"plied" poems
Like an alien in a spotlight
With her magnifying glasses on
My mother as she worked, up all night
Did invisible weaving till dawn
I would watch her when I couldn’t sleep
Honing in on that hole in the suit
Intently, her concentration deep
Weaving tiny threads enlarged like jute
In other-worldly light she labored
I was afraid she’d lose her eyesight
Watching her focus never wavered
Her face all aglow in the lamplight
Invisible weaving, I inquired
How tediously she plied her craft
Worked for the money that she required
Made the warp and weft of fabric last
Reconstruction, undetectable
No more burn, or tear, or fabric blight
Weaving magic so incredible
Its wound now perfect by morning’s light
She taught me much that I’m still making
From her life that now I’m grieving
Sewing, crocheting and great baking
But never invisible weaving
The picture of her life that mattered
I now see how she toiled so finely
And that the wrinkles in the fabric
Of my own life splayed out so blindly
The vision of my eyes, bedazzled
Incandescent, her face in the beam
Unaware how her mind unraveled
As Depression stole her ev’ry dream
The threads of DNA defining
Who I’ve become I’m now believing
My mother’s hand in that designing
Of my own Invisible Weaving*
*In honor of my mother, Edla Sylvia Fitzpatrick, on this International Women's Day
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 1:01 PM UTC
In pursuit of an elusive harmony
summer nights rolled away from us
reverberating into a numinous bass line
while reconciling our dreams
with a burgeoning truth
Flustered with desire
and walking in a non-ordinary reality. Lost within the Source
of all there is and ever was. We re-animated
navigating through portals unexplained
to retrieve this love
We plied our differences into commonality
and re-aligned our fractured selves using the agency
of synchronicity - having found
an immutable archetypal truth
and having found from where our self-portraits flow
Much more than soul mates, Plato
offers stories of Zeus splitting souls in half
as punishment for pride.
In this incarnation, have we found humility?
Will this be enough to carry us back to nobility?
It is challenging to find your way back
into a lover's arms. Mistakes haunt us eternally (if we allow for that)
but every morning if we awake
and let go, using the suns setting and rising as a reminder that
with experience, guidance, and repetition ... it gets easier
My half soul
awoke as my mortality decomposed
when half becomes one, then the real turmoil begins
from the shores of St. Mary, Raven calls
and I follow my destiny into an Obsidian Night
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 4:39 AM UTC
A handy Mole who plied no shovel
To excavate his vaulted hovel,
While hard at work met in mid-furrow
An Earthworm boring out his burrow.
Our Mole had dined and must grow thinner
Before he gulped a second dinner,
And on no other terms cared he
To meet a worm of low degree.
The Mole turned on his blindest eye
Passing that base mechanic by;
The Worm entrenched in actual blindness
Ignored or kindness or unkindness;
Each wrought his own exclusive tunnel
To reach his own exclusive funnel.
A plough its flawless track pursuing
Involved them in one common ruin.
Where now the mine and countermine,
The dined-on and the one to dine?
The impartial ploughshare of extinction
Annulled them all without distinction.
5k
I
As I ride, as I ride,
With a full heart for my guide,
So its tide rocks my side,
As I ride, as I ride,
That, as I were double-eyed,
He, in whom our Tribes confide,
Is descried, ways untried
As I ride, as I ride.
II
As I ride, as I ride
To our Chief and his Allied,
Who dares chide my heart’s pride
As I ride, as I ride?
Or are witnesses denied—
Through the desert waste and wide
Do I glide unespied
As I ride, as I ride?
III
As I ride, as I ride,
When an inner voice has cried,
The sands slide, nor abide
(As I ride, as I ride)
O’er each visioned Homicide
That came vaunting (has he lied?)
To reside—where he died,
As I ride, as I ride.
IV
As I ride, as I ride,
Ne’er has spur my swift horse plied,
Yet his hide, streaked and pied,
As I ride, as I ride,
Shows where sweat has sprung and dried,
—Zebra-footed, ostrich-thighed—
How has vied stride with stride
As I ride, as I ride!
V
As I ride, as I ride,
Could I loose what Fate has tied,
Ere I pried, she should hide
As I ride, as I ride,
All that’s meant me: satisfied
When the Prophet and the Bride
Stop veins I’d have subside
As I ride, as I ride!
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All in the golden afternoon
Full leisurely we glide;
For both our oars, with little skill,
By little arms are plied,
While little hands make vain pretense
Our wanderings to guide.
Ah, cruel Three! In such an hour,
Beneath such dreamy weather,
To beg a tale of breath too weak
To stir the tiniest feather!
Yet what can one poor voice avail
Against three tongues together?
Imperious Prima flashes forth
Her edict to "begin it"--
In gentler tones Secunda hopes
"There will be nonsense in it"--
While Tertia interrupts the tale
Not more than once a minute.
Anon, to sudden silence won,
In fancy they pursue
The dream-child moving through a land
Of wonders wild and new,
In friendly chat with bird or beast--
And half believe it true.
And ever, as the story drained
The wells of fancy dry,
And faintly strove that weary one
To put the subject by,
"The rest next time"--"It is next time!"
The happy voices cry.
Thus grew the tale of Wonderland:
Thus slowly, one by one,
Its quaint events were hammered out--
And now the tale is done,
And home we steer, a merry crew,
Beneath the setting sun.
Alice! a childish story take,
And with a gentle hand
Lay it where Childhood's dreams are twined
In Memory's mystic band,
Like pilgrim's withered wreath of flowers
Plucked in a far-off land.
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We gather in Old London town,
the time is getting late.
The fog is slowly coming down,
the year is eighteen eighty eight.
The Leather Apron stalks this eve
ladies of the night beware.
Such things he does you wont believe
and for your welfare he’ll not care.
Hello Mister have a heart,
a girl has got to earn a crust.
A shilling for this fine old ****
for you look like a gent to trust.
In her hand the coin doth shine.
Does she lead this toff astray?
Here’s a quiet place that’s fine,
as she walks up the alley-way.
Face to face and eye to eye.
The victim happy to be plied
with vigour she lifts up her skirt
but now her hands are occupied.
Seizing strongly at her throat
he strangles her till unaware.
Unconscious although not yet broke
he lowers her by head and hair.
Now insentient on the ground
the Ripper sets about his work.
In the dark without a sound
there is no detail he will shirk.
He keeps the body to his left,
her throat is sliced from side to side.
The woman’s family now bereft,
whilst she lies here without her pride.
Left to the nights illumination
Jack executes his deadly art.
Performing such skilled mutilation.
and leaving plus one body part.
Daylight opens up commotion,
"Whitechapel Murderer", strikes once more.
The peelers haven’t got a notion
who it is that killed this *****
Scotland Yard are in despair
as they try to Investigate
their credibility beyond repair
for they cant find this reprobate.
Eventually the death toll, five,
the murders now come to an end.
Folk are free to live their lives
but could you trust even a friend.
Over an hundred years or more
professional research is far to late.
Jack, can we ever know the score?
"No... All you can do is speculate."
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 4:26 PM UTC
we live in cities,
where
memories of us collide
and we never have to hide
what we left behind
and we never really need to tide
cause our tears dried
and for our love we both plied
-o.h
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 3:01 PM UTC
For sow the wiz
and for that the bliss
Flee through the apple tree
It is harvest times
Now jam and sweet like pie
Oh the bliss of a midnight sky
We plied and plowed
and for that the bliss
Fill up a room, no one to miss
It is now harvest times
Us to remember the Queen of ages
Don't forget to pay the wages
Oh the bliss of lovers gazes
Further down the deep deep blue
Of ocean wonders, to remind of all the ships that went through
Rough patches of ill willed weather and stormy faiths
I hope we all remember that it is to Christ we stand our faith
Oh the bliss of Life
Oh the bliss of Faith
Oh the bliss of Summers mother leaving heaps of Love on the stairs
For those who not have the bliss of being sometimes missed
By someone who actually cares
even just a little bear
lonely in the woods a quiet autumn afternoon
Not knowing when winter starts or when to say hello to the moon
Who to say good night, good morning or good bye
When you are a lonely cub in the woods and your mama was a wish on a star.
Sep 12, 2022
Sep 12, 2022 at 5:01 PM UTC
Like an alien in a spotlight
With her magnifying glasses on
My mother as she worked, up all night
Did invisible weaving till dawn
I would watch her when I couldn’t sleep
Honing in on that hole in the suit
Intently, her concentration deep
Weaving tiny threads enlarged like jute
In other-worldly light she labored
I was afraid she’d lose her eyesight
Watching her focus never wavered
Her face all aglow in the lamplight
Invisible weaving, I inquired
How tediously she plied her craft
Worked for the money that she required
Made the warp and weft of fabric last
Reconstruction, undetectable
No more burn, or tear, or fabric blight
Weaving magic so incredible
Its wound now perfect by morning’s light
She taught me much that I'm still making
From her life that now I'm grieving
Sewing, crocheting and great baking
But never invisible weaving
The picture of her life that mattered
I now see how she toiled so finely
And that the wrinkles in the fabric
Of my own life splayed out so blindly
The vision of my eyes bedazzled
Incandescent, her face in the beam
Unaware how her mind unraveled
As depression stole her ev'ry dream
The threads of DNA defining
Who I’ve become I'm now believing
My mother’s hand in that designing
Of my own Invisible Weaving
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 12:24 PM UTC
As an offering of peace
she brought him cherries
to sweeten the tense air.
Plump black cherries
mouthwateringly ripe,
polished to perfection.
'Shall I come with my brimming bowl?'
she asked.
'Shall we selfishly gorge in secret before
they are over?'
Desiring her sweetness
he feathered her with kisses,
dropped the blind against
a flaming sun and callers-
yielded to sweetness.
Sweet her cherried fingers,
sweet her skin, her lips,
her tongue.
She plied him with cherries,
fed his desire stalk after stalk,
the whole room burnished
with passion.
When twilight seeped in,
they lay cherry - heavy,
clinging to sweetness.
'The secret is ours, he teased,
thoughts turned towards
a handful of dropped,
forgotten stones.
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 1:10 PM UTC
1.
Before I knew he had.
His flight trailed off into a Utah
Sunrise. He left behind a little strand
Of thought, and, in a cramped, amber room that saw
Long talks of topics that soon thinned grey,
A set of dog-eared books has been put down.
Books that brought nearer to my thought his own,
While Interstate-5 grated the ground.
2.
He must have, as the plane touched the runway,
Felt the dawn’s shudder fracture his young bones,
His thoughts turning to those dog-eared days;
The seemingly endless months full of groans,
As they should have been, being spent alone;
And that set of books, at least it would seem,
Ignited the wick on which our passions gleam.
3.
These six years past since they took him away
Held minutes like a needle in plied dust.
There’s something in the spring that brings decay:
The outward beauty of the world just
Clouds the mind’s loss within the spinning gust
That all the blooming flowers usher in.
Then the rain comes...
4.
As the 5’s scratch cracks up the drying earth,
I recall Nietzsche, Guevara, Burgess:
Men who’d not anticipated births
Inside my brother and I like cypress
Trees, evergreen and coniferous, we
Drop seeds year-round. The setting Utah sun,
Barely audible, gasps in the copse.
He’s with me now. What’s done is done.
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 3:37 PM UTC
All in the golden afternoon
Full leisurely we glide;
For both our oars, with little skill,
By little arms are plied,
While little hands make vain pretence
Our wanderings to guide.
Ah, cruel Three! In such an hour
Beneath such dreamy weather,
To beg a tale of breath too weak
To stir the tiniest feather&xclm.;
Yet what can one poor voice avail
Against three tongues together?
Imperious Prima flashes forth
Her edict ''to begin it'':
In gentler tones Secunda hopes
''There will be nonsense in it!''
While Tertia interrupts the tale
Not more than once a minute.
Anon, to sudden silence won,
In fancy they pursue
The dream-child moving through a land
Of wonders wild and new,
In friendly chat with bird or beast--
And half believe it true.
And ever, as the story drained
The wells of fancy dry,
And faintly strove that weary one
To put the subject by
''The rest next time--'' ''It is next time!''
The happy voices cry.
Thus grew the tale of Wonderland:
Thus slowly, one by one,
Its quaint events were hammered out--
And now the tale is done,
And home we steer, a merry crew,
Beneath the setting sun.
Alice! A childish story take,
And with a gentle hand,
Lay it where Childhoood's dreams are twined
In Memory's mystic band,
Like pilgrim's wither'd wreath of flowers
Pluck'd in a far-off land.
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Life is a pantomime
light hearted and plain.
It's behind you they shout
but it's all part of the game.
The villain is booed
by the on-looking crowd
but there is nobody there
when you decide to turn round.
You think that you know,
you think you will solve,
but the answers are gone
when at last you revolve.
Is it the king?
Or perhaps that old aunt?
Who's got two ugly daughters
who would tear you apart.
The boy with the buttons,
is he evil or good?
Or is it that carved out puppet
with that long nose of wood?
Who is the goody?
Who is it best to know?
Well we really can't say
till the end of the show.
Life is no pantomime
not so light hearted and plain.
Full of caring and good
but also vile and insane.
No one shouts he's behind you.
Villains do not get booed.
You cannot always see them
as you're plied and you're wooed.
They are not always ugly.
they may never seem nauseous
so the only advice here
is to always be cautious.
Trust takes time to endear.
Trust is something to earn.
Trust is something that you need
very quickly to learn.
Never hand it to quickly
to anyone in the line
cause we all need to realise,
life is no pantomime.
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 5:45 PM UTC
OH ! born to sooth distress, and lighten care ;
Lively as soft, and innocent as fair ;
Blest with that sweet simplicity of thought
So rarely found, and never to be taught ;
Of winning speech, endearing, artless, kind,
The loveliest pattern of a female mind ;
Like some fair spirit from the realms of rest
With all her native heaven within her breast ;
So pure, so good, she scarce can guess at sin,
But thinks the world without like that within ;
Such melting tenderness, so fond to bless,
Her charity almost becomes excess.
Wealth may be courted, wisdom be rever'd,
And beauty prais'd, and brutal strength be fear'd ;
But goodness only can affection move ;
And love must owe its origin to love.
*******
OF gentle manners, and of taste refin'd,
With all the graces of a polish'd mind ;
Clear sense and truth still shone in all she spoke,
And from her lips no idle sentence broke.
Each nicer elegance of art she knew ;
Correctly fair, and regularly true :
Her ready fingers plied with equal skill
The pencil's task, the needle, or the quill.
So pois'd her feelings, so compos'd her soul,
So subject all to reason's calm controul,
One only passion, strong, and unconfin'd,
Disturb'd the balance of her even mind :
One passion rul'd despotic in her breast,
In every word, and look, and thought confest ;
But that was love, and love delights to bless
The generous transports of a fond excess.
2.3k
plied playful pied piper oh puppeteer dream writer of a wonder and future so bright,
oh tell pray chance the grand wonders in morrows to come a stored store for the wondering fools of this world tonight.
casting, the irons so hot, malleable, tender in the hearts delights, here in this awkwardly worded flight, of fearless tendency, oh **** necromancy?
**** yeah, that, that can stay far from sight. now, lets lead with the fixxen to wack the mole of ridiculous vixxen and fiction so true, so true the crookedly made house, rousted clout, for he is an ego far too large this alley mouse, pretending to be a cat without a house, oh wait that's me, scratch that last part, before someone figures out i was only a silly little roustabout, and hoping to rooster, and goose the calling of mine own loud *** mouth out. crap. this ***** but we are far from done, oh almost forgot you standing there, will you do us all a solid and tell us the way out? or at least what horse to bet on in the triple crown and the powered ***** all hanging out? your a Daisey if ya do.
SuperStar
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m1EreTOvelQ
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 1:30 AM UTC
Mirror mirror on the wall, my hopes are down but my dreams are tall, what do you see in me when i face the wall. Mirror mirror please tell me all, i need you more than ever before is my heart full or can it handle some more. Mirror mirror what do you see, a boy asking for help that's to strong to bleed, or a boy that's helpless who stands to plied. Mirror mirror cant you see, my reflection isn't glowing is there something wrong with me, peer red seems to cover i am not a devils child. Mirror mirror please come rescue me, God is on my side i been to stupid to see, mistakes after mistakes but still he forgives me. Mirror mirror can the boy be me, if so i give it all to see a new day for me, falling to my knees i start to plied. Mirror mirror red little droppings replace my tears, the devil is crying because i am no longer he's, the pain that i feel in my hands and feet is the pain that he felt when he died for me. Mirror mirror now what do you see, mirror mirror please talk to me, My mirror has broken and fell to my feet, now that i see a glowing man in front of me.
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 4:46 PM UTC
~
Painting a picture of porcupines playing
Pincushions out in the field
Purple and pink for this playful perception
Plans of their purpose revealed
Painful endeavors of pacified pranksters
Presenting a pie at their place
Pecan or pumpkin, pickle, pineapple
Pieces are smeared on their face
Putting the paint on some powder puff paper
Pleasure in each stroke is plied
Pausing to peer at the porcupines playing
Prancing in pansies they hide
Puzzling problems with pretzels and peanuts
Posturing people to prove
Pistachio perfume in prime presentation
Preaches that peaches will move
Polishing pastels on pre-printed pages
Prized the possessions we seek
Paisley the plumes of a peacocks posterior
Portraits now come take a peek
Pampering piccolos play the piano
Pure as a pelican’s prayer
Picking a parcel of plum flavored pudding
Poetic prose fills the air
Pleats in my pants shout in proud proclamation
Puddle my pores they perspire
Poodles on playgrounds prevent prosecution
Plotting my hearts pure desire
Passion precedes every past tense of parting
Piled with a presence so true
Painting a picture while purposely dreaming
Promising my love to you
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 4:21 PM UTC
'Beds to the front of them,
Beds to the right of them,
Beds to the left of them,
Nobody blundered.
Beamed at by hungry souls,
Screamed at with brimming bowls,
Steamed at by army rolls,
Buttered and sundered.
With coffee not cannon plied,
Each must be satisfied,
Whether they lived or died;
All the men wondered.'
2k
We take a shortcut
through the narrow walkways
of the old village
across the cobblestones
and by the white-washed tabby wall
to the waterside where slave ships
once plied their trade
My dog lingers nose down
as if each stone has a story to tell
and ***** an ear to the wall
where the auctions were held
She looks at people differently now.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 11:12 PM UTC
before I knew he had.
His flight trailed off into a Utah
sunrise. He left behind a little strand
of thought, and, in a cramped, amber room that saw
long talks of topics that soon thinned grey,
a set of dog-eared books has been put down.
Books that brought nearer to my thought his own,
while somewhere Interstate-5 grates ‘cross the ground.
I sleep there still, although I left for good.
That house to this day asks me where he was.
Their smiles, the little comfort that they could
give, were emptier than their words. Often
I feel the vague pulse of their ragged stares –
torn, threadbare they unravel in the air
to mask their faces: that inner decree
which shades the truth. Where and how’d they ever grow wrong?
He must have, as the plane touched the runway,
felt the dawn’s shudder fracture his young bones,
his thoughts turning to those dog-earing days.
The seemingly endless months full of groans,
as they should have been, being spent alone.
And that set of books, at least it would seem,
ignited the wick on which our passions gleam –
slate-grey regards.
These six years past since they took him away
held minutes like a needle in plied dust.
There’s something in the spring that brings decay
here. The outward beauty of the world just
clouds the mind’s loss within the spinning gust
that all the blooming flowers usher in.
Then the rain comes –
in spitters and spats it spins the spire.
When gone the white-wick’s still on fire.
As the 5’s scratch cracks up the drying earth,
I recall Nietzsche, Guevara, Burgess.
Famed men who’d not anticipated births
inside my brother and I like cypress
trees, evergreen and coniferous we
drop seeds year-round. The setting Utah sun,
barely audible, gasps in the copse.
He’s with me now. What’s done is done.
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 7:53 AM UTC
Watch me closely, God,
though you’ve seen it all before.
I’ve got the universe up my sleeve
and it’s itching for a sleight,
if you’re willing to be conned.
The stardust filling Aquarius
has poured for countless millennia
and it won’t brim the bottomless cup
of your oceanic blues.
That’s the warm-up for Lepus
who, lean and polar-white, leaps
out from my flipped-over cap
and is chased by the steel-plied
Orion’s hankering for roast hare.
Hunger-driven this heaven hunter
has a saggy belt; his sword’s tip drags,
slicing Gemini in two,
but twins can’t be parted long
and divinely grasping Pollux clasps
Castor’s pause anew.
Conjoined, they bow together
under showers of milky petals
kissing no-longer
furrowed brows till black
velvet curtains fall
and are followed by your eons of
endearing applause.
Nov 13, 2010
Nov 13, 2010 at 6:41 AM UTC
To be alone
Is to be complete
They say
No man is an island,
But isn't everyone?
We're all stranded on islands of self-interest
Connected to others
Through flimsy bridges of temporary alliances
Mutual interests and gain
The more connected we are
The more isolated we become
Pictures and blog posts
Nothing more than facades
Anomie is the word of the decade
The individualistic
The self-sufficient
Is reviled
For refusing to play the game
To participate
In the masquerade
To jump through the hoops
Of social niceties
Somehow
To sit and squirm
Through ******* contests and gossip
To flap and flutter
In the howling gales of hysteria and contrived laughter
Is preferred over
Sitting alone
Revelations and epiphanies
Splayed out before oneself
Playing solitaire with one's reflections
In peace
Baby showers and mixers
Celebrated
The impenetrable silence
Of one's hermitage
Eschewed
The people-pleaser
Preferred
Over the lone wolf
The team player
Over the independent agent
I suppose
In an age of open doors
A locked one
Raises a few eyebrows
They'd knock and rattle
Then bang and kick and shout
Before leaving in a huff
Authenticity is now the rarest commodity
Valued over saffron and platinum
So people settle instead
For knockoffs
Alcohol-plied sincerity is better than nothing
A China-made Rolex still looks better --
Flashier, if nothing else --
Than a Timex
No man is an island,
They say,
Smirking
Frowning
Clucking with disapproval
Peering behind perfectly schooled masks
Nary a hair out of place
Looking at me
In all my artless imperfection
Paper, pen, and cigarettes for company
Well
Which of us here
Is truly alone?
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 10:27 AM UTC
Bathed in fields of hummingbirds
an elderdown of spring purveys
weaves nexus to ancient stone walls
where tomorrow's wood elves
dressed in firestorm blue
wait
bequeathing a symphony of resistivity
a causeway plied with dreams to harvest,
wills the east winds high.
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 10:26 AM UTC
She counted the night away
the neon street lights disappaiting,
sitting on her grandmothers crocheted bed cover
her pink knickers hid her body wide goosebumps,
the froid unheated bedsit
plied with her emotional turmoil,
vexed boyfriend and always tomorrow.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 2:48 PM UTC
142
Whose are the little beds, I asked
Which in the valleys lie?
Some shook their heads, and others smiled—
And no one made reply.
Perhaps they did not hear, I said,
I will inquire again—
Whose are the beds—the tiny beds
So thick upon the plain?
’Tis Daisy, in the shortest—
A little further on—
Nearest the door—to wake the Ist—
Little Leontoden.
’Tis Iris, Sir, and Aster—
Anemone, and Bell—
Bartsia, in the blanket red—
And chubby Daffodil.
Meanwhile, at many cradles
Her busy foot she plied—
Humming the quaintest lullaby
That ever rocked a child.
Hush! Epigea wakens!
The Crocus stirs her lids—
Rhodora’s cheek is crimson,
She’s dreaming of the woods!
Then turning from them reverent—
Their bedtime ’tis, she said—
The Bumble bees will wake them
When April woods are red.
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