"felted" poems
My beautiful blue skein of yarn,
Here in my bag you sit,
I'd love to pick you up to knit,
If only for a bit.
But clothes need washing and babes need baths,
And food needs cooking too,
Besides, I'd have a hard time choosing,
What to make of you.
You see, my stitches were not even,
My gauge, no one could guess,
My beautiful blue skein of yarn,
You would not have been impressed.
But oh how I've practiced, how I've improved, I'm sure you'll find it so,
My stitches fly right off my needles and sit in pretty rows.
My gauge is constant, my edges neat, now I am ready for you,
But still that nagging question comes, what with you will I do?
Maybe I will make of you a felted wooly bonnet,
And everyone would stop and gaze and cast their eyes upon it.
I'll wear you on holiday, we'll march in a parade,
I'll prance so proudly, show you off, and say, "yes, you're handmade".
Maybe I will make of you, a purse, like those I see in Vogue,
I'll put in you my favorite things, and then, we'll hit the rode!
We'll travel round the city, and everyone will see,
How beautiful and remarkable a skein of yarn can be.
Maybe I will make you gloves,
My baby's hands to cover,
And everyone who saw her'd say,
"her mother must really love her".
A hat, a purse, a pair of gloves, your beauty for all to see,
But, only if I stop and knit,
Now look what you've made of me,
Your potential's not all I see...
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 11:28 PM UTC
Consumed with thoughts of innocence, youthfulness and vigor
Never understood the attraction between a boy and a girl
Never understood for I was just a slender spoon...
Writing, playful - never thought I'd act the fool.
In my heart there was nothing.
Nothing of substance, thought, not even a care.
There was no one…
Just a slender spoon living just to survive and not to be seen.
Then I traveled and laid bare my eyes intertwining with yours.
Never a word... a word we didn't say for you were strange...
Strange to my eyes and I was too strange for yours.
So we looked on, clueless of the storm we'd cause today.
And so under that hat you smiled at first glimpse of my beauty.
A black woman, innocent but not without fault.
How could that be...ahhhh?
Then you became curious...
Curious about that slender spoon and what she was capable of.
You now know her thoughts and I...and she knows yours.
Unaware... that man under the hat, that black felted hat would later be a man with a ring...
That slender spoon... the beauty that shone under the sun would no longer be naive, indifferent… but she later became someone who had your interest at heart.
....that slender spoon later became a woman with a ring and the man under that hat became the one… the one who gave that ring,
That man under the hat....
The masculinity who wore that hat
…It was the man who wore that felted hat.
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 10:43 AM 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
Call me when you have gasped your throat to splintered wood
Reach for me when your fingers have calloused to fractured stone
From the depths of the stoney pit of echoing isolation
When your legs hold you weary as rusted tin-soldiers
If your heart is hardening like lava reaching the ocean
If your song is submerged in a rain-on-tin-roof din
If your hugging arms are pulled asunder by monsoon landslides
If your eyes have filled with the angry spray of November hurricanes
Remember a warm hand against cold skin
Remember closeness like a heavy felted great-coat
Remember a low voice breathing fireplace hot upon your neck
Remember two hearts
Just two rib-thicknesses apart;
Two taught drums,
Beating in time
Together
In song.
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 4:53 PM UTC
I love you more than me
it's what scares me most
my chameleon heart
I become what I cling to.
And so my colour-blind soul
passing through shades
when picking you flowers
what do I have of my very own to give you?
You made me out of blue
You felted my heart of this red
You turned my hands to gold.
I am already you
I have nothing of my very own.
My darling, what could I give you now?
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 7:41 PM UTC
The electric wires form a fox
Eyes and ears pointed at my face
Her mouth nips in the air
She's watching me
Trying to figure out if I'm prey or predator
The woods whisper your name when you walk by
When you sinned we weep of your graciousness
Rejection is a script you know too well
And I'm sorry for being a ghostwriter
Do you know? I ask
How they view you,
You are cunning and they fear it
You are smart and it's terrifying for them
You are the legends scratching cracks into history
What you have done is birth a new era
Our spines read of your sly rebellion
Millions of people have been touched by those stories
But sides have formed
And you have become a martyr
They’ve made you an example,
And I am sorry that your story is not unique
I know so many foxes
Some with white hair
Braided and ready for war
Reckless with ambition
Others with piercing black eyes
Sharp and not scared of death
Saw the injustice and called it out of its shadow
They are scared of them
Called them witches riddled with sins
Killed them without a remark for justice
Leaving their bodies in the forest
Abandon and erased
Trees have been born by their hearts
Nourished by their blood
I walked into the forest
Touched the ground
Felted the air
And came out a phoenix
So I understand the hesitation
The double step before you move
The hitch in your breath before you ask
But I am stone and statue
I speak when spoken too
Just like you, they have made me a lie
So staring will solve nothing now
Ask and you shall know what side I am on
Prey or predator?
You are still staring and I am looking back
I can see the wheels turning in your head
Prey or predator?
And taking pity
Taking rebellion by the hand
Taking you by the hand
Refusing to make you my enemy
I say "neither"
Because exil is also an exception
Because love unite foes
Because I have played the game for too long too
And you look tired of always needing to pick sides
Oct 1, 2020
Oct 1, 2020 at 12:59 PM UTC
I got those familiar feelings
hit me making me wonder
Like I have felted it before
Long time ago
Don't know where , when or With whom exactly
I'm afraid that I'm making the Same old mistakes again
wanna travel back in time centuries ago to see the old me probably taking notes how to survive in today's world.
notes so I can survive in today's world
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 2:32 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
summer of sweating, again
on felted couch from curb
side. no longer living from,
but now found (seen in)
comfort and time to brake.
running is stature set, now
for-to no longer from-to.
reticence in lingering good-
ness of lustless vessel. lust-
ful psyche. lustful soul, and
all know that exists of the
brain. epicenter, and natal
first-formed. far from first
sitting in some whispering
abyss. in absence of a whole-
some feeling, in preparation
of returning unity thru dis-
tanced words. questioning,
ever questioning the thoughts
wayfaring through the soul
in vehemence. teachers with
a breath never in speech, but
ages' ink pressed in repetition,
trouncing some threshold.
breaking imagined barriers, and
Harry Morgan's creator might
scoff at this ink of lacking age.
Jun 22, 2013
Jun 22, 2013 at 1:59 AM UTC
Worry taxing vindication
Deep lines score a harried brow,
Hooded eyes reveal the torment
Green of bile consuming now.
Years compile the load endureth
Weighted soul with quilted guilt,
Bowed is back and shoulder bendeth
Round and bound imbued as built.
So laboured by the leaden deeds
Weighted by the tomes of greed,
Cloistered with the avarice
Of omnipresent want and need.
Oh to see a mote of sunshine
Beam between the felted cloud,
Oh to feel the right of light
Emerge unhindered from the shroud.
God! To witness ordinary
Moments from this sea of pain…
To capture the exquisite joy
Of freely given mirth again ?
Marshalg
‘Foxglove’, Taranaki
31st December 2012
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 10:07 PM UTC
Scarlet symphony of rough elements,
celestial concubine of the good omen
slowly sipped though by a vogue fate.
Roots of legendary sources
are plunged into the rusty soil
and perched on waves
of frequencies in meditation.
Clouds of gold foil are felted
in lacquered curls by the wind,
admiring the highest appearance
of the innermost and pure awareness.
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 3:55 PM UTC
They never should have let me out of the box,
these harnesses are coddled in rust and will never do,
I nearly have an arm free now.
Tis the bloodlust,
the ever recurring,
I cauterize so sickly raptured and recoiled,
vile animal reveling beneath fang and flesh.
Tis the beast wrought beneath this parchment bearing,
what is left of mortal means
as the morals feast upon the limbs and lungs of one another.
Ever screaming,
my memories wrench and tear,
torn in ribbons splayed from lung to tissue.
My demon slaughters the remnants packed and hid way
in corner and shadow,
ideals and sockets of life scratch and rip
across the flesh of the air as their lungs flood so violently,
doused in creamy blood liquid.
I die so sullenly,
so intrepidly,
dripped in god’s sunlight beams,
bathed in crackling spine and broken butterfly wings.
I writhe not in brain fractured grenade shrapnel,
not felted amongst iron clad bomb shards,
I lie so serenely,
stomach basking in sun beam,
I bite and suckle upon such succulent fruits of flesh,
human meat and such soft hips of lustful imps,
so untouched and littered in my most precise of bite marks.
I stake claim to the everest of fiendish hues,
chains so kin to my sins,
mind so ravaged in demonish,
all thought is mother to acts so sickly in hellish cravings,
I seek no retribution for ideals so crimped and carved through my bones.
All is relative to one’s fiendish benevolences.
I take care to ratify my most ancient of antiquities,
the very blood line that so racks this mortal sense of the human reality.
This evil is ever bearing and eternal lasting,
nor it’s will softened.
Shackles crease and crinkle
so fondly with every sickly furnished breath.
Dec 24, 2011
Dec 24, 2011 at 4:56 AM UTC
scarf hysteria friday,
thirteenth, even the spectators
joined in. unpacking the delivery.
polyester kept quiet with electrical
revery, silk excited us in with gentility.
it was the deepset , pleated, spotty,
adjective filled woollen slightly
felted, even reversable at such
a reasonable price, that sent us
over the edge. all was lost after that.
there are two ll s in woollen.
sbm.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 1:47 AM UTC
It 's the latter part of class,
people talking and laughing
All ,but him
little to no emotion was expressed,
screaming,crying,feeling overwhelmed
Like a caged creature,clawing,
desperate for its freedom
Bell Rings
he snaps out of it for a minute
calmly rising from his seat,
making his way towards the buses
half-way home
it happens again,
masking what he felted on the outside
bus stops
before he noticed,
he was practically almost running off the bus
hurting so much
his chest tightens with every breath he takes
quickly he runs in to his grandparent's room,
grabbing the razor blade
isolating himself
staring at the unharmed flesh of his arm
*his mind being filled with
images of blood over
flowing from his
wrist*
as the blade met his skin,
very little pain was felted
what started out as short & slow strokes
became fast,long & deeper cuts,
in that moment there was nothing he desire more
than to end it all
but did not
placing the blade on the sink,
tracing the scars that ran up his arm,
he smiles
with tears flooding his eyes
it's around 12 at night,
wide awake and possessed by his thoughts,
finally tired,
falls asleep with the last thought
before closing his eyes to rest
i couldn't change even if i tried
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 8:08 AM UTC
I want to say:
good morning
in words newly-minted
bright, sharp-edged
with shadows, alight
this June morning.
At my desk
I sit before a still-life
of small things
treasured, some made
by your quiet hands,
others evidence
of our journeying:
precious times of
smiles and gestures,
delicate long exchanges,
photographs of course.
And in the foreground:
a trio of felted vessels
lined with thread,
my daughter’s tile
of blackbirds on a bough,
and this book in miniature,
rich in marks made
by the tides’ turnings.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 4:33 AM UTC
there he was
head hanging low
on a totem pole
for all to see
supposedly
their crucification, self imposed
like a bull seeing red
and feeling melancholy
he walked out of the casino
pockets empty, again
and just fresh off the farm
he now wished he stayed home
milking cows
collecting eggs
saving his money
instead of losing his scalp
to the Indians
he looked passed the exit
a door he walked into a few hours ago
with wide open trappings
where the glitz. glamor and neon
caught his eye and addiction
literally
the cling, the clang
the sound of music
Julie Andrew's voice coming to life
reach for the sky, reach for the sky
whirling around in his head
... a cut of cloth
who knows
maybe it was his grandmother's roots
grandma are you watching
yes grandson, I'm crying and praying ...
he looked over at the green mountains
the lost forests of patrons
the felted tables, banks of chips
fjords of waitresses serving drinks
majestic, scenic and serene
and for a moment
he wished to be a boat in Norway
instead
instead
like always
he took to a splash in the abyss
******* and sadism
his lost fork in the road
and like a billy goat
teetering on the edge
echo's from the valleys below
don't do it , don't do it, don't do it
he peeled off all his Benjamin's
and credit
to the depts of the dungeon
beaten and wounded
where if only the next time
he rewinds his entrance
and finds his bouency and oars
Logan Robertson
5/07/2019
May 7, 2019
May 7, 2019 at 2:37 PM UTC
Falling stars
brush felted grass
that tickles the bottoms
of bare feet
we are here
for now and for always
prepared for the world
surrounded by moments
immersed in memories
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 3:17 PM UTC
I never felt this kind of pain before
I felted everything
The heat
The cold
The emptiness…
There is a fire burning inside me
It stung so deeply under my skin,
It felted almost like hell
Oh, how pitty…
I never felt so alive.
Until i realized that
I
Was
At
War
With
Love
- Ø -
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 3:58 AM UTC
Do you see the sun now
My dearest joy.
gazing at those chinese eyes
mysterious as if never told.
Pure love you offered
is silenced by this vague situation,
yet honest as the birds,
flying towards undying affection.
Kindness flowing like river,
pours into your pure heart,
words as keen and hand picked
gentle from the start.
Beauty as everyone sees,
untouched but educated.
I hope the best of things
kindness returns uncompensated.
As you believe in me
Now our ways could be parted.
but your memories will always remain
your values that is heart felted.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 1:17 AM UTC
Only time I feel sane is when I bath.
When I cleanse my body of the sins I committed.
When my heavy weight of problems feel like a feather..
But this bath was different.
This bath was the ultimate two way street
Where I had to choose where to turn
This bath is where my doubts overpowered my way of thinking..
My lust for contact with a boy felted overpowering...
This bath I took made me realize that I'm not okay...
This bath I took was the bath we're I laid my sins on the water just to go out and perform new sins that I was aware of...
Where I knew I should have not done such yet I continue to go...
This bath was a traumatic bath because I knew I was going to be used and felt crap afterwards
But I still went for it..
This bath was the bath I knew I'd come back home regretting it and wished that never happened
This bath... Just knew that I wouldn't listen
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 9:48 AM UTC
Fire has burned our skin
Snow has made our blood frozen
*Some pain have to be felted
Some joy to be known..*
if not
we would be the snow
who has never known
the warmth of fire
if not
we would be the fire
who has never felt
the chill of snow..
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 10:10 AM UTC
Wrapped around the room is felted flowers that turn to white stars.
When the sun is in hiding, little mushrooms bring light.
It smells of fake flowers and another mother.
A small broom for a small room.
I'm sorry I missed you.
I was spending.
Sobbing softly into my high collared coat.
Watching the body
In its stillness.
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 12:48 AM UTC
I remember the day we first met. In the doorway of that tiny boutique with the leadlight windows on the corner of Main and Wharf. You looked expensive, all laced-up leather and felted wool, commando meets catwalk. Your friend was in stitches about something, and it was when you turned to her and stuck out your pretty tongue - then, right then - that was the moment that I decided you were going to be mine.
I put aside my embarrassment and guilt. I ignored the whisperings of my empty wallet, and the thought of what my flatties would say in the morning. I picked you both up and took you home. Two for the price of one.
Ten years later, both of you are still around. Not quite as streamlined and sassy as you used to be. Your souls - my bad - soles are in need of repair, your white stitching has blackened, and your brass eyelets are looking a little worse for wear. But we’ve walked miles haven’t we? You, me, and your mirror image - BFFF - Best Feet Forward Forever.
Jul 5, 2019
Jul 5, 2019 at 10:40 PM UTC
the old pine table,
was scrubbed daily
with a mixture of bleach and salt,
and then sluiced
with clean ice cold well water.
it had a felted softness to it,
a wonderful tactile memory
i am still unable to explain.
sat out upon the balcony,
overlooking the beaches
and whale island.
caught both the days sun
and a short substantial breeze.
it was an oval behemoth of a thing, would easily sit twelve adults,
at a christmas feast.
but now just one or two,
excepting when we arrived,
on vacation, then a half dozen neat.
and on most mornings,
big broadsheet papers.
spread out, anchored down,
by oranges and bannanas,
sea shells and driftwood,
teapots and coffee cups,
whatever was to hand,
scattered haphazardly about.
the rule was if you took a bit of fruit, or whatever,
you had to supply a new anchor.
so as the morning wore on,
fruit became books and toy trucks, teddy bears and cricket *****
all presided over by granda,
as he worked his way
around the news,
spread before him,
like the hands of a clock.
changing seats, irregularly,
with a sigh and a plop.
muttering to himself,
or calling out to gran,
news of suggested import,
or the "specials"of the day.
that old pine table held,
the world spread out,
for intelligent disection.
i still can feel, it's surface,
like rolling, polished pearls.
.....no still not explaining it,
at all well.
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 6:20 PM UTC