"needlework" poems
Tracks trembled, catering for my destination westward, field
alongside industry courted, dancing the miles ahead, celebrating
scenic mystery, roaving in splendour, hills pumping spellbinding
grassy greatness, devouring, readying for mountainous masterpieces
I am sun drenched in strobed springtime, relishing the thaw
of rivers running forever, snowy peaks holding onto winters
shivering tale, huddling cold coats like pashminas trailing....
unfinished,their needlework on pinpoint exercise
Inside I sit next to myself, folding minutes into moments of memory,
tracks decreasing inner city air, and I regard
evermore with special splendour, the developing rocks and craggy cliffs
arriving neatly at the foot of the sea waving white flags, receding, chasing....
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 5:35 PM UTC
born 1900
when Austria was still a monarchy
that did not know
it was approaching its end
growing up as the daughter
of the mayor of a little district town
big fish in a small pond
educated accordingly
as a ‘higher daughter’
be a home decorator
do needlework
be a gourmet cook
play the piano
be a respectable member
of the community and the parish
when she turned 18
after the end of world war I
the social order for which she had been prepared
simply disappeared
her father became a disillusioned monarchist
the town’s republicans elected a new mayor
she married a railway engineer
who left her after her daughter
my mother
was born
she managed to survive world war II
as a single mother
watched her daughter
fall in love with, at Christmas 1946,
and marry in April 1947
a guy who had just escaped
from a Soviet POW camp
looked like a walking skeleton
my father
AND
was the son of a communist
who had survived world war I
as a POW in Siberia
strange bedfellows
they used to play cards together
once a week
with great gusto
class warfare
morphed into social entertainment
both my parents were working
grandmother led the household
on the side did bookkeeping for local businesses
to bring in some money
practically raised me and my brother
cared for us when we were sick
taught me to play the piano
was always afraid we would not get
enough to eat
for a while, as a little child,
I slept in the same room with her
and learned that she had
a wondrously melodious snore
going over an octave & some such
when, after grade school,
I had to leave at 5.45 am
to catch the train
pulled by a sturdy steam engine
that took me to the high school
50km down the road
she was concerned when I
rushing out the door
just grabbed parts of the breakfast
she had so lovingly prepared
when I left home for university
she was not happy
when I went to the USA for a whole year
she was disconsolate
she did enjoy her great-grandkids
when they visited, though
too much distance for too long
from the place of her birth
made her uncomfortable
in her later years
she needed a familiar place
that came with its familiar things
to do and know
she lived to be 87
I saw her last
after a second stroke
had mostly incapacitated her
a tiny woman
curled up
waiting to leave us
for a world that finally might heal
the pain and disappointment
she had so bravely mastered
throughout her life
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 6:50 PM UTC
Happiness is like,
grandpa's smoking pipe,
breathing tranquil frequencies,
like grandma's needlework,
knitting sweaters with embroideries,
like a radio,
antenna of thanksgiving,
the harvest of beautiful melodies.
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 5:54 AM UTC
the beauty of english nakedness, look at it for long enough
and you get to retract or at least crab-walk east
into the pincer plateaus of the frozen tundras and see
again, proustain afresh in the cork-lined room:
what bothered me was the acute stress on the faroese a -
english really is a blank canvas: or a complex canvas with
many unique distinctions of individual words - perhaps
the dementia crisis in english-speaking societies -
also why the accent diversity between all those who come
to learn it, and those who live in the zeitreich
of the absteigen sonne - but theories are theories.
so back to the blank canvas, which allows so see
the dynamics, although as i said, the acute faroese a
(acute, because derived from the latin verb of needlework /
puncture) - ~etymology (approx. because not
related to words but phonetic units, i.e. letters)
thus reveals that the latin accents died, truth tooth
of the phrase latin is a dead tongue - but not as dead
as when you see remnants of the transformation,
in that certain latin activities (verbs) spawned the stressing
revisions on letters to appropriate the nordic and germanic
slavic, *** and celt into its ***** acute to puncture -
like the polish acute o (ó), meaning to puncture the o
and make a U sound, although when otherwise acute is
needed, but the geometry is less obvious it means not to stress,
but sharpen, cut-short, exfoliate into a range of onomatopoeic
comparisons: sneeze - wheezing - high pitch flute -
play the clarinet - pincer the tongue - pliers -
god knows what instrument i'm really playing: ć, ń, ś, ź -
cut the letters from cen nan sap zed into the uniqueness
of the actual first letter, go into roman do re mi fa so la
****** musicology) rather than greek omega omicron
alpha beta. so this acute faroese a, what bothered me
was the suffix -áp... the p you see, if the accent dynamic
was to end with a german umlaut -äp or with a
māori macron -āp... i would have said the p...
rather than ending with a b.
*"heimlich" tongue-numbing d.
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 9:06 AM UTC
There lived, amid the common folk
A seamstress of renown
Tucked away most smartly
In a quiet sort of town
So perfect was her needlework
And delicate her hand
That all and sundry sought her out
Her skills were in demand
To gain a moment here and there
She took a silver thread
She deftly put a stitch in time
And curled up in her bed
For she was such a busy girl
Deserving of a nap
But as she slept one evening
The stitch in time went 'snap!'
Time unravelled rapidly
From 'will be' to 'before'
And coils of causality
Were all over the floor
But fortune is a canny dame
For a needle was at hand
Still threaded up with silver
At an artisan's command
She bustled in a flurry
And rummaged through the ages
She sorted out the centuries
With diligence, by stages
While shoring up the borderlines
And patching up the wars
She darned the holes in spider silk
And trimmed the dinosaurs
She hemmed the mighty oceans
To snuggly fit the sand
Then zipped up the horizon
So the sky adjoined the land
The night was stitched in situ
In between adjacent days
And time was mended seamlessly
And better in some ways
She locked away her needle
And her strand of silver thread
Her work would wait 'til morning
And with that, she went to bed
So next time life is hectic
And leaves you in a flap
Allow yourself an hour
For a cheeky little nap
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
So many doors
tightly closed
the need for more clothing and food
can't be kept out
it's a small hamlet
by the river
when a man stamps his foot
the whole village wobbles
a slap from a woman
and the whole village is flooded with tears
a cough in the dark
reveals bricks of secrets
two old stone mills
like an old couple who
have worn out their lives
wind leaks through four walls
a candle light dim and faint
not a synonym for romance and cozy
but luxury
when they can't afford kerosene
they eat, wash, get in the blankets
before the candlelight goes out
remainder of the light is only
for the maternal needlework
a curve creek
clear and lucid
when catching fish and mud-skippers
they become as happy as the water
joyful shrieks waft
in the smoke from the cooking stove
these scenes which can only be
returned to if time regressed are
very much alive in memory
they just didn't grow with me
many years later the warren
became a rustic retreat
days of the dirt and soil
became a wandering cloud
the stubborn local sounds
suddenly emerge from baseless thoughts
the mushed corn
the yam gruel
carrots and cabbage
feeding the dream
the mountains, the water, the people
the kindly kampung
the birthmark
of that era.
Nov 24, 2022
Nov 24, 2022 at 5:15 AM UTC
Chandeliers of childhood
Clink above out heads
The crystals glitter and gleam
Singing ballads about
the day we first met
But my ribcage is tattooed
with your criticisms
And my sharp tongue
has left crisscross needlework
Patterns that trace your wrists
We both dangle pearl earrings
from our eye sockets
As our daggers flicker endlessly
in our gaping mouths
I watch you
Stuff your ears with cotton *****
From the stack on desk
Collected meticulously
To block out my metallic clashes
My left hand tries to take the
cotton out of my own ears
While my right ear stubbornly
Stuffs them back in
And my dagger makes such a clamor
That my pearl earrings turn to necklaces
Patchwork lungs burning
From the effort
I hope the strands break
So perhaps a pearl or two
Can roll to your dainty toes
But the chandelier's cracking
above our crowned heads
And both of us are too busy with cotton
to climb the gleaming ladder
to repair it.
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 11:29 AM UTC
After three years, why am I still needing to make impressions? Behaviour alterations, manifesting myself to the person they want to see. Disregarding my character at the door, substituting it for something more - applicable, unnoticeable, unopinionated, mentally castrated because I can’t compete with that.
Introverted woven into the needlework of extroverts, camouflaging the thread, too frightened to be different, to be noticed, so you hide yourself within life’s tapestry. We are hung in different galleries, worlds apart, the north/south divide does it shrink with time? Does love conquer all? It seems such a foreign conquest, I lose myself on the battlefield of personality trying to evade fatality of character. But their numbers are too strong, the war is lasting too long, I can’t compete with that.
Eloquent hunters, fields and farms. Like the hare, the sense of inadequacy follows me down, but it’s through the rabbit hole where I lose control, fumbling for speech at the simplest conversation. My heart races, heat rising from my chest, pores palpitating so pools of sweat dampen my forehead, wishing I could retreat below, stay cool in the shadow, away from illicit bourgeois eyes that see through my proletariat alibi, praying she doesn’t cast me aside because I can’t compete with that.
This is the mental cross that I bare, does she really care? Our relationship is ours not theirs, I need to lay aside my prejudice of the class divide, because in truth the weight of this cross isn’t mine but shared, and it’s holding us back, directing us off the beaten track because love isn’t a competition, but a joint expedition. Alice and I conquering together, and I can compete with that. Forever.
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 10:34 AM UTC
—For Téa Page
That was Téa’s window—third floor,
the one with the burnt-
sienna box of skeletal moss-
roses dangling over the side,
a cloth curtain tacked open,
and a padded chair—royal
blue against the white drywall.
She said she used to watch
Coudersport traffic tumble dry
on low past Charles Cole,
quickly sketching sedans
and minivans as they left the frame.
She told me all this at a high-school
basketball game, beneath a cork
board plastered with black-and-white
portraits of track girls with crochet
hooks for collarbones.
She showed me the healing scars
where she dug Swingline staples
into her ankle, like mismatched
thread in a worn blanket.
Téa was the thread.
Her parents wove her in
and out of psych wards, therapists’
notes, and Prozac prescription carbon
copies. Over: Dad snapping peanut necks in a bar somewhere.
Under: Mom Keystone-soaked on the couch.
Over back to that third-floor window:
the only place Téa felt at home,
though I’ve never seen it—
I never even gave her my name.
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 5:35 PM UTC
The lab tech tells me I have a nice set of veins
healthy and strong
perfect for needlework
hidden just enough
visible in all the right places
I turn to the cork board
when it goes in
like i've done my entire life
and i'm not scared of needles
or shots
or blood
or alcohol
but in the milliseconds between her
skillful hands switching the vials
I imagine the thin plastic tube
spilling me
all over the nice tile floor
with no time left
for antiseptic or
bleach
I hear the click
and I think instead
of Peter
smelling of *****
only in that thin jean jacket
and a turtle neck
holding out his hand
and walking me out of that lab
on to the iced over sidewalks
through the frigid bustle
of morning traffic
into the corner store
for my favorite sweets
because I held silent when the other kids cried
because I was brave
Because my veins were fragile and small
and the universe
owed me one
Aug 18, 2016
Aug 18, 2016 at 12:05 AM UTC
I don’t know why everybody
Is bullying me to be clean
When I just want to be bad and ****** mean
I have no idea why bad people
Want to be like me
Because I prefer to stay with the real families
Like playing games any sort will do
I don’t want to be like bad people no
I am missing the footy really
Cause of this virus yeah mate yeah
But when it returns mate
I will be happy
As I yell Aussie Aussie Aussie oi oi oi
I want people to stop treating me
Like I have to be perfect
Perfection isn’t the best thing
No the crap it’s not
I want to sit on my couch
Doing my needlework
But why do you worry
I do exercises and I go for walks
So just leave me the **** alone
I haven’t got much on now
But I try and enjoy life
I took down all my signs
Because they didn’t inspire me oh no
I am Australian and I do Aussie things
In art
And when I have a solo exhibition
You can see how smart I am
Party party party
Waiting for pubs to open
But I prefer to stay with the families
I prefer to love life
Aussie Aussie Aussie
Party on
May 16, 2020
May 16, 2020 at 3:05 AM UTC
Girl with stitched lips, whats your name?
And who named you before you came?
Please tell me why are you oh so sad,
Is it because of the previous life you had?
From whom have you inherited your eyes?
****** and orange; the color of burning skies.
Your pale face taut and soaked with tears,
What lurks in your mind m'lady; what kind of fears?
On your lips; who did the needlework?
Dried blood glosses the black thread of the artwork.
O' who is the man knocking on your door every night,
For what reason does he give you a fright?
Who lets him in as you live alone,
Why don't you ever answer the ringing phone?
What are the secrets that you hide,
That has caused your lips to be tied?
O' what are these dark secrets you can not reveal,
That has given you scars you can not heal?
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 7:49 AM UTC
Mother, poised and dignified
She offers balance, stability
Shows with love, grace signified
Mildly persuades better, any fallibility
She is angel of gentility
From childhood she’s amazed me
And made me understand
I’d want no other to have raised me
In her nest, yes, she is high command
For courtesy has she at hand
I look at her needlework with love
Loving memories she has sewn
Funny pleasing little notions of
Immense caring ways she has shown
How she does it all, unbeknown?
I love her like no other woman
To her I owe my creation
Warmly crafts she makes so woolen
With this I make last notation
She is friend, an incredible elation
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 5:45 AM UTC
We need to party mate, party mate while your parents are asleep
I don’t care how you party mate
Even if the younger sibling teases the older one
For both people it is a party mate, party mate
While the parents are asleep
Listen to the bay city rollers and poison too with Barnsy and the Beatles yeah that is so cool
We need to party mate, party mate while the parents are asleep wake everybody up in the street partying while your parents are asleep
You see when they are asleep
They can’t boss us around
We can really put our music on and rage
We need to party mate, party mate while the adults are asleep
Yeah we watch a lot of movies
We cry and feel amazing
But one thing we don’t need to be is a tad very crazy
And then we make a smoothie of our choice out of the ninja bullet oh yeah
We need to party mate party mate
While the adults are asleep
But I see dad getting up to spend a penny we have to be very quiet
It all works out and dad is back in bed and it is time to party all night long
We need to party mate party mate while the adults are asleep
Mum gets up and opens our door and says what is happening in there
We just said we are watching the late movie on tv and we feel real cool
Mum said fine go to bed real soon
And when she left we said to each other
We need to party mate party mate while the adults those boring adults are asleep
And when we reach the age of 50 when our parents are either old or dead you do your needlework and watch your wasteline and entertain yourself
Saying when we were young we partied mate partied mate
When our parents were asleep
We were cool man
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 1:11 AM UTC
Here I stand in the row
Waiting to get my prize
The needlework certificate
I choose a chess set
Not to play chess
But because I liked
Shapes .
They would be my family
Mum and dad ,
Prefects at school
Brothers and sisters
An unusual menagerie
Of souls
On a black and white board.
Love Mary x
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 10:55 AM UTC