"merino" poems
Who said
sound is a vibration
that travels at a bizarre speed?
I saw it softly floating
ensconced in bubbles
to a celestial gravity
that pulls them up
to the realm of idyllic bliss.
Bubbles exude the
brilliant hues of my yearnings,
wrap me inside
their merino fleece warmth,
hold me to their *****
with the tenderness
I ever cherish in my soul.
Sound nestles in its heart
a mesmeric glow of music
ordained to play
the salute note
to augur the birth of a
new hankering.
The woeful flute
of the gypsy maiden
soulfully sings
a melancholy melody
for her lost love
to get a phoenix’s wings
under the silver mist of the
new moon’s splendour.
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 12:52 PM UTC
When I was stationed at Enoggera, as a young platoon sergeant with 9 RAR, a Merino ram was offered, and accepted, as the Battalion mascot. The diggers called him Stan. The brigade RSM of the time was outraged because he viewed our adoption of Stan as a direct and improper play on his surname, which was Lamb. And, of course, he being as bald as a coot the diggers called him Curly. As I recall, Stan was a lively, ill disciplined beast with little respect for the niceties of service life, hence:
When Stan-the-Ram met Curly Lamb a fracas did ensue.
For Curly stood beside the road just outside B.H.Q.;
His Sam Brown belt so shiny, his pace-stick 'neath one arm,
The RSM of our brigade was used to war's alarm.
But Stan, although a raw recruit and barely chewing grass,
Unimpressed by Curly, charged and knocked him on his ****
"It's contact rear" cried Curly, as he struggled to his feet,
Turned about with arms akimbo his assailant for to meet.
Meanwhile Stan's poor handler looked ready to desert
'cos Stan-the-Ram whilst in his care had Curly eating dirt.
I guess he felt embarrassed, which was natural, wouldn't you?
If involved in such a fracas outside of BHQ.
Your questions are but natural and in answer I can swear,
As these events unfolded I was marching off the square.
Having Just dismissed defaulters I was feeling rather mean
But my despondency was lifted by that ****** glorious scene.
And in the mess that evening rang out laughter clear and loud,
For I'd told them all my story and of Stan we felt quite proud.
There was Sutherland and Massingham, and Peter Cowan too
And Tim Daly called **** Gordon from his room, well, wouldn't you?
And when **** heard my story he poured port into a glass,
And we drank a toast to Stanly putting Curly on his ****
Mar 10, 2019
Mar 10, 2019 at 1:45 AM UTC
A born salesman,
my father made all his dough
by selling wool to Fieldcrest, Woolrich and Faribo.
A born talker,
he could sell one hundred wet-down bales
of that white stuff. He could clock the miles and the sales
and make it pay.
At home each sentence he would utter
had first pleased the buyer who'd paid him off in butter.
Each word
had been tried over and over, at any rate,
on the man who was sold by the man who filled my plate.
My father hovered
over the Yorkshire pudding and the beef:
a peddler, a hawker, a merchant and an Indian chief.
Roosevelt! Willkie! and war!
How suddenly gauche I was
with my old-maid heart and my funny teenage applause.
Each night at home
my father was in love with maps
while the radio fought its battles with Nazis and ****
Except when he hid
in his bedroom on a three-day drunk,
he typed out complex itineraries, packed his trunk,
his matched luggage
and pocketed a confirmed reservation,
his heart already pushing over the red routes of the nation.
I sit at my desk
each night with no place to go,
opening thee wrinkled maps of Milwaukee and Buffalo,
the whole U.S.,
its cemeteries, its arbitrary time zones,
through routes like small veins, capitals like small stones.
He died on the road,
his heart pushed from neck to back,
his white hanky signaling from the window of the Cadillac.
My husband,
as blue-eyed as a picture book, sells wool:
boxes of card waste, laps and rovings he can pull
to the thread
and say Leicester, Rambouillet, Merino,
a half-blood, it's greasy and thick, yellow as old snow.
And when you drive off, my darling,
Yes, sir! Yes, sir! It's one for my dame,
your sample cases branded with my father's name,
your itinerary open,
its tolls ticking and greedy,
its highways built up like new loves, raw and speedy.
2.3k
upon the Abington Station's
long shearing board
the feats of one shearer
cannot be ignored
a run of two hundred sheep
he can easily shear
his style with the cutting comb
is without peer
contractors in the district
know of his pace
he removes fleeces
with an elegant grace
the Lister wool press
compacts all the long day
whilst the gun shearer
works tirelessly away
Kelpie dogs tongue
keeping his race full
as Layto shears the fine clips
of merino wool
none are as effective
with comb in hand
in the regional area
of the New England
Layto shears the sheep
cleanly and effortlessly
whether the fleeces
be thick or slightly oily
his shearing abilities
are know of near and far
on the shearing shed board
he's always bettered par
when he hangs up
the cutting comb to retire
fellow shearers will of him
greatly admire
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 6:18 AM UTC
walking from A to B,
no this is not geometry,
but it might as well be,
as with your eyes, see,
well what do you see,
unless you live in BC,
you won't see me and
I in turn won't be free,
to see you.
with your eyes, that first glance,
take a risk that is hazard's chance,
don't step closer or bend down,
log it away in your card file brain,
before it is washed away to the drain
or picked up as treasured claim.
use your eyes, with that first glance,
no glossing over, might miss romance,
call it flirtation, or orchestration, you
are the maestro and the other, the ensemble,
well, conduct yourself accordingly but tumble
safely.
those eyes so beautiful you have, can find words,
to clear the tears off your cheeks with the
new merino wool sweater sleeve and
that intense emotion that has
you locked and loaded as
someone goaded you
again,
and again,
and again, if this was *** that would be fine,
but it is not and your vexed
at how poetry rocks
your world but
also rocks the boat,
whenever you take
the time not to memorize by rote (that would be too staight forward)
take the technology out for a walk,
instgram your photo of your poem and share it on facebook, and
twitter while showing your interest on pinsterest, how is that *******
working out for you?,
or dot those eyes and cross your teas,
take ink or graphite, and write about
your sorrows, your joys, your day, your dreams,
what you saw,what you thought saw, like a puddy cat,
you did, you did and that Bugs me I forgot the color or was
it just me and invisible over there?
You get conflict, at that first glance at your notepad,
or keyboard or mumble "I need to write this down,
before I forget". That first glance you take, all else fades to black,
until you write.
©DWE012014
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 9:59 PM UTC
a shimmering lightness
of white rolls playfully
across the tips of
slender bladed greenery
the delicate dancing of
that yet-to-be-mown grass
grown long beyond
what building aesthetics
should permit
a gentle play of
low-lying sun
glanced upon frosted
and thawed alike
the cold breath of wind
ruminating between
a delicate breeze or
those chilling gusts
harsh yet homely
while blanketed in
the warmth of
this merino wool
even the bitterest of
winter mornings will
feel nothing but
picturesque
Jan 19, 2024
Jan 19, 2024 at 7:38 PM UTC
I have passed through
The narrow canyons of cerebrum
While listening odes of mature cells
Vibrating slowly
And a fresh Pine resin, Oak moss and fresh Ozone winded my hairs
Inside my nose
Plugged my alveolus ready to burst of indescribable pleasure
I’ve heard sounds of sprinkling blood
From my wounded feet
Leaving blueprint of the thirsty soul…
For
Knowledge, Wisdom and Enlightenment
That slowly bows in a front of God
Only by us called LOVE
In an emerald macadam to show the path
To the following procession of creatures
From all Gurdijeffian Octaves
Which as a golden fig are blossoming from within?
You may call me outpour of passion
And you’ll not be mistaken
You may call me lanolin extracted from merino
And you’ll not be mistaken
You may call me a broken porcelain soldier
And you’ll not be mistaken
You may call me a bee that soaks the nectar from
thousands of roses
And you’ll not be mistaken
You may call me a yellow topaz
A child of carbon
And you’ll not be mistaken
You may call me a felt petal of the white rose
And you’ll not be mistaken
You may call me believer who prays for the sins
of human multitude
And you’ll not be mistaken
You may even call me human that mix with angels
unaware of his innocence
And you’ll not be mistaken
But I know
I know spirit does not have a gender
The wind misses the color
The grass is painted green by transparent rain
Alchemy is a transformation of mother’s milk into blood
Heaven is nature and man is Hell
But the Mother is God in Heaven and Earth
Thus I’m hardly a human.
Apr 18, 2012
Apr 18, 2012 at 7:43 AM UTC
768
When I hoped, I recollect
Just the place I stood—
At a Window facing West—
Roughest Air—was good—
Not a Sleet could bite me—
Not a frost could cool—
Hope it was that kept me warm—
Not Merino shawl—
When I feared—I recollect
Just the Day it was—
Worlds were lying out to Sun—
Yet how Nature froze—
Icicles upon my soul
Prickled Blue and Cool—
Bird went praising everywhere—
Only Me—was still—
And the Day that I despaired—
This—if I forget
Nature will—that it be Night
After Sun has set—
Darkness intersect her face—
And put out her eye—
Nature hesitate—before
Memory and I—
1.2k
Ace fashion designer Rajesh Pratap Singh, who recently collaborated with Kullu-based handloom weavers Bhuttico for a collection, says he is passionate about the handloom industry which is his source of inspiration. Rajesh Pratap and Bhuttico’s fashionable affair was held in Kullu last week and highlighted the farm-to-fashion journey of Merino wool which is part of the Woolmark Company’s Grown In Australia, Made In India initiative.
“I am extremely passionate about the handloom industry as it is the primary source of my inspiration. I love the versatility of Merino wool, especially since it’s so easy to work with and supports various techniques and blends,” Rajesh Pratap said in a statement.
The designer, who is known for using Indian textiles and for working with ikat, presented a menswear and womenswear collection. The special line focused on the handloom journey of Bhuttico and their rich legacy.
The collection was a juxtaposition of clean lines and colourful weaves, and highlighted Rajesh Pratap’s signature minimal aesthetics and intense construction.
The designer feels “the fashion fraternity has constantly been striving to highlight the textile and handloom industry in India”.
“Owing to our country’s rich heritage each state adds another dimension of culture which is also captured beautifully by our weaves,” he said.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-canberra | www.marieaustralia.com/plus-size-formal-dresses
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 2:53 AM UTC
Little ukulele
Played daily
In the sun
Grassy regale
All for fun
Chipmunks, squirrels, birds
Know how it's done
Rabbits belong
To the nature sing song
Animals dance
To the melody happenstance
Imagine with the mind
Birds struttin just fine
Like they've had too much wine
If she creates
They will not hestitate
Music vibe
Can intoxicate
Percussion beat
Sound treat
For tiny happy feet
That live across the street
Uke bambino
Prancing merino
String plucks
Chickens cluck
Mini wooden instrument
Becomes a friend
To them
When she's walkin with that little ukulele
Ever so gaily
Apr 29, 2019
Apr 29, 2019 at 5:46 PM UTC
simple notes, there is much discussion now,
where the place used to be pure quiet
and acceptance.
it seems to him that talking does not
get the job done. however gently balancing
wool, soft merino ,words fall . we have
many slight colours, no fading, only the physical
type nearer closing.
the writing helper, word count abound below,
while fingers fly. he says the words come
at other times, you know, he may be right.
we have a slight covering of snow this
morning early.
sbm.
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 1:30 AM UTC
Been obsessed with weaving
Warp and weft
Under over
Around and back
I like to roll the fiber between my fingers
I get messy with my merino with my flaxen string
Over under
I fray and layer
Back and around
My mountains are jewel green silk
Spun by brown hands in Peru
Maybe
I like how loose spun galaxy blue
Feels like galaxy blue
It's texture and grain
Make me look for
Blue star stains on my fingers
As back and around
I weave
I am a pretend fate
Feeling my fiber
Weaving myself
wool mountains and silken seas
Like so many women
In and out
Of time
Nov 27, 2016
Nov 27, 2016 at 10:12 AM UTC