"darning" poems
"Look!" she said,
Proudly holding
A tiny painted doll;
"I can make it dance!",
She squealed,
Excitement in her voice;
I watched, bewitched,
As the doll danced
And twitched;
Grinning like an idiot,
I joined the dance,
Arms flailing madly;
"Now watch!" she gasped,
Taking a darning needle,
Stabbing repeatedly;
"Urghh!", I laughed,
Bending over,
Feigning pain;
The doll moved faster,
Limbs blurring,
As she made it dance;
"I can't keep up!"
I laughed so hard,
Feeling sharp pain in my side;
I tried to stop dancing,
But my aching limbs
Kept on flailing madly;
She held my gaze,
Her eyes laughing
With manic intensity;
With a final ******
She pushed the needle
Straight through the heart,
The doll slipped from her grasp,
Tumbling to lay beside
My still twitching body;
The last thing I ever saw,
Her reaching into a silken bag
And picking up another doll.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 11:43 PM UTC
You bring me good news from the clinic,
Whipping off your silk scarf, exhibiting the tight white
Mummy-cloths, smiling: I'm all right.
When I was nine, a lime-green anesthetist
Fed me banana-gas through a frog mask. The nauseous vault
Boomed with bad dreams and the Jovian voices of surgeons.
Then mother swam up, holding a tin basin.
O I was sick.
They've changed all that. Traveling
**** as Cleopatra in my well-boiled hospital shift,
Fizzy with sedatives and unusually humorous,
I roll to an anteroom where a kind man
Fists my fingers for me. He makes me feel something precious
Is leaking from the finger-vents. At the count of two,
Darkness wipes me out like chalk on a blackboard. . .
I don't know a thing.
For five days I lie in secret,
Tapped like a cask, the years draining into my pillow.
Even my best friend thinks I'm in the country.
Skin doesn't have roots, it peels away easy as paper.
When I grin, the stitches tauten. I grow backward. I'm twenty,
Broody and in long skirts on my first husband's sofa, my fingers
Buried in the lambswool of the dead poodle;
I hadn't a cat yet.
Now she's done for, the dewlapped lady
I watched settle, line by line, in my mirror—
Old sock-face, sagged on a darning egg.
They've trapped her in some laboratory jar.
Let her die there, or wither incessantly for the next fifty years,
Nodding and rocking and ********* her thin hair.
Mother to myself, I wake swaddled in gauze,
Pink and smooth as a baby.
5.3k
Mother, mother, what ill-bred aunt
Or what disfigured and unsightly
Cousin did you so unwisely keep
Unasked to my christening, that she
Sent these ladies in her stead
With heads like darning-eggs to nod
And nod and nod at foot and head
And at the left side of my crib?
Mother, who made to order stories
Of Mixie Blackshort the heroic bear,
Mother, whose witches always, always
Got baked into gingerbread, I wonder
Whether you saw them, whether you said
Words to rid me of those three ladies
Nodding by night around my bed,
Mouthless, eyeless, with stitched bald head.
In the hurricane, when father's twelve
Study windows bellied in
Like bubbles about to break, you fed
My brother and me cookies and Ovaltine
And helped the two of us to choir:
'Thor is angry; boom boom boom!
Thor is angry: we don't care!'
But those ladies broke the panes.
When on tiptoe the schoolgirls danced,
Blinking flashlights like fireflies
And singing the glowworm song, I could
Not lift a foot in the twinkle-dress
But, heavy-footed, stood aside
In the shadow cast by my dismal-headed
Godmothers, and you cried and cried:
And the shadow stretched, the lights went out.
Mother, you sent me to piano lessons
And praised my arabesques and trills
Although each teacher found my touch
Oddly wooden in spite of scales
And the hours of practicing, my ear
Tone-deaf and yes, unteachable.
I learned, I learned, I learned elsewhere,
From muses unhired by you, dear mother.
I woke one day to see you, mother,
Floating above me in bluest air
On a green balloon bright with a million
Flowers and bluebirds that never were
Never, never, found anywhere.
But the little planet bobbed away
Like a soap-bubble as you called: Come here!
And I faced my traveling companions.
Day now, night now, at head, side, feet,
They stand their vigil in gowns of stone,
Faces blank as the day I was born.
Their shadows long in the setting sun
That never brightens or goes down.
And this is the kingdom you bore me to,
Mother, mother. But no frown of mine
Will betray the company I keep.
3.9k
the glockenspiel of our daily raid of sewers in heaven
and our Jovian dwarves appalling the rapturous capacity of forever and ever.
the kooky jingle of our serpents, darning socks for the antichrist
and our elaborate rats. the simple maze of our condition
in the hell were at. the creaking gate to a twilight
and a lost chapter
marooned on an
island
of undead Librarians.
starving for brains
tardy with the
Harold
Robins
knife in red breast.
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 4:37 PM UTC
My grandparent's house
ten-kid-large and sinking
on the corners of remembrance
Remodeled now, to
...tenements
Honeycomb
...the remnants
Irish immigrant and Scottish orphan's child
She sang on the ferry
He fell in love
"The rest is the history of us...."
Wide
as the Connecticut River, grieving--
in their sunset....
________________
This-- chair
is his
I am afraid of it-- of his learning
of the shiny badge pinned to his coat
of his dying...
Golden leather of it
soothes
his memory--
of another continent
of the once warmth-- of a distant hearth
so darkened now--
where his head once rested
...his hands
and,
I fear--
his mind....
I will not sit in it
as if he will come back, to take his place
I am afraid of him--
with his chair--
all worshipful and empty
like a high place, abandoned
to the heart attack
not for grandchild play
Seat of Authority
still stamped
beside the standing cold--
brass ashtray
Pipe smoke imagines itself
against the ceiling in the words
of Yates and Milton
He read to them
and somehow--
Paradise is Lost....
_______________
This house is cold now-- even in the summer-- cold
Worn as only large families wear
The War
of waiting shadows
--four brothers who were spared
Anna Mae, in charge, too young,
worries in abrupt dark
of dinning room
Her face, haunted--
an archway-- ever empty
by the large and ghostly table
covered by its web of lace--
a bridal veil
of Catholic impossibility...
Anna Mae, held hostage by her thoughts
of darling, Sean...
Aunt Lil's “breakdown”
with cigarette and thorazine
quaking quiet in her corner
Aunt Nell,
as blind as ******** hell
ironing, darning
with threads that thatch
the wounded socks
Holds it all together, scolding--
Brought the welcomed jelly donuts
sneered as Yankees clobbered Boston
all-- while drinking yellow ale
Uncle Eddie-- laughing hoarsely
cracks nuts over a wooden bowl
Sep 19, 2017
Sep 19, 2017 at 10:52 PM UTC
Now,
We are mellow.
Having spent the evening exploring the threads of friendship.
That had come adrift of warp, weft and weave.
Time and distance had
silks, snag-tagged-torn,
on the bustling-busy,
hectic-hustling of work
and family.
Teasing-taunt,
needle-gnawing,
small, gap-rip-rents
in the snug comforter
that is... the wonder of us.
Us, so many secrets woven. So many, nights of tissues and sobbing tears.
Darning in daring exploits. Cutting away knotted,
fear-angry-scream-fighting feuds.
Cutting work, for days of delight and nights of desperate yearning.
We used anything at hand, rough wools, pieces of string and twines.
To weave a blanket,
to hide us from life's storms.
We were,
so young, so strong, recklessly-brash,
stupidly-joyous
and braveheart-fools.
And now, time and age,
has softened our work. Felted and fuse-melded,
the fibres into a beautiful entity.
That we store-save in the heart's cupboard,
of special and precious things.
It is an heirloom of sorts.
We bring it out,with occasional, humble-grace,
to be dandled and stroked with reverence.
Caressed and cossetted are our memories held within the abstract weave.
We are the dwindling
of a youthful exuberance
flung-thrown-heaved
to the wild winds.
So now, we are grateful to be curator-custodians of the retrospective nature
as we augment-append
and reiterate-repair.
A new thread here,
now,
embellish-embroider,embed
and tatt-stitch.
My son and your twin girls, squeezed, splashing
into your tiny bathtub
big-grin-giggling in the gurgling water.
Our future, here and now,
is the brightest of silks,
Our past, mellow and yielding in,
the luminent opulence,
angelically-asleep in,
the other room.
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 6:30 AM UTC
"I think ***** may be a tragic hero,"
A student said,
"Linda tells her boys he is an average man,
And it's time for average men to be attended.
That he gets up and goes to work each day
Is enough to make him a hero."
We listen in the darkened room,
Breaking to think our thoughts aloud
Before we dive back into the pool
Of Loman miseries:
The braggart wearing down,
The cringing rage against
The darning of socks,
Silken stocking memories,
Naughtiness recapitulated.
And sons spinning round
The vortex edge,
Wondering whether
To bail or pledge....
The stage is growing dark,
The audience darker,
Receding from bright memories,
Nobility's idyllic days denied,
Nothing left but the emptiness of pride.
Accepting brassiness and braggadocio,
We lean, breathless beneath skyscrapers,
Accepting commission-only pay,
The emptiness of false news,
And mediocre heroes.
"Boys! The woods are burning!
Can't you understand?
There's a big blaze going all around!"
But no one understands.
We are all dreamers,
Hoping America makes us great again,
Wishing to live the Salesman's life,
Willing to leave Plan B hidden
Behind the fusebox for now...
If only hope remains,
If only champagne wishes,
Caviar dreams besot us in our schemes.
"Nobody dast blame this man!"
Says Charlie, and he is right.
It's tough being out there
Living on a wing and a prayer,
Promising the moon,
Promised the moon,
Age coming on,
No seeds planted,
No sun to shine
On what's left
Of the garden....
A little salary,
A smile,
A shoeshine,
Cannot suffice.
Believing dreams that lie
Is no reason to live;
Seeing the blue sky alone
Is no reason,
If there's nothing to own,
And no place to call home.
Mar 13, 2017
Mar 13, 2017 at 4:20 PM UTC
A young lady sashays across the kitchen floor .. Displaying a stunning , red Ball gown , beaming , contrarily to an fro , eager for a compliment from a proud seamstress . A fidgety young boy , hand -me -down jacket with slacks being tailored , patches cut , hand sewn at worn out knees ..Darning Papas socks , repairing a tablecloth , custom curtains , flour sacks made into napkins , aprons , quilts and handkerchiefs . A wicker box that belonged to very gifted hands indeed
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 3:31 PM UTC
this is the news: a strange to do with all strange. some other kiwi in the hissing bliss of a fine day.
the spoils of bounty are ludicrous in disarray. a jumble of lumpkin, festooned in prayer-wheels and Tibet.
a fountain of open hands.
on the brink... on the terrace of counterfeit pantomimes
a man of days
darning socks and ultraviolet, with quasars for aspic.
a drunk pirouette -
bereft.
love is the one jungle you know when you're lost, and the last thing that made sense. All day.
the spoils of bounty are numinous, always. a trundle of frump-kin, immune to what feels like a guess.
" i refuse to sell my daddy's ranch! "
if you blink... i might tell you where you lost your mind.
an ace of spades
a Goldilocks and ultra violence, with ****** for aspirin.
a defunct smidgen
of less.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 1:18 PM UTC
doopth..doopth..doopth..
the intonation of a gavel
upon a felted block
order, orrrder,
i now call to order this
washday gathering
of the
metaphysical
analytical
socks
drawer # 1793
all rise and come to toetip
for the grand entry of
the great thrice darned heel
kazoos squeak the intro
to the ode to joy
an old grey golf sock is
ushered in to sit slouched
on the top of the washer/dryer.
he observes the following proceedings.
now to business
the agenda for the day
1. groove and the toe socks
table their report on the
systematic eradication of toejam.
2.the tradditionalists continue
the open discussion on,
wool versus synthetic,
for winterwear.
3.we have a vote scheduled
on the referedum matter:
do we allow sandals and thongs
guest status in this drawer.
4.the metaphysicists update
us on the age old conundrum;
"where do the odd socks go?"
at present they are devling
into the posibilities of
superposition of states,
as presented by
the schrodinger's cat theory.
5. the analytical group are meanwhile, surveying the remaining
evenless socks;
to obtain data on the pairless state of being
6. and finally, we welcome a deposition from the natralists;
with regard to use of bamboo
and hemp to allow for the wicking
of footwater, for a longer lasting
freshness of the base arch construction.
please feel free to attend one or
more of these discussions, contributions and /or questions
will be taken after the presentations.
i am also asked to inform you, that
the metatarsals group has a table of goods for sale, at the leftside of the wash basket.
items include:
new elastics and darning equipment.
books on special this meet are;
the ever popular
"how not to become a sock puppet"
and the tragic
"my life as a duster"
then there is the new offering of
"sox and jox:
the art of underwear
diplomacy."
and one last item of note:
a reminder that membership fees,
(of one clean toe clipping) are due
before next months gathering
go now,
enjoy the gathering.
and may the foot be with you
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 3:39 AM UTC
Father Mckenzie
Turk’s Head teased my shadow
free last evening along the arroyo
our separation minute yet
edging toward the clement lip
accruing like the thunder eggs
I keep in a jar by the door
God long since departed, drifted
away on the high desert wind
that drew us here long ago
rifled pages of the Book Of Common Prayer.
A sodden breeze from home last night
a tang of salt, a churchyard hush
low plaint of cello’s lurking around
these adobe walls for a way inside
my callow words returned to claim
their hollow sound and mouth
all that was left unsaid
an old man darning socks
in the night when nobody’s there
crossing the room to leave
the door ajar to old sermons
bible black sky pierced with diamonds.
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 8:43 AM UTC
The fairies of chaitra
lie on the un–wrinkled bed
with their backside up
in the hearsay of the air
once the woods of tamarisks
once the hill of paraffin
it appears there is no interruption
to this circus
the toy-telephones
hang from the cloud to cloud
from that carnival
take birth many kanthali-champa
the surgeon comes calmly
to the secret of darning
all localities are totally maddened
by the flow tide of the exudation
observing all those happenings
the half-broken wave
does awake on the sofa-set
Oct 8, 2010
Oct 8, 2010 at 9:07 PM UTC
******* walked to the village,
Dottie sits darning stockings
by the window, her nimble
fingers pulling and pushing
the yarn through the cloth.
Sunlight brightens up the
length of her lap, warms
her fingers, brings touch
of Heaven. She pauses,
holds needle in mid sew,
watches a butterfly, Red
Admiral, flitter by the
window’s square. If only
Willie was there. He was
up early, up and out in
the garden’s span, digging
and planting, she watching,
taking in his moving arms,
his steady hands. She still
feels the damp place his
kiss gave, on forehead above
her brow, feels it still, anyhow.
She resumes the darning of
her brother’s cloth, the sharp
needle pulled and pushed,
the fingers holding firm, the
in and out, of the narrowing
hole, the closing up. She looks
at the trees, the slight sway
of arms, the green covered
fingers, how she and Willie
sat beneath by the near shore,
sheltered by tall willows, the
sea view soaking their eyes, his
hand in hers, birdsong, distant
ship on horizon’s brow. If only
Willie was here, was here now.
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 2:59 PM UTC
Oh my faithful readers,
I am here yet again,
With yet another pretty verse,
About how I endured my internal horrors,
To save the universe!
I went to a dinner buffet,
Replete with extraordinary it was,
Music was being sweetly played,
People so busy nobody noticed a shattered vase,
Blown away by an extreme speed ****
The culprit wasn't spotted.
Because he left a silent ****
A silent high-speed ****
*A lady just smelled his methane,
And she just fainted..*
As he realized the berserk results of his farts,
He ran for the door making people aware,
That he was the real culprit behind it all,
I then went to his house and he was there,
Darning the place with his merciless farts!!!!!
I merely left a parcel containing some pills,
He probably took those pills for a long time,
Because the next time when I saw the fatso,
He wasn't scaring people away by his farts.
So I saved the universe!
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 8:22 PM UTC
Blasphemy!!
torn holes through all yarn
darning i had never done; what else
to do i, but run, and run...
screaming out, you called
by name, i ran and ran until
on tear came - words ran too,
down your face, traced my heart
for years replaced and i cried
long, for what was spent - where heaven, prayer?
nothing sent
and with vow - now
spoken for God to hear
this heart broken, his promise where?
i placed the gate (closed) on
my soul - and its holiness
of long ago...
Jan 3, 2011
Jan 3, 2011 at 11:56 AM UTC
Long ginger muzzle
eyes burning
through the copse, fixed upon
the snuffling vole eating
grubs in the moonlight,fangs
like stunted darning needles
revealed in its widening jaw.
hunching in the grass
it crawled cautiously forward
and pounced
like a god on an acolyte
quenching blood-lust-
the fox ate again that night.
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 5:53 PM UTC
i am finding my life
in small stitches
lately
mending the hem
on a pillowcase
darning the hole
in a sock
patching a hole
in well-worn sheets
i am finding my life
in small stitches
lately
until i have the energy
to make larger seams
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 3:23 AM UTC
Rita packed her camping gear
And set off on a trek!
Behind her house a forest grew
With mighty oaks and elm trees too
And there were lots of berries here
That Rita liked to peck!
Soon she found a little stream
And set about her goal.
She pulled her tent out of the bag,
But as she did, she felt it snag
And there along the pretty seam
She saw a gaping hole!
Rita cried, “Oh dear, oh dear!
What ever shall I do?”
She grabbed the tent and stared at it,
She should have brought a darning kit!
She watched the water flowing near
And wished that it was glue!
Rita’s mind span round and round,
And then a thought took shape!
She gathered leaves and gathered mud
And mixed them up right where she stood,
They made a slopping slurping sound
And looked just like a cake!
Rita gathered up some wood
And lit a little fire;
She smeared the mud cake on the seam
Just like a great big pile of cream!
And as the fire warmed up the mud
It got a little drier;
Pretty soon the mud had set
As hard as fresh concrete!
The tent was fixed with her new patch,
She climbed inside and closed the hatch,
And laying down she soundly slept
And stayed there for a week!
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 7:05 AM UTC
Story poem:
RDD vs JPC, BBA vs ASG.
It's mother's Day 2024 I think of fame and great fortune
All wealth and wisdom links from you son of God. My Jesus my beloved best friend best lover best husband best father ever in Earth.
Dearest Darning Pat
Saint Patrick's Day passed too; before that was Saint Valentine's Day. And for Christmas I couldn't find a snowy all village card to send you my precious one my all.
I love you more and more with your aka and your fame your good fortunes your generosity your gold heart my love.my everything.
I love you as Jsack for Rose in Titanic, As foolish Scarlett for Rhett in Gone with the wind book.
Meggie in love with in the thorn Birds Rachel Ward and
Richard Chambelane such pain sorrow.
I think of you in Starry Night painting the pain that lasts forever. Stuck in a famed painting my pain too.
I may not ever sing another song but only one about us
"Sing and dance with me with the Violins."
And this one¡: The music played me with RDD vs JPC.
~~~~~~~
As the music played: Repost
An angry silence lay where love had been
And in your eyes a look I'd never seen
If I had found the words you might have stayed
But as I turned to speak, the music played
As lovers danced their way around the floor
I sat and watched you walk towards the door
I heard a friend of yours suggest you stayed
And as you took his hand, the music played
Across the darkened room the fatal signs I saw
You'd been something more than friends before
While I was hurting you by clinging to my pride
He had been waiting, and I drove him to your side
I couldn't say the things I should have said
Refused to let my heart control my head
But I was made to see the price I paid
And as he held you close, the music played
And as I lost your love, the music played
May 13, 2024
May 13, 2024 at 12:25 AM UTC
My grandson Alex said something very profound and intriguing after his graduation ceremony.
I was complaining about how thin my hair had become and blamed it all on growing old. Alex looked at me with quizzical eyes partially covered by a mop of black sheepdog hair and declared,
"Well, Grandma you are an old lady."
I gave him a piercing look and said,
"True, but, remember this: The Soul is Eternal."
In that moment, my 14 year old grandson said that I reminded him of an old lady living in an off-the-beaten road shack. As I listened to him and the evocative images he spun I took the liberty of embellishing his description:
"Hidden by a dense patch of wild crafted herbs, a hint of mint, diamond needles darning their way around the bucolic scenery, a peculiar little hut comes into view.
The round oculus amethyst windows appear as portholed eyes to another world. If you pause and listen keenly you can distinctly hear the hum of otherworldly chants echoing from its eaves. Indeed, everything about this strange occult cottage exudes magical charm, you'd think it was inhabited by a priestess or something of that nature.
Slowly, I open the creaking door, puffs of rose moss incense and pooja camphor burn in small brass pots. Countless multi colored bottles, all different shapes and sizes, antique knick knacks, curiosities crowd the musty shelves. And a soft, rainbow mist floats through the room. This enigmatic Shack oozes wisdom......My Granny, her hair thinning, bits of silver creating a halo of stars, welcomes me. She gazes at me with a wise, weathered elderly smile while applying a red *** *** dot on my third eye and says:
"You know Alex the Soul is Ageless."
Jun 23, 2019
Jun 23, 2019 at 7:44 PM UTC
do you glue this, fix that,
or do you simply replace.
you must know by now,
we eat off mended plates,
and rise when birds sing.
it may be a forgotten thing,
those cotton hankies, darning,
repairing old , hung together
with string.
yet, it may be you do the same,
standing tall, waiting.
for pins.
sbm.
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 12:55 AM UTC
I pray that you be woven Lord
Into the fabric of my life
That I might always speak of you
Continually both day and night
I pray that you be sewn
Into the hems of my mind
So that I may always see
And never to truth be blind
I pray that you reside
Within each crease and seam
So that you be always with me
That I may from your presence glean
I ask that within my heart lord
Your hand do its binding
So that there I might keep you lord
To be found your word always minding
I ask you do the darning
When I become weak and worn
May your hand gently repair
When my fabric lord is torn
I pray dear lord be the double stitch
That holds my life together
So that when at last this life I leave
I will live with you forever
Lord help me to allow your spirit
To own each fiber of thread
That is woven and sewn into my life
Till that day my body is dead
Take this piece of linen lord
Unworthy as it may be
Weave into it,sew into it and within every stitch
I pray your presence be
I ask that your skillful hands my Lord
Tenderly operate the loom
And as the cloth is made
I pray it is by you consumed
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 8:45 AM UTC
Loose Knit
by Michael R. Burch
She blesses the needle,
fetches fine red stitches,
criss-crossing, embroidering dreams
in the delicate fabric.
And if her hand jerks and twitches in puppet-like fits,
she tells herself
reality is not as threadbare as it seems ...
that a little more darning may gather loose seams.
She weaves an unraveling tapestry
of fatigue and remorse and pain; ...
only the nervously pecking needle
****** her to motion, again and again.
Published by The Chariton Review, Penumbra, Black Bear Review, and Triplopia. Keywords/Tags: Addiction, needle, veins, stitches, red, blood, ****** dreams, hallucinations, seams, darning, tapestry
Mar 21, 2020
Mar 21, 2020 at 11:22 PM UTC