"matting" poems
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
There is a war we wage on God
When the heavens open up, his angels fall
Down to the ground at the end of our feet
Giving death to all that oppose the great Nephilim
Even Lucifer himself wishes to topple us with sending his demons
We just laugh at their pathetic attempts
Crawling up our legs like little ants till we just flick them away
The ground littered with a mix of crushed bones and mud made of blood
Blood flowed faster then wine from a Nephilim clay urn
Demon blood and angel blood mixed with human blood
All under the disproving glare of their God
War was the way of life for Nephilim, Humans, Demons and Angels
Godly and ungodly armor covered their rotting corpses on the battlefield called earth
As others fought a war, we played
Played with the bodies like children
Thinking nothing could ever stop our might
But what happened next not even the great thinkers could imagine
Watching as the sky weeped with water down onto the earth
Hearing screams echo across the land with my only thought being “how desperate can God be?
In all the history of man there was never rain
The Nephilim had never known rain either until that day
But neither did the demons and the angels
When the first drops fell the fighting stopped
the screams of panic rang out from all of the beings on earth
Forty days and forty nights the rains fell on earth
Many of lives were lost, but not all
Demons still continued their ongoing sins
Matting with humans to create more Nephilims
That was till an agreement was met between God and Lucifer
Locking away all those that dare touch the human females
All the remaining Nephilims fell to deaths hands
The mighty abominations finally died off
Killed from the fear that we put into Gods eyes
Humans soon forgot about the Nephilims and their ways
But humans forget a lot of things...
It did not help that the angels destroyed what evidence there was left
And history by word of mouth is bound to become just myth, just legend
But the bible of the christians still talk about the people
Born of demons and humans, the heros that are forgotten
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 11:01 AM UTC
The last times I wore a french braid:
17, laying on my stomach in the psychiatric intensive care unit, (adolescent)
I reach for my hair, and let them grow tired,
tirelessly overlapping the strands until the entire mass is taken care of.
I stay on my stomach,
I try not to move too much or the orderlies will think I'm at it again.
A few days later, in the unit common room, my new roomate has me sit in front of her.
She runs fingers through, twists and playfully tugs she says if we hadn't met here she'd be in love.
I agree.
Still braided by her delicate hands my hair flicks as we giggle together into the early hours of my 18th birthday,
sipping at ***** dipped pepsi she had her sister sneak in.
The nurses chant "this isn't a sleepover! Get back to your beds!"
But we are kids,
So we feast on the cookies and crackers I'd been shoving down my pants at mealtimes then she waits patiently as I purge them.
We make blood sister bonds in our skin with razorblades and she braids my hair one last time before they move me to the adult ward. Because I was no longer a kid.
So the next day I cut it off.
I cut it off the next year too.
And half way through the next I cut it again,
keeping my hair just out of braiding reach,
Just out of length of fingers running through,
twisting and playfully tugging,
I like it a mess, so they won't fall in love with me anymore.
Braidless, I can stay distant, unattached like the feeble, overdyed locks matting on my head, but I can feel it growing every second
20, I lay on my stomach, hospital bedsheets unruffled in starch allegiance,
Reach behind my head and see if it's long enough, and I braid.
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 7:40 PM UTC
Can they not see the
sweat dripping
and the blood soaking
the wood it keeps staining
and the thorns piercing
through the hair matting
in the heat?
Flesh was hanging
on nails drilling
clean through bones struggling
to hold up a man gasping
“It is finished.”
The darkness cloaking
the world mocking
its King they kept rejecting.
In His death, rejoicing,
as He hung there dying
and in the darkness bearing
all our shame and gathering
up our brokenness and bearing
the price of our sins and daring
to go against demon guardians grinning
shameless as they kept defying
the King of Kings.
But no heavenly or earthly being
nor beast or devil or phantom floating
could ever stop Him from breaking
the chains of sins and suffering.
No past was too dark or disgusting
to be held up to the light He was offering,
no shame too hopeless and past redeeming,
or stain too stubborn to resist His cleansing.
No man too low, no man deserving,
and no man too high to earn this blessing.
He came; He loved, never stopped pursuing
the world. For the lost searching
for the truth, the empty craving
love, He spared nothing,
not even His Son and sending
Him to the cross, to a death humiliating.
All for love, all for reconciling
a people wayward and lost and bumbling
in the darkness, to His welcoming
arms. All for His children, angels celebrating
their return to the Father.
Weeping.
Rising.
Praising.
Proclaiming
"We are home."
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 1:52 PM UTC
Lying among thousand
miniature leaves
supporting my weight
as pupils search high
with my head resting comfortable
on earth itself
Hands matting my hair down
and making my arms more like wings
which keep me a float
while i twist my eyes around
stars and constellations
the lights on dark skies
The massive yard light, Luna
puts down a soft glow
which sets my mind adrift
steering me past lit dots
on a dark map
just inside my closed eyes
Jul 22, 2011
Jul 22, 2011 at 10:21 PM UTC
*How does my garden grow,
I wish I could tell you but I don't really know.
You just dig and dig to pull the rocks from the ground.
Sometimes till your fingers are bloodied and sweat just flows down.
It keeps my mind busy to build and grow, to keep thoughts away that hurt just so. I wake so early my mind starts to spin and to feel the dirt between my fingers, to think I am fertilizing this earth with my heart and soul.
Very carefully putting my black matting down to keep the weeds blocked out and keep things at bay. I dig and plant till the fog goes away. The sweat trickling down along the way with salty tears of sorrow.
But as my work becomes complete it is not an ending as I watch the sun rise and seeing the landing of two geese. They just stare and then barely give me a glance. Why do I make such a big garden to plant, if only to share as it grows.
How does my garden grow,
I wish I could tell you but I don't really know.
All I can say is my blood, sweat and tears will tell all and
allow me to share my love, caring and tomorrow.*
CMH
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 7:25 AM UTC
it was the kind of heat
that slicks your skin
and dampens your clothing,
matting it to your body
but i kept on walking
each step was another day closer
15
14
13
12
the edge was getting closer
11
10
unbearably hot
but somehow comforting,
like a blanket
it engulfed me
and it started to feel okay
to be exposed
9
8
7
i could hear the waves
getting louder
as they crashed onto the rocks
spewing foam up the sides of the cliff
6
5
4
the baby carriage was getting harder to push,
as i had loaded it with more
at each step
3
2
my mothers tears,
some naivety,
thoughts of looking back,
fear,
anxiety,
questions
1
things that i didn't need anymore
swelled in the buggy
and the day was here
to let them go
the drop was steep
and unrelenting
0
with a swift push,
i covered my eyes
and listened to it fall
as i rose
into the sky
higher
and higher
and higher
goodbye
to everything holding me back
my destination,
new and uncharted,
was all that was on my mind
and as i looked out
over the Pacific Ocean
the fear of saying goodbye
became nothing
but a shipwreck in my past,
a reminder that
it is so much easier to say hello
and welcome each new experience
with reckless abandon
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 9:05 AM UTC
i hate the word potential.
it’s one of the few words that always meant well but was only ever spoken
by sad drunken mothers,
shaking their heads while whispering into the phone
about the child she always forgets to mention in the daily report.
they always had such potential
they wasted their potential
they never realized their potential.
my mother always wanted to play piano.
And as long as I can remember, we had one, a piano,
sitting fat and dusty in the entryway,
to be passed everyday on the way in or out like a sad dog
watching you pass by again and again without taking a second look
at its empty bowl or matting fur.
She paid for lessons that I hated
and as soon as my sister gave her a grandchild and that grandchild could sit up on it's own
she sat her down at the piano,
hoping that someone would finally pay some attention
to that **** dog.
i ***** out words on pages
I scribble faces on slate
I even try to carry a tune.
Trying to see what she saw, what talented life did I turn away from?
What choice did I make that made it all turn sour?
Was it the homework I never did
or the drugs I tried
or the *** I had that suddenly turned my future from bright to dim.
Should I weep for what I could have been?
Should I beg forgiveness because I stumbled and lost the race the rest of the world is running?
I don’t want to.
I don’t want an office.
I don’t want an education.
I don’t want a husband.
I don’t want kids.
And I don’t want to ******* play piano.
Jun 30, 2011
Jun 30, 2011 at 9:49 PM UTC
Ten years in a fenced cage under the Nile
restrained from the dense of the fish
raided in eventful motions and constraints
disused from the beautiful living existence
miles of glories and hails of mysteries
the waters swallowed and the hollows
borrowed cries and ails of gloomy sails
green flashes, trances minced and hissed
transpiring the intuitive caskets of energy
the fanning rotor roared harder and wider
further down beyond the extension of being
colluding, protruding deeper and within
cutting lateral slices of time and space
matting the unknown on disused walls
where illegible and delible oaths lays
hidden on rocks and cracks by crooks
As we sat invisible, affixed... telling tales
Ten years now unfenced, flying over the Nile
Oct 28, 2017
Oct 28, 2017 at 8:48 AM UTC
Water is running,
Running dry
And I am
Running swiftly
Down long-deserted streets
To long-forgotten houses
With chipped paint and
Dusty woodwork
Where our childhood memories
Lay strewn in the scorched, dead grass
Like toys that had been
Carelessly cast aside there
So very long ago.
This is not a place,
It is many:
All images of what a home
Should have been,
But wasn't;
What youth should have meant,
But didn't.
The empty bottles from
Who-knows-where
Are piling up behind the brambles in the
Corner of what was once a yard,
And empty promises from
Someone in
A black and white photograph
Are piling up in the
Corner of what was once a heart—
Mine, I believe.
Waiting for the sun to rise
And never set again
Is more tedious than what is believable,
And still I find part of myself waiting,
Left behind in the arms of all the
Trees I've ever climbed
And fallen asleep in.
There was a tow-headed little girl
Running through the streets,
Dragging stray cats out of the gutter
And bringing them home for her
Mama to find.
She was laying in the summer sun,
Matting down the grass until
There was a shallow, child-sized
Indentation on the ground,
And she spent hours making chains of
Clover blossoms to be tossed
Into the grass, forsaken by the
End of the day.
She was always alone—
Always alone.
I watch her every second I spend
Drowning in time
In the lower half of an hourglass.
Where would she be now
If things had been different,
If things had been better,
If things had not fallen apart.
Everything is broken now,
And blame has been tossed around
Mended then shattered again
And we're running out of superglue.
Adults become children
And children have adulthood
Prematurely imposed upon them
Because crisis makes people
Both strong and weak,
Serious yet emotional,
Bold yet
So very small and frightened
Of the world around them
And the chaos that rends the cloth
Of our lives and leaves it in
Tattered ribbons
While similar scars
Decorate pale youthful skin like
The battle wounds of veteran soldiers
And the mental wounds
No one can perceive
This is the answer,
The reason,
But not the remedy.
This is the source.
What should have been happy memories
Are tinted with anguish
Like a film of dirt on the glass
Of an old picture frame
Containing images
That are growing startlingly unfamiliar.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 7:05 PM UTC
Sit naked
Like children matting the lives they may never have
Pit patting innocence on the floor
With tiny, ***** feet.
Simplicity in the curve of her bottom
And the writhe her legs give me
Infantly pleased to see me
Heroicly ignoring the bitterness of an espresso
We can sit together, one day
And chime on our shields
She can play me music
And I can draw her worlds
And toggle life from death
Switch from fight to flee
While she makes melodies
That answer to my name
Just my funny name
I can't imagine
Anymore
Crisps think less
Chips have been sectioned
Never knowing,never fearing
As something so unlike myself
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 6:10 AM UTC
It was sad to say goodbye
Once more, once again
as year lapses and memories tap
tear drops erodes but it’s not all sad
It’s not forever mad, the feverish traps
the ceased rants and patrolled turns
circular motions of building monsters
matting uneven walls of un-triumph
There are times where socks don’t fit
when words fizzle the contextual riddles
when the bricked walls takes a collapse
when time is all there is to unending motion
when fears whispers of all the world gone
phasing all the hold ups and yearly turns
those are the time where chances erupts
and paths meanders to a subsequent merge
It was sad to say goodbye
coupled with construed mishaps
held in a submerged cliffy edge
awaiting a victory, or a ledge of sacrifice
upon miles where hurt is erased
Pottering around the patchy tracks
I wish we could fight as people do
or fought the trodden thousand miles
There are times when I need you
as the skies slip on wanted dreams
and all the lively laughter and love
coupled with all the delightful passions
In stormy clouds lost in torrential rain
deep within I know you still love my all
and all the let downs and angry quarrels
appear as faded mist of unplayed harps
Jun 12, 2018
Jun 12, 2018 at 9:57 AM UTC
The cat is on the ***
Trying to weasel a treat
Meow, meow is all she say
Could be like her, well taken care of
All needs met, each and every hour
All the live-long day
A lingering ego be a bruised apple of my eye
I don't need a death sentence
To know that I'm alive
Sitting in amusement, falling in love
With a muse that visits on occasion
A muse meant for art in art of the amused
Some glances at various watercolors
Hung from walls, strokes and dabs; smears, smudges,
Peeking out from under matting
Dry oceans, rainclouds no longer heavy and wet
Crafted by a friendly schizophrenic
While half in the bag, I'll bet
A smile beneath my nose,
A tear slips from the corner of my eye
I don't need a death sentence to feel that I'm alive
Reaching for a treat, she gives a precious growl and comes:
Sleek and quick. My fingertips feel her gentle nibble
So goes a night at home.
Jan 17, 2022
Jan 17, 2022 at 9:49 AM UTC
Every day we'd sit
to the soothing voice
of the afro man,
dabbing his brush
into happy little bushes.
Now those happy little accidents
are gone far away from you,
so far, his 'fro
seems nothing more than
a bush on the side of the road.
Describing his wispy voice,
the gentle stroke of his brush
brings a vague smile,
but only just,
a mimic of the joy that comes
to my lips as I
reminisce,
selfishly
before you.
A child then,
I barely knew my colors;
yet you helped me
bloom a rainbow garden.
And when I knew my colors well,
you embraced the forests
I drew in blue,
the models of spacecraft
from distant worlds,
imagined by foreign minds.
I wept only once
in front of you,
a rare tantrum for a childish thing.
You cleared my tears
and left me beaming in my new
ballcap.
Older now,
I describe the colors to you;
you recall the meaning of two
or three.
Life has turned you
back into a child:
screaming outwardly,
weeping inwardly.
The things you know you should know
escape you,
things now beyond
your comprehension.
Decades upon decades
you experienced the magic
your fingers could bring to the
canvas of our lives.
The watercolors now bleed into
vague puddles of tan,
oils run thick and drip,
matting the carpet.
You tantrum against the loss
of yourself
as I dab your tears
and offer you the hat
of my memories
to sustain you through the fog
laid heavy around your head.
So I tell you the story
of the afro man,
dabbing his brush
into happy little bushes,
and we navigate this
not-so-happy little accident
that is you
lost on the last leg of your
life journey,
hoping my smile
will stay contagious to you
until that last step
that breaks the haze
and brings you home.
Apr 17, 2020
Apr 17, 2020 at 1:41 PM UTC
Perfect, clean skin
Destroyed by the edge of a knife
And the addiction to the blood
Dripping, running, escaping with all the pain.
The temptation, every time a release was needed.
A release from all the pain, the anger, the sadness, the hurt.
A promise, broken by him and kept by her.
The temptation to watch her skin split open,
To watch the blood stain her arm,
Flowing like a river.
The same question every day,
“Is it worth it?”
Worth it to keep the promise if it had already been broken?
It was already broken, so only one she decided.
But, one turned to two, two to three, and three to five.
Straight down, no hesitation, no way to be stitched up.
So, when he found her lying on the bathroom floor,
Her crimson life pooling around her, matting her hair,
And a note stained red.
He picked it up carefully and read,
“I’m sorry. I broke the promise too. I’m sorry it went this far and you had to find me like this. If they can’t save me, if you didn’t find me in time, I want you to know this is the only promise to you I’ve broken. I’ll love you forever and always, no matter what, and I’m sorry. I love you.”
He dropped the paper with shaking hands
He screamed at her to wake up, though he knew it was too late.
Gathering her in his lap, he held her in his arms for the last time, his tears mixing with her blood.
Burying his head in her hair, he whispered,
“I’m so sorry. I know I did this to you. Please come back to me baby. I need you. I love you.”
And his blood mixed with hers as he lay, dying,
Next to the only love he’d ever known
And the only one he wanted for the rest of his life.
Apr 25, 2019
Apr 25, 2019 at 6:48 PM UTC