"embroider" poems
*at the end of the ticking time that rushing ..
i contemplate the expanse of despair that has passed ..
at the junction of desire that embroider serene ...
my hopes are pinned hard petrified ..
as i trudged up the ladder of life ..
you bolster me in order to stay ahead ..
when i am tired to hit hardest desire ..
you wash my sweat with exuberant embrace..
when i get wounded by the sharp of blade of era ..
you wrapped me with sincerity ..
there's no string of words that look beautiful to me,
i spit all over the rhymester while reading pen script from your conscience ..
there's no shade of voice that sounded good to me,
i throw up the whole commercial hypocritical preacher when hear advice from your sincerely ..
if the shape of the grateful is exist,
then i will chisel your figure in a stretch of horizon ..
if a form of sincerity can be visible to the eye,
then i will paint your smile in the court of canvas twilight ..
my polite to my friend my angel,
i ask god, salvation for you ..
i ask the cause of prime substance , health for you..
because your happiness is an honor for me ..*
-the poetry is dedicated to a sincere friend of mine, Ha-
┈┈┈┈┈»̶·̵̭̌✽✽·̵̭̌«̶ ƦУ »̶·̵̭̌✽✽·̵̭̌«̶┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈
sahabatku malaikatku
dipenghujung waktu yang berdetak laju..
kurenungkan hamparan asa yang telah berlalu..
dipersimpangan keinginan yang menyulam syahdu...
kusematkan harapan yang keras membatu..
saatku tertatih menapaki tangga kehidupan..
engkau papah aku agar selalu terdepan..
saatku lelah menghantam kerasnya keinginan..
engkau basuh peluhku dengan rimbunnya dekapan..
saatku terluka terhunus tajamnya pedang roda jaman..
engkau balur perihku dengan sejuknya ketulusan..
tiada untaian kata yang terlihat indah bagiku,
kuludahi seluruh pujangga saat membaca torehan pena aksara nuranimu..
tiada keteduhan suara yang terdengar merdu bagiku,
kumuntahi seluruh pendakwah komersial nan fasik saat mendengar tausyah tulus darimu..
apabila bentuk dari bersykur itu ada,
maka akan kupahat figurmu dihamparan cakrawala..
apabila wujud ketulusan itu dapat terlihat mata,
maka akan kulukis senyummu dipelataran kanvas senja..
santunku untuk sahabatku malaikatku,
keselamatan bagimu kupintakan pada Penciptaku ..
kesehatan bagimu kumohonkan pada Dzat penguasaku
karena kebahagianmu merupakan kehormatan bagiku..
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 7:34 AM UTC
Fall in love with a writer
they say and you will never die (quoted)
Fall in love with a writer
they say and you will find yourself
embodied in words
Fall in love with a writer
they say and you will find yourself
stretched over lines and pages
Now,
What if a writer falls in love with you?
What happens is that their untamed mind
becomes an asylum where
words smash themselves
on the walls of their brains
summoning
their hands just
to let them out
What if a writer falls in love with you?
What happens is that their addiction
to falling in love is amplified
and when they love
OH THEY LOVE,
they get a certain high
that numbs their inhibitions to reality
and shuns logic to a very far away land
they reach a mental state
that lifts you to high enough
just to see a glimpse of their world
just to taste a drop of their
potion
but not all of it
What if a writer falls in love with you?
What happens is that their eye *****
birth and harness flames that burn the coldest
of hearts and warm the strongest
of selves
What if a writer falls in love with you?
What happens is that their mind soaks up
every bit, every breath
every call, every cell
every touch, every talk
just to embroider it
in the quilt of thought
that's weaving endless stories about you
in their mind
What if a writer falls in love with you?
God have mercy on their soul
for their craving becomes dangerously
intensified, wrapping itself
to their muses,
giving them the sole purpose
of existing
For the more they love
the more stories they write
and more they feel
the longer
they
live
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 6:29 AM UTC
You said your words always came in threads
Stitch me up
patch up my insercutries with your sewing machine lips
let me use them to sew the memory of you into the fabric of my mind
I want to embroider our broken pieces and make a quilt out of us
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 12:13 AM UTC
You always carried me home with your gaze
In your laughter I could float freely with all my fears left to drown in the sea of your reassurances
I slept in my dreams clutching the threads of my tears
So that in my wakefulness,
I can embroider them onto the fabric of a forgotten past
To keep the memory of your name within reach
So that when I whisper it into the sea breeze
Everything once cultivated grows inside of me
And a garden scape of indescribable ease
Is complete with streams of water that run
from your heart to my shaking hands
Jun 27, 2022
Jun 27, 2022 at 5:35 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
Velcro-like hands
Grip and pull
At every thread of his textile presence
As a spider clings
to her
silky haven in the rain
With every tear
she grows less stable
And every shudder
draws hopes of Heaven
Past this haven, in the tree branch, that she built her life upon
And the web; it softly whispers
It is trapped in finite murmur
Once high hopes of hereafter, embroider fears that she “was once”
In the rain,
she is suspended
Thoughts thieved away by daydream
Her mind drifts back to sunny lives
And her Velcro-like grasp
Loosens
Just a little.
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 1:08 PM UTC
_The light is dim, but I'm accustomed to working in the dark. Besides, it's safer this way. My eyes are not what they used to be, but it has become second nature to me - the pull of the needle, the tension in the thread.
I stitched my first collar when I was six years' old, sitting on my grandmother's knee in the parlour of the old house at Innsbruck. ‘Isaac,’ she used to say, ‘you have your father's gift. Use it well.’
Ah, Papa, if you could see me now. Such expectations you had for my talent, but I assure you that the occasion for invisible seams and fine beadwork is over. Nowadays I work with a different fabric. A cloth perforated with ****** fire and riddled with shrapnel. The wounds - forgive me - resemble red Venetian silk embedded with black pearls; the bone like the baleen strictures of a dowager's corset. And the red dye runs. God help me, how it runs.
As I work, Papa, I imagine that you are standing in the shadows, your frayed sewing tape draped around your neck. I am praised for my quick hands and my ability to embroider life into abbreviated limbs. And I pray that you are not too disappointed in what I have become._
Jun 2, 2019
Jun 2, 2019 at 8:35 PM UTC
Sirious ********
Study is ********
Will you let me be.
There'll be other days
to write more poetry.
Smirking, missed you too.
She's studying with language barrier,
under repression.
Taking years to slowly do
what we can accomplish in a day.
I see, but what are we to accomplish?
Blow it up? rip it down? to rebuild?
or embroider?
Like repairing a tapestry.
Fill the in gaps,
complete her story with hard data
and prettier pictures.
Half on one hand, six in the other.
Make do and mend.
Change the world for a second
Which of us drew the short straw again?
Zzzzxxx
Tripping over myself and our humongous marriage of minds.
Apologies.
Apogee.
Nadir
©Atalanta Undigested, 2013. All Rights Reserved.
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 5:54 PM UTC
*do i not ever come to you ..?
although only a jiffy night ..?
dark current visible universe embroider ..
when the earth and the moon would not come together ..
don't you know ..?
and why we do not accept each other ..?
though i still want to be together during the yearnings ..?
differences that make us fall in love ..
measurable distance, treated flavor ..
lest you get hurt ..
i'm always right there ..*
┈┈┈┈»̶·̵̭̌✽✽·̵̭̌«̶ ƦУ »̶·̵̭̌✽✽·̵̭̌«̶┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈
apakah aku pernah tiada datang kepadamu..?
meskipun hanya sekejap malam..?
saat gelap semesta terlihat menyulam..
saat bumi dan rembulan tiada mau bersatu..
tidakkah engkau mengetahui..?
dan kenapa kita tak saling menerima..?
meski aku selama berdegup masih ingin bersama..?
perbedaan yang membuat kita saling jatuh cinta..
jarak yang terukur, rasa yang terobati..
jangan sampai engkau terluka..
aku kan selalu ada..
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 3:54 AM UTC
A lonely snowdrop initiates the dance
out in the woods on the bare ground
they emerge, one by one
as shooting stars on a highway
they embroider a blanket of white serenity
to embrace spring and greet her once again
Apr 3, 2019
Apr 3, 2019 at 11:28 AM UTC
If I could draw or
Paint or sketch,
Or sculpt or even
******* embroider,
My self-portrait
Would be titled
Cliché, Bright Eyed Girl,
Girl Who’s Falling
For ‘The Bad Boy,’
Girl who Doesn’t
Stand a Chance:
Girl Self-Involved in Petty Problems.
I’d be a surrealist
I’d befriend Zelda Fitzgerald
In Paris, then the clinic:
A sad clown face
So eager and fragile,
Drooping low,
Fair, but not the fairest
Dripping, melting,
Like those clocks, or something
into a dream,
Where I, a Botticelli,
Venus,
You, a Gonzo trip
And you’d press into
My soft full hips
With nicotine stained fingers.
A bee coating the peony,
Such slick pollen
From past flights of fancy:
You linger for the most succulent taste.
I’d trace the ink of your tattoos,
They lay beneath your skin.
I’d crawl down there too,
Pushing up against your veins.
With the crest of a wave,
We’d crash together,
Golden silk surrounding us:
Coming
Out of the foam.
Then I come back,
Back into the frame:
A sad little girl,
Face lowered,
Unruly hair shadowing her face,
While you look past,
Walking away in the foreground.
But I can’t paint,
Draw, sculpt, whatever.
I’m no Dali.
Just like I
Can’t make you
Fall, fall, fall,
into a cliché,
In love
With me.
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 12:54 AM UTC
Somewhere along the way the
silver threads that embroider daylight with dreams
have melted, losing architectured edges and I find
these days it's harder to tell whether I'm
even awake at all.
Trance chaos, but curiously calm,
considering and sleepy.
My corridor is long but I
have no reason to hurry.
Broken lamps against the walls
dusty apartments to spiders and fluff.
No lightbulbs.
Only husks of maybe
once upon a time ideals.
There is a familiar light of
gossamer gold murmurs over me
I've been here before and
there isn't much farther left to go.
Incandescent airspace
pulsing like a living heart
rising, ebbing, coaxing me on.
The lamps are a silent vigil to my journey.
Again I am here at my tabula rasa.
The door is laid with bricks, sealed by my own earthly hands
Will not open! Will not open! Un-opening door.
And as far as I've ever come.
Light all around, fleeing from robinred tetris brickwork.
Intimate, tantalizing, maddening
Bone aching Mystery.
Yet. Yet. Yet. Yet. Yet.
I yet.
Yet again.
I am here.
Crossroads. Yield to trains.
There is no last stop until I
play cartographer
and circumnavigate
Wasteland concepts. Swamps of muted wishes.
Until I put my broken lamps back together
I am here.
Wandering,
waiting,
a ghost.
Jan 21, 2012
Jan 21, 2012 at 3:57 PM UTC
Blanket me with love
After you embroider it with hatred
Careful as not to pick your fingers with the needle
Your wrists show scars
Your knuckles crooked and broken
Your thumbs and palms the only remnants of daydreams without nightmares
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 3:01 PM UTC
I am a Woman:
My skin melted in moonlight into grim of the darkness of night,
My hair sewed a meadow’s wildflowers,
That's how a woman created in me'
with blood divine,
I am a woman' strong and at the same time soft,
I am more like a pure wine of heaven,
Through dew, the spark of life arrowed in,
Giving birth to the wildwood adored skin,
Delphinium vivid petals of spring late,
With flagrant red roses; coloring my lips,
My eyes carry the dreams of poetry,
hopes of songs,
and music of joy,
An existence where I would live with pure me,
Where I would dance with my **** truths,
Play the drama of mystery,
And audience and stage all are for me,
Gathered to listen to me,
To see me play all drama and dance in between of drama,
I wrought the hair of my drenched in the psalm,
Enchanting with dark godly melodies of mine,
Braiding light with sorrows that, there, were.
The breeze from the voided air,
To embroider something, while reciting a prayer,
And dizzily, I fabricated a soul for the mud,
I inhaled, in awe and feel the life,
I am the words in a poem, ready to rhyme,
Yes, I am a woman,
Enough to feel the entire universe within the word of Woman,
My light reflected on my broken pieces,
The rays shaped a tree of wicked caprices,
Where my fantasies grow,
However, I am my own little beautiful creation,
And this reality is my hunger’s innovation.
The reality we all share,
Yet what deep is, makes my reality whole.
Mar 18, 2022
Mar 18, 2022 at 3:33 PM UTC
Wriggled and wrapped in our safety suits
The Man tells us the sea is ten degrees
The Man wants his cargo to be safe
The Man wants us to come back
Single file managed carefully
A Man directs us to the tarmac
The big, birds, blades, beat
Secured, we hover lightly
Quick check, Straight up
Tiny farms with tiny fields
Checker an industrious quilt
Stone is torn from a quarry
For homes of busy people
A road rests on the countryside
A ribbon on a patchwork blanket
Houses embroider the hills
Where families pay their bills
Crawling along paved threads
Creatures scurry passed a hospital
With more important things ahead
First day back to school
Rush hour, late for work
We soar above the little land
And hold the blanket in our hand
The mansions acres sheared and preened
Sit pretty next to factory steam
From here the mansions just as small
From here the graveyard’s twice as tall
Hugging coast we close our eyes
The stuffing from the covered skies
Descends around our whirly bird
And only flutter can be heard
And from the window only sea
Until we reach our island, sleep.
Jun 22, 2010
Jun 22, 2010 at 1:11 AM UTC
- Start by caaaaarefully removing your outermost layer of flesh - lather generously; rinse passionately; re-evaluate your life with a fine-toothed comb and carefully remove the parasites of your predetermined partiality
- String them up with clothespins to wither and flake in a badly scorched sky
- Acquire an ice pick of high quality, frosted on memories of all your ex-lovers and their numbing tongues. Begin to chisel at your own very delicate bone structure. Cease action only when the jawbone resembles the claws you disregarded in your 3 AM awakening punctured with crrreeeeaks and hazy in a soft red fog
- Dust your eyelid with arsenic until they're heavy enough to crush a small child. Tell a good joke, or two - which part of a vegetable are you not supposed to eat again? Might as well eat all of it, him, her, them - but not the wheelchair. In retrospect, pull all of your eyelashes out as well - no sense in prolonging the sought-after blackness
- Tie your lover's ruptured spleen around your waist to add a few pounds - god forbid you get too twiggy and crackle and fall into an inevitable pit of self-loathing. Stick straws through puke green nostrils and **** maggots out of gaping eye sockets. Line your lips in borrowed blood.
- Embroider your initials onto my skin and never forget where you came from.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 11:01 PM UTC
tonight she is
tip-toeing
on
little peach teacups,
teetering
on tiny saucer plates,
and
relishing the
somber chimes
left on their delicate
frames
her toes
embroider doilies of the
Universe,
her smile a beam
of
Light
exuding from
a bewildered heart
from
setting to setting
she samples a
taste
of little cakes and cucumber sandwiches
before her,
but
continues
to float
over the tableware
until she meets
the warm embrace
of
morning's
sweet release
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 2:25 PM UTC
You slid to me
with ice on your heels,
flame on your back,
the wind in your face,
and the stars in your eyes.
It's a scritchy scratchy situation
made from a wishy washy connotation.
Shift, shaft, shake the muscles beneath my skin.
You crick crack creeped to corner of my grin.
Broken with a kiss, and sealed with a sigh.
You remain my favorite little white lie.
Confessing that I don't know why
I will write about you until the day that I die.
You pretended; I embroider the delusion
with every hiccup of a heart's confusion.
Remember, child, what you can't see?
I won't stop, I still fancy that fantasy.
I pushed you away, but you threw me out.
I was your trash; you were everyone's treasure.
Internally screaming with scarcely a shout,
all in all, the torture was my pleasure.
Backtrack back, to this and our state.
A slip of strength but not a slip of the tongue,
Because like destiny and the idea of fate,
I stopped believing in you when I was young.
So I stole your
ice for my heart
and flames for my belly,
because it's windy in my head
with your stars on my mind
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 1:44 AM UTC
a 'good' poem crumbles in your mouth. it doesn't
tell you, chiding, "this is how i should taste" -
instead decomposes into the loam of ages.
no single flavour is the same
to every person.
a 'good' poem forces open the jaw,
climbing in. it begs no hospitality -
it needs none. and as it clambers on your tongue
(trying to avoid incisors), only taste
keeps you chewing, rolling gobs of words over molars,
wondering when before you've felt them
without knowing.
sustaining life sustains a string of
otherwise insubstantial little letters no better
than ideograms, clicks and chirps
all ones and zeros, really.
we embroider and tack up that
which our minds give meaning to.
Mar 1, 2011
Mar 1, 2011 at 9:10 PM UTC
You hide behind that smile
An artificial mouthful of white
Barren in warmth
Just as your barren gums
You give me a sulky kiss
The commercial Zollywood type
Purring
Like a cat with a fatal cold
Stiff-necked in my arms
With feigned bliss
Shut up your ****** mouth
Your breath is not Ozone -friendly
kills my good mood
And stop looking at me
Behind those dark glasses
They don't hide your ***** mind
Behind
Though your face is clean
Your neck and back of ears are not
I know your ***** habits
A nauseating lump of pretence
You fabricate, embroider,magnify
Pretence
is all you know
I hate you
-dougwa-
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 9:54 AM UTC
She is her own island
A porcelain memory with
tendrils twisting through the brutally
polite obsession of her few inhabitants
She fancies herself abandoned-laughable!
Doomed daffodils embroider themselves into her hair and
frame her cold hands, pale arms
(mortared, mistranslated) scars
fingernails like moons slaughter foreigners
and petrify
the flea ridden.
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 4:11 PM UTC
For fity miles
she rode on a rare Steed
to show her endeavour,
never saying whether should would dither -
a hearth must be prepared with care
a heart's evermore if it is sincere,
dreaming of the future under a
Trestle viaduct,
she recalled tact,
your typical daughter
with thin waist
and flaxen hair
could be changed by the World,
instead she had the courage of choice,
to embroider a kindred yarn
and perform revival folk
to kinder Columbine kingdoms,
perchance early to rise?
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 5:39 PM UTC
You can go anywhere in the world
A thousand lies
written on your back,
cursive between your shoulder blades,
Ts left uncrossed.
Falling into the arch of your back
between left and right,
ditch of a spine
pooling with arguments.
Staple you together,
try to make a V.
I’ll write a poem about you,
embroider it into the pocket
of a thrift store cardigan.
The wet pavement will add
a stanza to your palms.
Cheap perfume made with
the empty spaces of melodies.
Scents of vibrato.
Encoded messages
missing number 19.
and see nothing at all
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 1:27 AM UTC
The spiders of sleep
are weaving words
in the back of her throat.
I listen to the sibilant
murmur of her dreams
unfurling.
She recites non sequiturs
to darkened walls, her bed
a stage draped in velvet
curtains of disassociation.
Incessant spinners,
spiders embroider
forsaken moonlight
into feathery pillow talk.
I am an audience of one.
When her monologue
is done, I blanket the bed sheets
with bouquets of bloodless roses.
Ashamed, I wait for more.
Her dreams scratch
at the face of the moon,
inscribing an encore.
Jan 5, 2017
Jan 5, 2017 at 4:56 PM UTC
Lend me your hand lend me your faces
Study them both, let us touch basis
Black’s in their heads, blacks in their fears
Black works well with the minds that it clears.
Following Weakness
Lend me your books, lend me your pages
I’ll start the fire, you start the races
Black is the needle, you wish to embroider
The very fabrics of social order.
Following Weakness
May 15, 2012
May 15, 2012 at 10:14 AM UTC