"embroidery" poems
The router's a strobe light;
I can't connect.
The microwave fritzed,
I can't heat.
The circuit shut;
guess no electricity.
Ayo no technology.
Let's talk ancient
philosophy,
NOT whether
Beyonce is a feminist.
Let's have a bonfire
and roast meat
cause none of us
were vegan
before this.
Let's light candles
in the streets.
Pray batteries die
on LCD screens.
Cause we were alchemists
before technology,
the versed probing
the multiverse,
thrilled,
lighting our golden
embroidery on life.
Now were just bored.
Coy toys to tied strings,
webs that touch
everything,
but the space between.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 2:31 PM UTC
( Sonnet )
Under the primrose stars, the lovers
Lie abed, on green, threadbare croft
Of sleeping daisy, clover and moss,
Trails with hushed air, an embroidery
So fine as to stitch blushing heart fall
And wrap the waters full of quietude
In graces, winding, soft, granulating
Time, wings flutter and hum, winsome
Sparks, fire white, flying as little suns
Burst confetti, in sweet encampment,
Of grass and sapling wood, innocents,
Charmed are wholly twining, in moon
Rise a lantern to the winking heavens,
Out of their skins they are climbing.
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 1:06 PM UTC
Aara Priyanka Chopra Beige Net Saree. This bollywood wedding saree is beautified with resham thread embroidery on pallu portion and panels of the saree.Shimmer embroidered patch patti is placed at border of the saree add extra beauty to the saree. Blouse pattern shown in image is only for photo shoot purpose. Ara Priyanka Chopra Beige net Saree color of the product may differ from that shown on your computer screen. Aara Priyanka Chopra Beige Net Saree difference in color is mostly due to flash, monitor or camera settings. The images shown are only for you
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 2:05 AM UTC
Aara Priyanka Chopra Beige Net Saree. This bollywood wedding saree is beautified with resham thread embroidery on pallu portion and panels of the saree.Shimmer embroidered patch patti is placed at border of the saree add extra beauty to the saree. Blouse pattern shown in image is only for photo shoot purpose. Ara Priyanka Chopra Beige net Saree color of the product may differ from that shown on your computer screen. Aara Priyanka Chopra Beige Net Saree difference in color is mostly due to flash, monitor or camera settings. The images shown are only for reference.
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 2:13 AM UTC
The crochet needles are stuck
in my teeth.
The hooks settle in my throat,
dripping with
saliva and *****
The calendar winds its way
through the winter months,
and it is still winter,
but it has been hot like spring(s).
The crochet lingers.
The white thread
consumes.
I love you, but that is all I ever say
anymore.
I miss you.
The blood drips down the alley
and God smokes a Cuban.
Death laughs. Death reds. Death dog.
Death to the death-heart, the dead-heart;
and I will ensnare your---
I will ensoul and be ensouled
because I am God.
I am God smoking a Cuban.
The wedding bells get caught
in the cilia,
and they are frozen.
I am deaf. I am death I am God without a Cuban cigar.
I'm sorry as I pick the dirt
from my fingernailed coffin tomb.
The abort-fetus clings to your ******
You love your ******
I never really liked mine.
The crochet grids lie in
woven embroidery dreams,
hot as fever,
cold as the call of the void.
Jump. Jump.
It is not autumn here.
But here, see, I'm sorry.
Mar 8, 2012
Mar 8, 2012 at 4:47 PM UTC
In the seventies
we brought back silks and saris
hot with colours
that shocked the nights
Punjabi embroidery
on cheesecloth kaftans
mirror glittered skirts
that were spun with light
Kashmiri shawls
and Afghani dancing dresses
arms full of bracelets
silver and brass
enameled and etched
and singing with ***
rings of Ivory, sapphire and jet
necklaces of jade and threaded apple seeds
rain forest timber bowls
white marble boxes from Agra
with precious inlay stones
our little Taj Mahals
we wandered the globe
like a magical village
of lovers and
and came back
with backpacks of dreaming
and hope.
© M.L.Emmett
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 11:43 AM UTC
✿⊰✲⊱✿
At the sound of my name, I see the faces
turn and smiles of many friends;
Queen Sue of Ruikruya in her lilac silks,
Queen Sarita of Khaikar in orange silks,
Queen Deb of Daegeral in magenta,
Queen Kim of Geniael in creams,
Queen Robin of Naeneiana in periwinkles,
Queen Fawn of Yuamor in red-violets,
Queen Dawn of Khesian in dandelion-orange,
Queen Jugnu of Enuryn in jade-greens,
Queen Yidna of Puhan in indigos,
Queen Cne of Phelyra in turquoise,
Queen Xaela of Lonusea in peach,
Queen Ayumi of Wadia in tan-gold,
Queen Sheila of Naizzuzia in cornflower-blue,
Queen Stars of Yurithireatha in green-yellow
✿⊰✲⊱✿
King Edmund and his wife in matching
forest-greens attires,
King Omni of Khaniel in silvers,
King Emeka of Ghalali in white,
King Devon of Monait in blue-violets,
King Fugue of Thavia in blacks,
King Yacov of Igrador in olive-green,
King Joseph of Eaqellurene in bronze,
King Fredrick of Emirinait in mauve,
King Rob of Balan in sea-green,
King John of Khesian in melon-red,
King Aslam of Ikaesa in deep plum,
King Brandon of Huarean in ocher,
King Kikodinho of Izugalla in taupe,
King Jobira of Zavalon in orange-red
and many many more.
✿⊰✲⊱✿
And last but not least, King Paul of
Luciuscemi himself in emerald-and-gold.
He wears his favourite emerald green
jacket with ruby buttons, bright gold
embroidery of suns and lions; his sleeves
stitched with pearls and rubies to match
the red sash across his chest; his trousers
black as are his boots, but even they have
gold laces.
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 6:17 AM UTC
Searing pain,
Flaring,
Pins and needles.
Pinch
Gone
Pinch
Gone
Pinch
Never ending cycle
Of stitching,
Like horrid embroidery
Embedded in my skin
That will forever be
Tattooed
Against my bones
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 11:58 AM UTC
san diego sun waves waft
in through the grime-claimed window
above the cucumber melon colored tub,
and onto a seashell embroidery,
salmon pink
lukewarm soak plus one more drink
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 6:21 PM UTC
White gauzy smoke is blown through the lily,
Floating on air,
Fondling leaves and dewdrops who're glittery,
A view so rare.
On a picture elegance is enjoyed,
A Polaroid,
Presented in a silver-gallery,
Who's gloomy ne'er.
With gauzy threads from a silky cocoon,
White as the moon,
Lily-hands craft blooming embroidery,
With flowers there.
Like gossamers this elegance's tender,
Lit and slender,
Shining at the afternoon silvery,
Which does not flare.
O Mâhî, this form is a web of rhymes,
Who slowly chimes,
With threads we're finally stitching poetry,
Crafted with care.
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 6:44 AM UTC
*The leaf’s gentle sway
Caressed by the wind
Dancing to its tunes
Glee written over it
Quivering with laughter
Sun rays shining through
Glistening with freshness
Rich embroidery all over
Intricate designs of nature
Adorning the swaying branches*
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 10:06 AM UTC
Staring at her reflection in the mirror, not thinking anything and just staring. A few minutes later she took a deep breath and opened the drawer. Took out a box and observed it for quite long.
She took out a blood red lip colour and began to apply. While applying the lipstick she remembered how exciting was dressing up was to her when she was a child. This red colour was much brighter to her than now. These bangles were much more fascinating than what they are now. She recalled the days when she uses to stole her mother's makeup kit, She recalled how her mother used to beat up as if she had committed any sin.
Her eyes were much sparkling when she was a little kid, Now even the coal pencil cannot bring that shine again.
She stood up without any emotions, She was as blank as a white paper.
The beautiful red lehnga with golden embroidery suits her perfectly, Her long black hair and wide eyes compliment her outfit completely. Oh, how beautiful she looks but something is missing. There is no happiness on the face of the girl who always loved to look pretty. She was living the nightmare of every girl of her age. How ominous her life is she wondered, with this thought tear rolled down.
Took a deep breath and controlled her emotions. Wore her dupatta and came to a room, Decorated with roses and candles and bloom.
It was perfectly decorated like every girl fascinates. But for her, this was nothing of value here it is reflected by her face. This room was decorated for her like this every day, someone waits for her in the room every day.
Nights haunt her, the moon scares her. Men frighten her. Now she knows why her mother used to stop her whenever she said she wants to be like her, Now she knows why her mother cried whenever she hugged her.
These bangles are fetters to her, All the colours are not so happy for her. Her innocence is lost somewhere, she doesn't even remember when she laughed last without faking.
She is like a body without the soul. She is like a night with no moon.
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 7:17 PM UTC
elephants stomp with stone-laden feet
back and forth, back and forth,
creating cracks in my already-battered skull,
weakening the very foundations of my sanity.
their trumpeting echoes through cold corridors
flooding my thought capacity to the brim.
a tightrope walker stretches me, thin -
i feel the shifting pressure of her nimble feet
treading the territories of my weathered frame,
back and forth, back and forth,
my skin reddens beneath the incessant crossing
as the sinew within me starts to atrophy.
in my chest cavity there is a ring of fire,
manipulating my lungs and feeble heart to mere ash.
two golden eyes seen beyond the flames,
ready to leap through them - without the
inconvenience of fear weighing down his agile paws,
both capable and likely to tear my veins to shreds.
a grisly strongman has my bones in his grip.
he smiles malevolently, gloating his strength over me,
squeezing the life from my cartilage - awaiting the snap.
i am cognizant of the sound, but i won't flinch.
next, the imminent collapse of my vertebrae -
i feel them crumble to dust. he laughs.
but it is in the pit of my stomach the ringleader sits -
commanding me into subsidence with every crack of his whip.
i want to meet his eyes but he only averts my gaze.
his twisted circus nearly through, the audience begins to dissipate.
i stare through the blurred smoke, desperate for his visage -
when i see on one of his faded lapels, the embroidery spells out your name.
-m.f.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 12:03 AM UTC
I am so disappointed...disappointed in love.
It had unlocked so many closed doors and exposed my eyes to beautiful sights.
It had my heart pounding out of excitement and my tummy in knots.
I would close my eyes and feel the warmth of your hug engulf me in its ecstasy...
Ecstasy defined as "a state of being carried away by an overwhelming emotion".
It felt like I was swept away...lifted off the ground and hung up to soak up this Love.
I had no reservations...since this love showed me sights I never knew existed.
It had my highest level of thought twisted in gold rims and candy floss...lost in the fairytale that always ends happily.
Love. Love. Love.
Words formed little bubbles of thrill all around my imagination.
Cushioning any doubt I might have. It smoothed the rough edges and made the difficult seem easy.
It had me looking forward to a life with you.
Looking forward to the fights and smiles, the laughter and cries.
I used to tell you your laughter brings so much joy to my heart...
Love. I have so many things to tell you. I have so much I want to share with you.
I am upset, disappointed...yet I am excited and I still love you, love.
When you came along I belonged to the fragile kind, the dreamy kind, those that believed in the impossible.
My heart got strengthened with each day, my poems building my broken soul.
I can still see you, every second blink has your wonderful face floating by.
I blink harder to try and remove any trace of you...
Love. Feels like you tore out my heart and smashed it against a high concrete wall.
You wore your biggest boot and kicked me in the guts, making me question if I truly deserve you.
Love. It had me writing endlessly about the golden embroidery you were adding to my tapestry.
Tapestry that details the path of my life...you my Love have been added onto my tapestry. Like it or not.
You are there, blending in with the adventures of my life.
I will remember you, forever think about you...Love, You will settle in the depths of my being.
Stacked under the "Lost and never found".
Time to move....
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 2:50 AM UTC
When love hits two people
It's far beyond their capacity
It's not a choice.
Like God, bored in his kingdom,
Ordered the angels
To stitch them together
As one piece of fabric
Through thick and thin.
Then the Devil, jealous of such union,
Does his best to set them apart again.
He tries loosening the threads,
Uses scissors to rip them.
He even makes little unnoticeable holes
Just to damage the cloth.
But they must be smart
They must see through his villain attempts
At spoiling the embroidery of love
God sewed on the cloth of their heart.
They must resist.
Sometimes they do
Sometimes they don't.
F.Z.N
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 11:38 PM UTC
Like the faint speckles of light
piercing through fabrics of black silk
upon the fore of flickering flames
from an ensemble of a thousand tealights
The obscure vast extends beyond our perspective
opening our minds, birthing visual imagery
brought upon by this vivid intimacy
between the light and of the dark
Like ornate embroidery, leisurely sewn
as clouds transform while traversing the temporal expanse
revealing our past through portraits
of familiarities once anew
The romantic serenity politely interrupted
by wisps of wind that softly whisper
feeling their breath; as a caress of silk
delicately brushing against our skin
As the warmth of earth upon which our bodies rest
holds us closely as our souls explore
the everlasting and exclusive wonders
under the night sky
Dec 5, 2016
Dec 5, 2016 at 3:30 AM UTC
Rose Red's hair is brown as fur
and shines in firelight as she prepares
supper of honey and apples, curds and whey,
for the bear, and leaves it ready
on the hearth-stone.
Rose White's grey eyes
look into the dark forest.
Rose Red's cheeks are burning,
sign of her ardent, joyful
compassionate heart.
Rose White is pale,
turning away when she hears
the bear's paw on the latch.
When he enters, there is
frost on his fur,
he draws near to the fire
giving off sparks.
Rose Red catches the scent of the forest,
of mushrooms, of rosin.
Together Rose Red and Rose White
sing to the bear;
it is a cradle song, a loom song,
a song about marriage, about
a pilgrimage to the mountains
long ago.
Raised on an elbow,
the bear stretched on the hearth
nods and hums; soon he sighs
and puts down his head.
He sleeps; the Roses
bank the fire.
Sunk in the clouds of their feather bed
they prepare to dream.
Rose Red in a cave that smells of honey
dreams she is combing the fur of her cubs
with a golden comb.
Rose White is lying awake.
Rose White shall marry the bear's brother.
Shall he too
when the time is ripe,
step from the bear's hide?
Is that other, her bridegroom,
here in the room?
3.1k
where is that Dettol cream
to soothe these burns
tearing up my fragile skin
can’t handle these
children in conversations,
at the dinner table, like Pinot Noir
a stain on the embroidery,
what has happened to the Panadol
on the twelfth shelf of the walk in pantry
we’re all going to throw a *****
it’s all plasters, plastercine
playdough, dresses with cheap
cliché’ commercial slogans -
such a numb drum melody,
the top shelf
of every pantry is a *****
might as well lend a little
helping hand, sponsor a child
charity
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 2:59 PM UTC
We are stopped for special checks
At TSA and immigration
We are murdered
In our house of worship
Six innocent lives lost
Oak Creek Gurdwara, 2012
Racial slurs hit our hearts:
Sand ******
ISIS
Towel head
Out of fear
We stop wearing our beautiful salwar kameezes, lenghas, saris, and kurta pajamas
In colors and embroidery your clothes could only ever dream of
We take off our crowns you call turbans
And replace them with baseball caps
We think twice about speaking Punjabi,
Our mother tongue,
Around those that don't recognize it
We stop packing our grandma's handmade saag and roti
To school for lunch
And start eating
Processed Lunchables
We separate into two people
Our American selves
And our Punjabi selves
Almost never does anyone meet both
All because
You don't know
The difference
Between a Sikh and a terrorist
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 1:07 PM UTC
Last Christmas I told you''Merry Christmas" on this staircase
With my embroidery red dress and you as a Krampus
This year I am still on this staircase
In my green sweater
and it's drizzling outside
Tonight I will have a Tex-Mex party with all my friends
And my lomo instant
Where are you my dear dear friend
Will we ever meet again?
Where or When?
In what year and where?
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 3:10 AM UTC
pink silk, floral embroidery
black ribbon, white trimmings
paired with soft slippers
& a twinkling tiara
Bibbidi-bobbidi- Boo!
mirror flashed, smiling sweetly is a princess;
skirt floating & feathery feet pivoting
dancing in the woods with merry deer
& singing birds
follow the faeries, drown in their music
the shinning flutes & playful pipe
luring one to a gentle doze
low bells chiming
woke up to an enchanted ruin,
go home, go home
crawling thorns & ****** roses
greedy crows & harden earth
body bursting & long limbs stretching
mirror grinned, a princess no more
but a grown woman
Nov 11, 2020
Nov 11, 2020 at 11:25 AM UTC
We will always have the same sky.
Brother, I have always been afraid to write about you. I have always been afraid that you would somehow find my poetry, my prose, whatever you call these letters I stitch together and see that my embroidery looks kind of a lot like you.
I visited the place where we first met last August, and there I found out that you can still make me cry. And to think it's been three years. Crazy, right?
I used to love that city. I still do, but last August I also discovered that there are landmines under almost every sidewalk. Those places have traces of the ice cream we ate, our laughter on the train, echoes of all the poetry and music and stories we gave each other. Bittersweet landmines. Each time they exploded a smile onto my face but the dark smoke would choke it out and take its place.
I only cry for the dead. But you saw how I cried over you at the apartment elevator that night. I think you told me to stop, but I'm not sure. All I remember is street lights, the taste of wet salt, and you looking like you were having a hard time breathing. Know that I felt the same. Or not. Sometimes I wonder why God never let me lose as many people as you. Maybe He knew that I would barely be able to handle losing you.
I haven't heard you breathe in years. All I see are your pictures and posts, intangible you. I can see you have grown in some parts... I hope you have. But I also see a lot of tiredness. And pain. And change. I don't think I can make you laugh anymore.
I don't know what your plans are now. I don't know if you still want to make films, if you still want to make things, if you still want to go everywhere you said you'd go. But I hope you know that my door is always open. And even if I will never hear you knock again, somehow I am comforted knowing that we
will always have the same sky.
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 12:57 PM UTC
Holding.
onto myself, tightly,
along with my arms which seem
to be too short, too… thick.
They've always seemed to be
too slow, lacking expression.
so I gather them inside myself,
as this poor self
would firstly accept them as they are…
then it would paint them,
sculpt them,
adding them a finger or two,
until
my poor arms
start looking
like wings.
but they are not like any other pair of wings,
they do not have any feathers or scales.
these are enclosed wings,
splinted to their marrow,
closed as some misplaced umbrella,
like a chisel with its hammer.
or they might be… fine embroidery
ready to cover
the holes in my soul.
This is why, occasionally, I would hold
Onto myself.
Tightly.
Jun 6, 2017
Jun 6, 2017 at 7:23 AM UTC
After we used to call you piglet
And after you liked celery,
After the eighth of December at eight o'clock
And after you were eight pounds eight ounces,
They took a photo of when I first held you.
You were crying your eyes out,
Like your mum was in the living room
After she found out,
Before I scurried away.
But you've grown up
In your old *** Pistols t-shirts
And your scribblings screenprinted onto new ones.
Copper hair loyally trailing behind you,
You glide around the house en pointe,
In between embroidery at noon and fashion design after lunch.
Too cool to have sushi at ten years old,
And nearly too old
To hug your big cousin without reluctance.
Like an ordinary kid.
Minding your know-it-all brother
With his resounding echos of 'youknowwhatyouknowwhat'
Making sure he doesn't burn a hole through the floor
With his new chemistry set, that he won't admit
He doesn't quite know how to use,
But will continue on nevertheless.
And you will roll your eyes.
Like an ordinary kid.
But your adenosine triphosphate,
Can barely lift it's own molecular weight
Nevermind the energy you ask it to carry.
In comparison, the ordinary ATP
Of your ordinary classmates,
Is a strongman next to your weakling cluster of N, H, C and O.
So you take your small grey spheres.
And don't drink full fat milk
And your father's taught you how to cook
And value food.
And use your nebuliser
And clean and dust and sterilise
So your glass lungs
Which clatter when you cough
Don't shatter.
And after all that
You twist your hair up in a bun
And carry on.
Not falling down the rabbit hole,
But bounding gracefully.
Like the extraordinary kid that you are, Alice.
Jul 2, 2011
Jul 2, 2011 at 7:19 AM UTC
Soft golden silk
streams down my face,
built strong and tall am I.
Embroidery feels like my skin,
deep amber in my eyes.
Dimples carve out of my cheeks
should I choose to smile for thy.
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 8:57 PM UTC