"plaiting" poems
Come we to the summer, to the summer we will come,
For the woods are full of bluebells and the hedges full of bloom,
And the crow is on the oak a-building of her nest,
And love is burning diamonds in my true lover’s breast;
She sits beneath the whitethorn a-plaiting of her hair,
And I will to my true lover with a fond request repair;
I will look upon her face, I will in her beauty rest,
And lay my aching weariness upon her lovely breast.
The clock-a-clay is creeping on the open bloom of May,
The merry bee is trampling the pinky threads all day,
And the chaffinch it is brooding on its grey mossy nest
In the whitethorn bush where I will lean upon my lover’s breast;
I’ll lean upon her breast and I’ll whisper in her ear
That I cannot get a wink o’sleep for thinking of my dear;
I hunger at my meat and I daily fade away
Like the hedge rose that is broken in the heat of the day.
2k
We let the align-
ment of our con-
tact create a new-
lyfound structure:
you dress our bed-
ding over frame-
work, shapes mold-
ing words on paper
as though our truth-
fully plaiting finger-
tips shape a stereo-
type linear tendency.
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 5:33 PM UTC
The ninth beatitude
Blessed are the transformed
and the transformers
For they shall know gratitude.
Hair attitudes are our beatitudes
How can I not love my hair
Short, cropped. *****
Long, cascading locks
Braids falling adoringly
Embracing cheekbones of
Historical beauty.
Hair diva's
Divinity, defying gravity...Black hair
Submitting to heat, or the nimble.
Fingers of scientist, chemist who
Are born to a life dedicated to
Beautification of her sisters and daughters
None since Madam C.J. Walker has had
This talent in abundance.
She put her wrist in the twist.
And the "aid" in the braid… new wave
Whose passion is to adore what
She's put into you; She is the true
“goddess of hair”
You are In good hands as
She dares you to move, or
bat an eyelash less
She bashes you, or threatens
to abort the mission Leaving you to
Your own device-Her advice is to become
at one with her- Become putty in her hands.
Her hands plant, plaiting love and patience
into every wrung…Moms,
And Hair Magicians, growing hands
That loom, weave and condition;
Grooming reluctant ducklings.
Into graceful swans
Grooming you for greatness.
(To my best friend)
https://scontent-ord1-1.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-xfp1/v/t1.0-9/11026273_1641865029363011_1932455644687694397_n.jpg?oh=2c95a0eb069b5f996f26494e277bd734&oe;=56C6FF8B
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 6:19 PM UTC
i was upon the onslaught of
desolation
and i assiduosly flirted
with suicide.
Contractility - i love you,
stitched in between two heart beats.
palplitations
that set blood cells on calamitious voyages.
that dance in sweet habanera
to the shrieks of your name.
i want to swallow you;
fold out your skin
into paper dolls.
to be intertwined by
the plaiting of flesh.
to be asphyxiated until
the colour of violet.
i want to carve your face
and wear it in burlesque.
to devour myself
in all aspects of you-
to become you.
i covet.
Nov 4, 2010
Nov 4, 2010 at 8:03 AM UTC
You brush your hair
With such allure
It drives me crazy.
Toussling, plaiting, tying
Double checking
Hairgrips in.
To the mirror, sideways on
Triple checking
Eyebrows won't be byebrows yet.
Sep 5, 2012
Sep 5, 2012 at 11:22 AM UTC
I am pausing just for the now
the passing Moon scoops its urgency,
plaiting silver shadows
through my blinds.
Closing my eyes
thoughts of her,
are like re-arranging furniture
as if someone was walking upstairs.
I know she would have accepted me
because I offer no excuses.
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 7:26 PM UTC
The children went off into the woods to play.
It wasn't there yesterday you know.
The cottage with the thatched roof covered in crystals of ice and dripping snow.
The trees in the forest are lovely and clean, they're smelling of freshness, they're dressed in bright green.
The cottage windows glowed with smiles.
Very inviting and cosy and warm.
Cautiously, the children peeped in through the windows.
The windows behind which all secrets hid.
They saw a room with a blazing fire in the hearth.
A room full up with noisy industrious elves.
They were picking and packing toys onto the shelves.
The children were such mischievous imps.
They had to take a closer look.
They crept as silently as the night moved, to the other side of the copse.
Looked into the window, just over there.
A chubby red faced woman was plaiting her hair.
On the opposite side of the very same room, sat Santa Claus.
He was wearing maroon.
The children stood and watched a while.
I swear they saw old Santa smile.
He noticed them looking in.
The old door swung open, he beckoned them in.
He fed them Christmas cookies.
Gave them steaming cocoa in mugs.
Santa was just the jolliest chap that they had ever met.
They finished their drinks and munched all their cookies.
Santa Clause said to the children, now off you must go.
You must forget we ever met.
He waved them goodbye, as they left through the door.
They skipped and they danced over the woodland floor.
Those naughty children would be back tomorrow.
The following day they went back to the very same spot, Santa was gone and all was forgot.
It was 5'o'clock in the morning, on December 25th.
The children rustled and played with their stockings.
Smiling excitedly and noisily.
Delighted that they had not been forgot.
(C) Livvi
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 5:13 AM UTC
Your sleeping like a chrysalis
I'm listening to your rhythm
So light easy in the moment
Beautiful serene and sleepy
Protected by a blanket cocoon
Cuddling up I tell precious tales
Like sea breathing it's vastness
The seaweed just tattered rags
Swishing gravel sizzling foam
Logs scoured smooth over years
Broken glass oceans sugar candy
Pebbles giving away their secrets
An abyss of turquoise from below
Above seagulls plaiting winds hair
Closing my eyes my dreams begin
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 11:47 AM UTC
Before the days my daughter had aged into an adult,
I remember the nights when I used to sit in the living
room couch pulling her long silky hair back towards me
and slowly combing it like a porcelain doll, untangling the
few strands and greasing it down to a sleek finishing touch.
I’d soon follow using my slender fingers to make knots one
strand after the other, as my daughter would scream out in
agony, That hurts! Let take a break! I’d stare at her for a few
seconds the way my mom used to gaze at me when she was
braiding my hair, then I’d say, Hush up child, stop being so
tender headed, and I’d ease right back into plaiting her hair,
letting my mind seep into the technique and the rhythm of
the constant rotation, how each element seemed to create
a harmonizing rhyme sinking inside my soul, how the twisting
and turning reminded me of the memories I used to share with
my mother, the way she’d brush my ***** hair and gel it down
until it was straight, the way she’d open up with a big smile, I love you my precious baby, her sparkling teeth stamped on the center of my chest. I’d grin and reply, I love you too mom, like it would be this way forever. Now, as I continue tying the knots together, I see so much beauty and uniqueness in me within my darling daughter, how the simple touch of braiding hair can birth a beautiful blossom.
Jun 13, 2018
Jun 13, 2018 at 11:25 AM UTC