"purl" poems
Lost to backdrops scrolling past,
She sits knitting
in the carriage of a train.
The vague needles
They scintillate and glimpse
With the cadence of the wheels –
Upbeating ceaselessly.
Strips of tiny loops
And eyelets like dewdrops
Of condensation
Grouped on the superior rim.
Once in a while,
She gives a heave
To loosen more yarn from the skein
Of Filipino-made wool,
brushed worsted weave.
Spun and carded
from the richest fleece,
Deeper in the wicker basket by her feet.
The needles flash,
With ancient rhythms and attack
Of duellists in their chainmail coats.
With little hesitation she can tack
From plain to purl to blackberry.
Count back by rote or slip a stitch
While the fish-eyed gimlets gleam.
All gather profusely in her lap,
As windfall trove, rich-patterned
And warm with peach-fuzz nap,
All crafted from a single line of yarn.
Marvels fall continuously from wise
Spell-binding hands and all is well for now.
(9/11/13 @xirlleelang)
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 10:10 PM UTC
I failed to love round, but fallen flat,
My head slumps down, over an ancient map,
My eyes roll back, over the mappa mundi verge,
Where waterfalls purl, and the sea serpent-sleep lies curled.
May 16, 2021
May 16, 2021 at 9:08 PM UTC
‘Whenever I plunge my arm, like this,
In a basin of water, I never miss
The sweet sharp sense of a fugitive day
Fetched back from its thickening shroud of gray.
Hence the only prime
And real love-rhyme
That I know by heart,
And that leaves no smart,
Is the purl of a little valley fall
About three spans wide and two spans tall
Over a table of solid rock,
And into a scoop of the self-same block;
The purl of a runlet that never ceases
In stir of kingdoms, in wars, in peaces;
With a hollow boiling voice it speaks
And has spoken since hills were turfless peaks.’
‘And why gives this the only prime
Idea to you of a real love-rhyme?
And why does plunging your arm in a bowl
Full of spring water, bring throbs to your soul?’
‘Well, under the fall, in a crease of the stone,
Though precisely where none ever has known,
Jammed darkly, nothing to show how prized,
And by now with its smoothness opalized,
Is a grinking glass:
For, down that pass
My lover and I
Walked under a sky
Of blue with a leaf-wove awning of green,
In the burn of August, to paint the scene,
And we placed our basket of fruit and wine
By the runlet’s rim, where we sat to dine;
And when we had drunk from the glass together,
Arched by the oak-copse from the weather,
I held the vessel to rinse in the fall,
Where it slipped, and it sank, and was past recall,
Though we stooped and plumbed the little abyss
With long bared arms. There the glass still is.
And, as said, if I ****** my arm below
Cold water in a basin or bowl, a throe
From the past awakens a sense of that time,
And the glass we used, and the cascade’s rhyme.
The basin seems the pool, and its edge
The hard smooth face of the brook-side ledge,
And the leafy pattern of china-ware
The hanging plants that were bathing there.
‘By night, by day, when it shines or lours,
There lies intact that chalice of ours,
And its presence adds to the rhyme of love
Persistently sung by the fall above.
No lip has touched it since his and mine
In turns therefrom sipped lovers’ wine.’
2.7k
sometimes-(sometimes);
i love you on the lips
moon garden
paradise hills and november
and it's temple
template of our own world of wild tales .. sometimes
sometimes twine
sometimes silent running sometimes engine purl
under our dark star
the wind rises ; blood and black lace
the pace of our isle
raw and in keeping
sometimes the lighthouse taps
blinking metronome and we use habits of coherence
and practicality and partnership
in some dark corners
alternatives
on another earth
seats an uninvited guest
viewing
(i feel.. sometimes)
Oct 23, 2023
Oct 23, 2023 at 6:30 PM UTC
I get sent socks at Christmas,
So I can have safe walks.
When I tell my friends about this,
Everybody talks.
There is no innuendo,
Nothing to confess.
Without those cushioning blankets
My feet would be a mess.
I know a friend who knits socks,
In many different hues.
So long as she keeps knitting,
Our feet won’t have the blues.
So Wendy sock it to ‘em:
All that stitch and purl.
Make them good and roomy,
So our toes don’t have to curl.
No chance of any frostbite,
With these things on our feet.
For comfort on a cushion,
These socks just can’t be beat.
Paul Butters
Aug 16, 2017
Aug 16, 2017 at 1:06 PM UTC
since I cannot write poetry
which is of the highest degree
forthwith I shall be retiring my pick
to pursue other pursuits
that don't need writing skills
the knitting needles
have lain idle
in the cupboard
for yonks
I must ferret them out
and give them a click and a clack
do a purl stitch
do a yarn forward
increase at the end of the needle
in the following
four rows
that is where my talents lie
in knitting
that I'm sure of
and the quality
of my knitting
has always made par
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 9:48 AM UTC
Soon as the sun forsook the eastern main
The pealing thunder shook the heav’nly plain;
Majestic grandeur! From the zephyr’s wing,
Exhales the incense of the blooming spring.
Soft purl the streams, the birds renew their notes,
And through the air their mingled music floats.
Through all the heav’ns what beauteous dies are spread!
But the west glories in the deepest red:
So may our ******* with ev’ry virtue glow,
The living temples of our God below!
Fill’d with the praise of him who gives the light,
And draws the sable curtains of the night,
Let placid slumbers sooth each weary mind,
At morn to wake more heav’nly, more refin’d;
So shall the labours of the day begin
More pure, more guarded from the snares of sin.
Night’s leaden sceptre seals my drowsy eyes,
Then cease, my song, till fair Aurora rise.
1.8k
**The fairest hair, peroxide blond
beer shampoo feeding the roots
primped and pinned with paperclips
blown and set as candyfloss sticks.
Hydro-pack cream erasing the pouches
colourful lashes, stuck to the lids
with copyright brows by electrolysis
both almond eyes are now penciled in.
Lines of life filled with putty
trowelled in layers, foundations built
delicate cheeks, powdered, pampered
rouged and shaded, giving them youth.
Clinical lips, Botox injected
tattooed outlines guiding the brush
the budding artist colours by numbers
pouting, she paints in weatherproof gloss.
Turtleneck sweater hiding the wrinkles
genuine paste, drawing the eye
both purl and knit-one inside the jumper
pulled and snagged by glued on nails.
High heel shoes, stretching the sinews
of Lycra clad legs, holding them taut
a girdle of whalebone hugging the figure
gently molding, the form to behold.
With grace we age throughout the years
a time filled life, craves respect
hairs of grey are marks of distinction
an occasional blemish, a beauty spot.
Tiny crow's feet, signs of good humour
experience of life, lines proudly worn
for with laughing eyes and glowing smile
who need wear a plasticine face.**
... ... ...
Apr 30, 2011
Apr 30, 2011 at 12:15 AM UTC
Forever is hushed amongst sweet sounding rain;
Murmured heartbeats;
Turn a soft pirouette in the recess of mind;
Moon-burn, silvered, permeates the rake of glittered stars;
Your kiss carved into this heart...
Remember me, remember me...
And I cant get close enough to him;
Lilies, wild and dark,
Cool the blush of my cheek, a soft essence
Purl-binding, touching my soul;
A summons of wrists gently turned
To show veins that lie beneath,
Bleeding hushed words,
Flowing, where
The lull of nightfall, lays my hair between your fingers...
Remember me, remember me...
And I cant get close enough to him;
The breast of the ****** moon-spill,
A simple thread of heartbeat, a touch-tender upon lips
Parted;
You brushed me beautiful,
So beautiful;
I glitter… silk upon crimson, shining;
Slipping, burnished, to your tease,
Flesh on fevered flesh,
I want closer
To melt beneath your skin, to swim in your veins...
Remember me, remember me...
And I cant get close enough to him;
Your body,
Listens, caresses
A gentle burning in my spine,
Arching with the soft essence of night flowers;
And gentle, the pulse of hand's clasp;
My heart finding the rhythm of yours,
A sigh between each beat,
Whispering soft,
"Never let me go."...
Remember me, remember me...
And I cant get close enough to him;
Fire's flame dances, shadows writhe,
Touch-feathering the silk of petals, rising to meet
Each heartbeat
Waiting,
To feel your passion course through my blood,
Feel desire as it consumes me,
Suckle sweet, sutra your taste,
Filling me....
Remember me, remember me...
And I cant get close enough to him;
I whimper, sighs,
A blue voice, moaning through me
Folding my breath inside your hands;
Feeling the quivers you send racing through my thighs
Purging velvet depths,
Deeper
Before a rise of hip curves to please eyes
Lost inside the mirage of dreams,
To feel your love and know its truth as if it were my own...
Remember me, remember me............
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 2:31 PM UTC
I let Fast Fashion pass me by
I choose a slower way
I watch the needle drop right down
And I while away the day
I choose the Slowest Fashion
The one grandmother wore
I now knit at the slowest pace
With no desire for more
I knit and purl to my content
This is my path to peace
But don't ask me to knit for you
This one is for my niece
Oct 6, 2024
Oct 6, 2024 at 4:14 AM UTC
mommy, you have raised me
from such a little girl
now im so much more
then just your little purl
mommy, youve been here for me
when i just felt the need to cry
and youve helped me through the times
ive just thought to die
mommy, your my role model
you raised me so well
youve kept my spirit up
when my confidence fell
mommy, i have grown up
youve lighten up my life
and youll be the one to walk me
when i become someones wife
mommy, you will be there
when my first baby screams
and youll be there
when my baby has bad dreams
mommy, im lucky to have you
always by my side
you defend me till the end
until one of us diee.
mommy, i know it hurts you
to see me walk away
when you tell me "i love you"
i dont know what to say
mommy, i know i dont say it back
not very often at all
but in the end you know i do
and ill catch you if you fall
mommy, you have picked me up
when i was to weak to stand
you have walked me on the right trail
leading, hand in hand
mommy*, i just wanted to thank you
for all that you have done
and tell you mommy,*** i love you***
Oct 5, 2010
Oct 5, 2010 at 12:59 PM UTC
Sediment slabs purl down soft rock,
parched charcoal lathers soot - scintillate,
smothered form in slate deluge,
where the sun can take refuge,
saturnine in the hiemal shift of the alcove,
and nebulous spume caroms - gaseous halations ,
off scalding waters, sweet smoke arise,
tenuous strings of light gossamer in the eyes ,
meshed scales loll down,
corona tendrils stream over sunken psilocybe,
equilibrium sun-warped - flares effulgent,
seeping into trails of salt-lacerated skin,
wax beads singeing skin - summer hit of apocalypse fever
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 4:27 AM UTC
On Monday, my husband waits until I get home to say the words.
I go to unload the car and carry back tears.
Sitting, stirring, I begin to take out stitches on
a strayed shawl for the third time.
An artist and an adventurer, she sipped Dickle and ate meat
and raised chickens. She slept in a small house to live spaciously.
Erin was tall and never knowing of how she showed me to
express, explore, expand, to exist.
On a long ago Friday, with frayed Carhartt pants, we were
chatting about women, and their depictions in magazines,
Erin says,“Well, they’re not shaped like a real woman.”
For a lasting moment, I see from her wise and lovely eyes.
Erin is a stitch unlooped from our tight knit.
A drafty gratitude, a sudden shiver. She was here, with us, with the world.
And now we are looping onto each other, tenaciously.
Even so, what are we to do with slipped stitches and this hole?
May we purl pain into artistry. All we have to do is add the t.
So we will paint. And we will climb mountains.
We will tear and we will cry and live and bleed and die.
Until then, we have no other task than to knit ourselves together.
Apr 18, 2019
Apr 18, 2019 at 1:51 AM UTC
melancholy wind
moans off the hilltop
grass responds in rhythm
clouds wheel across the landscape
leaving figment message
along the ground
bring visions to mind
which aren’t even mine
change unlike time
moves back and forward
the myth of now
shapes history past
fates arise in retrospect
regret is futures toil
chaotic blows the sand
when scene inside the storm
remove yourself
to see yourself
the patterns that are borne
the flow and ebb
that has no care
to minuscule endeavors
yet we knit and purl
at Indra's net
unconscious to
the state of grace
to which we aim
unerring
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 12:33 PM UTC
“Such tiny hands,” he said
shoving elephantine thoughts
Into them
wielding such power –
knife clutching,
caressing, pen.
He took his eyes off the screen
for a moment,
to watch them go. He pondered,
“Long is the journey along nerves
from heart to paper,
nothing can be squandered.”
One day his hands will die
having bled for God and country
having spit and wept
along the path
tapping time
from the tip of his fingered infancy.
To the top of his wrist,
where youth dons hero’s cloak
stirring ***** in angst
fire carriers of thrumming tribes
whose eye’s purl water
from the smoke.
Then up arm and shoulder
shuffles age, a road
along his neck, that forks
where one goes south
where memories start,
the other towards the forgotten north.
Fateful, the besieged tellurian
Seeking whence his end began,
A northern throne for
a southern heart
thereupon ascends, proclaims
“I’ve come to free this writing hand.”
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 2:49 AM UTC
Show me love on hundred waters
that drowned me closer to you,
show me the moon and stars
hidden on the night's shadows.
Show me cruelty on every mistake
that made you realized my worth,
show me tears when you leave,
and I will stay, waiting for you.
Our hearts are burning with fire
we meant to ignite in the dark,
our eyes are bewitched with lies,
we never mind, we lost the spark.
Show me care on purl stitches,
trying to cover every pain,
show me my wings and wishes
so I could move on and fly again.
Show me love on hundred waters
that drowned me closer to you,
and tell me it is over now,
tell me, so I can let you go.
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 2:25 PM UTC
I am yet a fragile floret,
I don’t think I deserved a quoret,
Grant my time to blossom,
My age is still in the *****
I have a right to realize my life.
I am just but a tender girl,
I still require a purl,
I am more than cows and goats,
This feels a bloat in my throat,
I have a right to realize my life.
Let me marry when I want,
My shoulder can’t carry the torment of the taunt,
I desire to be well trained,
I don’t want to live chained,
I have a right to realize my life.
Mar 23, 2021
Mar 23, 2021 at 3:10 PM UTC
LIFELINES
Her dead husband
trapped behind glass
laughs from his
faded photograph.
He stands in a field
of wallpaper roses.
She knits & knits
as if
she was knitting
time.
Time is cast on.
She never drops a stitch.
"Purl..purl...purl"
her tabby purrs.
At night she unravels
the day's knitting
as if disposing of all
that wasted time.
Time is cast off.
Tomorrow she will
begin again
the endless endless knitting
that is neither
scarf or cardigan
a... nothing.
A car headlight sweeps
across her husband's face
brings him alive
for an instant
and then he is
dead
forever again.
The knitting needles
pierce the blue
ball of wool
that will be tomorrow.
Sleep at last is
kind to her.
She hopes Death
will find her soon
so that tomorrow
need not be
knitted. . .
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 5:47 PM UTC
if I don't have anything,
If all I have is taken, and all my hopes and dreams are stolen...
I won't give a **** cause I got you...
Don't think to buy me a dimond ring or a purl necklace
Cause if I don't have you,
I don't have anything.
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 9:06 PM UTC
Divine spine of a broken line
Shrine of a grimy concubine
A melon and a clementine
Sit atop her belly
Twigs slipped and spitty
with citrus crushed and gritty,
the concubine sits pretty
in a purl of orange leaves.
With fingers succour-sticky
Lurid, licked a quickie
proptotic gargoyles lurking over
As she sighs into the clover
Oct 26, 2019
Oct 26, 2019 at 6:46 AM UTC
LIFELINES
Her dead husband
trapped behind glass
laughs from his
faded photograph.
He stands in a field
of wallpaper roses.
She knits & knits
as if
she was knitting
time.
Time is cast on.
She never drops a stitch.
"Purl..purl...purl"
her tabby purrs.
At night she unravels
the day's knitting
as if disposing of all
that wasted time.
Time is cast off.
Tomorrow she will
begin again
the endless endless knitting
that is neither
scarf or cardigan
a... nothing.
A car headlight sweeps
across her husband's face
brings him alive
for an instant
and then he is
dead
forever again.
The knitting needles
pierce the blue
ball of wool
that will be tomorrow.
Sleep at last is
kind to her.
She hopes Death
will find her soon
so that tomorrow
need not be
knitted. . .
Jul 15, 2016
Jul 15, 2016 at 7:05 PM UTC
knit, purl, knit, purl, knit, purl, stitch
cable front, cable back, knit, knit, knit
slip one over, yarn in front
knit back into place
put one stitch marker there
keep up with the pace
Outside there's snow and now it's sun
White out snow squalls
Then clear blue sky
Mother Nature what's going on?
Is this your attempt at trying to cry?
The world is burning, the ice it melts
We are a virus blistfully unaware
Oh well...
knit, purl, knit, purl, knit purl, stitch
cable back, cable front, knit, knit, knit
Jan 8, 2020
Jan 8, 2020 at 2:32 PM UTC
*Haven Lane
By
Jude Kyrie
The night brings dreams where specters host
Old memories coming alive like forgotten ghost
I am looking to find haven lane.
The place where i will be safe again.
Down the pathway
Along to the sea
I find the roads
but not for me.
In the fog the house lights glow
Blinking in air as white as snow
Where is my mother she's here again
Cutting fruit for a pie at haven Lane
Her old chair creaking in pain
As she carves apple skins at haven lane.
I know she's there at haven lane.
I must find haven lane again.
Grandmother cast a stitch of knitting
It's shapeless length the moments flitting.
growing stitch by stitch as she is sitting.
Clicking ceaselessly in Haven Lane
Knit one purl one cast one
Clickity clicking again and again
Outside, In the fog, I feel the pain.
Cutting my flesh wide open again
Dreams wash away in the morning rain
I am Lost and alone like haven lane*
Nov 6, 2016
Nov 6, 2016 at 6:54 PM UTC