting or flower-arranging
or archery, wind-surfing or belly-dancing
there will always be a new skill for her to learn
more cultures to unearth and be utterly captivated by
and you will soon find yourself just as enraptured by her
as she is by the world
date a poet
you won’t truly understand love until you’ve heard it personified as a wildfire, a loaded magnum and a silk noose
date a poet
because who doesn’t want to be a poem?
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 9:16 PM UTC
I think of you
crocheting words,
quietly,
unobserved
by your husband,
watching TV,
in **** gray socks.
Jan 7, 2011
Jan 7, 2011 at 8:44 PM UTC
It didn’t really happen. I was awkward,
a sloppy crocheting of clumsy hands.
I was scared of my body; or maybe,
I was scared of her body. Foreign,
but bright from the veil of curtains
slighting a late spring light. I kissed
like a maniac, but when it came down
to the business of pleasure, I could not
make a transaction. She later told me
I could have gone on longer
than my half-a-minute slow grind before
I chickened out. Even now, after
my fifth major relationship and plenty
of romping and dancing atop mattresses
mine and not mine, I feel my first ****
is how I approach love. Tentative,
too contemplative, and none-so-bold.
Perhaps it is because I learned early,
to hate myself, this body that is still
so new to me: twenty-five years owned
and I still don’t know how to love myself.
I just hope that one day, I will be that light
streaming into the room, touching everything
around it, feeling with tender warmth
the goodness of what soon hinders its path
casting shadows behind what I come to kiss.
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 9:08 AM UTC
My dog is eating me alive.
I picked a mosquito bite.
It bled, of course because I bite my nails.
His tongue his scratchy and it feels
like he is eating me alive.
Like my dog is eating me alive.
The clothes I wear are swallowing me whole.
I'm suffocating in their woven hold.
The craftsmanship is fine
it's my body that's confined
and I swear it feels like
the clothes I wear are swallowing me whole.
My hair is too unruly for my head.
It takes up knotting when I am in bed.
Crocheting, colliding, fitting you under me
Finally in the morning I can see
My hair is too unruly for my head.
Life scares the hell out of me.
Things like garbage, masks and poetry
make me want to ***** my lunch
or just smoke and dance
because sometimes thinking kills you
and that is why
life scares the hell out of me.
May 1, 2011
May 1, 2011 at 5:49 PM UTC
the theory is 'energy is not created or destroyed', but every time i look at you or every time you speak to me i swear that energy is created and i don't know what i was thinking, you cannot fall in love with someone who defies laws of science. but yes i sure think about you a lot i think a lot about how you are probably the type of girl who never quite wakes up until half way through the morning and you are probably not a coffee drinker because i know how much you like tea and i wonder if you think about how much i think about this right before you treat me like the mud you sloppily stomped on during your walk to school. i also wonder if you notice the small details. i do not think you do because to you i am a single tiny leaf on the biggest maple tree in your city and you can only see that tree as a tree, a whole, you do not see it for every leaf every inch of bark every tiny twig every single atom that makes it look like a tree and you do not think about the color spectrum and light reflecting colors and what light exactly reflected what to make that tree bark brown but slightly green with moss and do you even wonder if the moss or the tree or the table next to your bed that embraces your books and current crocheting project is even real at all? did you just imagine them there?
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 7:37 PM UTC
i’m crocheting a little friend
a stingray
out of teal and white yarn i am spinning him
he is tighly woven and
thinly drawn
and his eyes are stitched of black yarn woven into sloppy crosses
i don’t know if i’ll keep my little friend once he is complete
he is something that should be given away
to someone who needs his soft company more than i
i could make a thousand stingrays once i understand the pattern
but in giving him away he would be
someone’s only stingray
and i think everyone should have
a soft tightly wound sea creature
at least once in their lives
Jan 19, 2020
Jan 19, 2020 at 12:21 AM UTC
how can they make such rigid stuff
from soft wools, take the thing then
harden it.
they say it will last a lifetime, hold its own.
tradition.
looks as if it would hold
the rain out, repell the scattered
words of cold,
and evil. a coat so heavy
it dragged us down.
there was crocheting yesterday,
with blue and softer yarn, a small ply.
a gentle thing, a memory.
sbm.
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 1:32 AM UTC
I stopped writing for a while
before that I stopped drawing
before that I stopped making videos
before that I stopped crocheting
before that I stopped reading
before that I stopped something else
I'm left to wonder
if I keep stopping
when will I run out of things to stop
I stopped leaving my bed if I can help it
and I stopped caring too much about it
I stopped writing for a while
but I'm trying to start again
it's been a while since I've had a start
maybe just starting is the hardest part
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 11:03 PM UTC
Some people think it's easy.
That if you just tell me to smile I will and that I will genuinely mean it, too.
And I try to mean it- believe me, I try.
I try to find a hint of happiness inside of me and force it out.
I tried.
I tried to do the things that normal and happy people do
Because maybe if I tried I could convince myself that I, too, was a happy and normal person.
So I tried.
I took myself out to dinner.
I tried yoga.
I went to parties, and even though I can't dance, I danced anyways and made a beautiful fool of myself.
I finally bought myself a lava lamp because I've always thought they were cool.
I organized the clothes in my closet by color.
I spent twenty minutes picking out the ripest tomatoes in the grocery store.
I took up crocheting,
I learned a little French,
And I forgot all about this mess of a life I'm in by making a mess in my kitchen.
I sang in the shower so loud and proud that I lost my voice.
I went cheese tasting,
And I drank A LOT of wine.
I made faces at every person I drove by on the highway.
I started going on walks.
I started going on runs.
I ran to the balcony
And stepped on the ledge
And threw my arms out beside me
And screamed YES!
I'm free! And I'm so happy about it!
I'm happy.
I promise you I'm happy.
These tears, they are just because I'm so happy and my sadness is crying because it's gone.
I'm not sad anymore.
I'm normal. I'm happy.
I'm just like everyone else when they go to art galleries.
I'm actually looking at the art really hard and trying to find the meaning behind a red squiggle rather than just really trying to avoid people from seeing the pain.
I'm actually just a normal person that's perfectly content when they go wash their hands instead of a person that dreads walking up to a faucet and catching a glimpse of their reflection.
I'm actually a normal person that stepped onto a ledge to feel nothing but freedom rather than feeling a desire to take another step.
I'm actually ok and I'm so happy.
It's what I whispered to myself at night
Because I thought that maybe if I told myself it enough times I would eventually wake up one morning and find it to be true.
That I'm ok. I'm happy.
That's what I want to convince you because maybe if you're convinced...
I'll be convinced too.
May 21, 2018
May 21, 2018 at 10:35 AM UTC