"sewed" poems
The love that a son has for his father..
The love that a father has for his son
A trust in another man to lead you and get it done
Showed me things gave me knowledge That on my own
I wouldn't have known
Something that can't be taught in college
Met you when I was in 7th grade I have grown
Can you see the seed you have sewed
Can you see where my work ethic comes from
Blood, sweat, and tears
Callus thumbs
Your the reason why I know that I can be a homeowner
Cause I seen you do it first
Held me up when times got rough
Fatherhood
When I wasn't ready you assisted like a crunch
When my heart was crushed
You open your doors help with my direction
When we kick it, manly admiration and love is what's reflected
Just want to let you know you are respected
My father died then God blessed me with you to prove I wasn't neglected
Fatherhood
Helped me stand when I couldn't
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 5:18 PM UTC
I see the soft, charming ringlets bounce up, down, and around
As my little cousin opens her gift.
I hear the tinkling sound of her excited voice,
but feel sick to my stomach when she tells Mommy and Daddy what it is.
She squeals "Barbie!"
And I want to scoop her up and run,
Far, far, away from the little plastic doll,
On, on, onward toward a safe view of beauty.
Her ignorance is bliss, but I know better,
And I pray with a heavy heart
For that beautiful, creative mind underneath the ringlets.
I desperately ask some higher power
How we can protect her from that little doll.
What were you thinking,
I want to yell at the grown ups.
Didn't you learn from us?
Don't you know that Barbie cut open our hearts and sewed in her plastic ideal
Before they had beaten long enough for us to walk?
That she shoved sharp words in our head
Before we could string together full sentences?
That we never stood a chance,
From the moment we tore open the shiny paper
Dotted with cartoon Christmas trees?
That the "must-have" gift for a little girl
Would enslave our bodies and minds to a "must-have" torture for the rest of our lives,
And teach our brothers and classmates to look for the woman
With not enough calories in her body to sustain a simple memory,
With not enough room in her waist to hold a kidney?
Maybe it's not all your fault, you grown-ups.
Maybe you've been chained to the unattainable images for so long
That you've forgotten the shackles were even there.
But does that not scare you?
Maybe you'll remember the strain
When you see a beautiful young woman's scars,
When you hear a breaking voice speak about her friend's final breaths
At her own fragile hands filled with little pills.
But most of all, I pray to God that you won't have to remember too late,
I hope you don't have to remember when you're chained to her hospital bed
Because the insufficiency you gifted her in a shiny plastic box
Started a cycle of sinister self-hate and destructive delusion
That she cannot outrun.
I won't let you forget, because you cannot remember that way.
I won't let you forget, because she can't end up that way, like we did.
You think you gave her a pretty little toy in a shiny little package.
Didn't you learn from us?
You gave her Pandora's box.
You look at me funny,
When I replace the impossibly-sized plastic "woman" in her hands
With a toddler-sized plastic piano.
You may not remember, but I always will,
And I will dedicate my life to making sure
These beautiful ringlets will never have to.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 1:43 PM UTC
*Dust flits gently on its arm; slowly & lazily.
As if not to cut, tear the patiently sewed seams.
Cotton against yellowing white thread.*
**The sanctuary for reminiscing about mesmerising scenes
The throne for Kings and Queens without crowns to be seen
I'm overwhelm by ecstasy as I bask in this endless elation of delectation.**
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 7:54 AM UTC
There is a hole in the world
All the doors are painted
a shade of liars faces
their colors while arriving
are also fading
but we are still here..
Where corroding slats of
63 year old wood
sound like the screams
echoing across
the crumbling pages of days
burnt yellow beneath the
fire of eyes
The purple pouring through unseen waves in the dusk sky as Janis joplin sang gray star clouds
into my heart
she sewed my wounds
with the ash of
of bodies adrift of lovers
living only in the mirage
air disguised
as smiles everlasting
glass of the
empty kind of love that lies,
and never breathes
yet forever dies
dreams devour you with
tears remembering the terror
in Janis's eyes,
she poured herself out
across the floor of the perishing world
while performing
"work me lord"
"live at stockholm 69'"
to the dark,
we were never there
we were born
into hands that were dying
we breathed our last breath of freedom-
then we were born,
It was then that
I heard the darkness cry.
we are dying..
because we have forgotten
the free gift given,
our lightless bones
loose around the spine
of every bolt we never knew,
strengthened our stance against
the murderous long night.
Choosing blindness,
over looking without sight,
The invisible mountain,
that breathed in our corroding
dusty hearts,
weilding love
against the demons behind
our mirror eyes..
Refusing to call his name..
we have lived for each one of us
just for ourselves ("selflove")
so it is this then,
we have sold
our freedom
to the lie
named death.
Apr 18, 2020
Apr 18, 2020 at 2:42 AM UTC
From the French of François Villon
Tell me now in what hidden way is
Lady Flora the lovely Roman?
Where’s Hipparchia, and where is Thais,
Neither of them the fairer woman?
Where is Echo, beheld of no man,
Only heard on river and mere—
She whose beauty was more than human?—
But where are the snows of yester-year?
Where’s Heloise, the learned nun,
For whose sake Abeillard, I ween,
Lost manhood and put priesthood on?
(From Love he won such dule and teen!)
And where, I pray you, is the Queen
Who willed that Buridan should steer
Sewed in a sack’s mouth down the Seine?—
But where are the snows of yester-year?
White Queen Blanche, like a queen of lilies,
With a voice like any mermaiden—
Bertha Broadfoot, Beatrice, Alice,
And Ermengarde the lady of Maine—
And that good Joan whom Englishmen
At Rouen doomed and burned her there—
Mother of God, where are they then?—
But where are the snows of yester-year?
Nay, never ask this week, fair lord,
Where they are gone, nor yet this year,
Except with this for an overword—
But where are the snows of yester-year?
9.1k
1138
A Spider sewed at Night
Without a Light
Upon an Arc of White.
If Ruff it was of Dame
Or Shroud of Gnome
Himself himself inform.
Of Immortality
His Strategy
Was Physiognomy.
7.9k
we are monsters
from the boutique to the
embroidered throw pillows the
pen dashed around the neck
stage 5 bone cut
sawing ossification to the
hollow core
we are monsters
hooting in tunnels lined
with bats coming out to feast
creation
to scrape the streets
shimmy the walls
bust the coffin and
succckk
we are monsters
who can't enter under the
doorframe
fearful of being burned by
the sun silver stake
rat poison holy water sickle
and windmill ash
we are monsters
sewed stapled dead meat
skin hair plugs ceramic
teeth tested and tasted by
rats
we are monsters
jumping high over white
fences frenzied explosion
running through corn
angrily bled in a field shot and
hunted like embarrassing
waterfowl in the jaws of
mammalia
we are monsters
of flaming brilliance flashing
in your inbox
read us and gnaw
braised
roasted
grilled limbs
watch
as we watch you
be scared and
stab
I promise we don't die.
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 2:32 PM UTC
Abigail Primpot,
Abigail Primpot,
…stirred her iron ***
Abigail Primpot,
Abigail Primpot,
…home of death and rot,
Abigail Primpot sewed and stitched a lot.
She produced a sweater that shined like treasure,
…and no one else has ever seen much better!
Abigail Primpot learned to cook from old wives’ tales in an old dusty book.
Frog legs, bird gizzard, wolf’s bane, small lizard, one rotten apple and one sharp tooth, …cup of mead, some spices and a bottle of vermouth, a chant and a song and a wizard’s spell, …and a whirlpool in the cauldron that went to Hell! Abigail Primpot likes to stitch ‘cause she is a witch and though she was quite young; she lived with snakes, bees and scorpions and things that stung!
*Abigail Primpot would become a Beast when she wrapped herself in her shining fleece!*
Abigail Primpot,
...her home stunk of death and rot,
Abigail Primpot,
...sewed and stitched a lot,
Abigail Primpot,
...she had an iron ***
Abigail Primpot,
Abigail Primpot.
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 4:29 PM UTC
someone took a needle
threaded it, tied a knot
double for luck
and then sewed me down to this feeling
sticky strands that prevent me from walking away
and i was forced to stay, forced to hold on
to the side of the rollercoaster car
no choice but to let it all play out
up and down, trying to ignore
the rising, sinking, rising again
in my stomach
up to my heart, up through my mind, and down again
but today i let go
just to brush the hair out of my face
to see you better
just for a split second, i let go
and the feeling dropped down to my toes
leaving me hanging on again for dear life
no, i’m not ready
for a “look, ma, no hands!” kinda deal
i’m still holding on, knuckles white
and shivering
waiting for the ride to end
and half-wishing it would just keep going
fight or flight, or just give in
let the scene play out
and my mind tells me, get out while you still can
but the rest of me is soothing
saying, stop looking away
at the apex of the hills, keep that eye contact
all through the drop, down to the bottom
forget the fear, it’s just part of the beauty
**** common sense, **** logic
harsh words trying to slam some sense into me
i guess it’s just the fact that i can’t analyze
a rollercoaster ride
when i’m still on it
but i don’t want it to end just yet
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 12:28 AM UTC
I am a master seamstress
I sew on a grin every day
You can never see my seams
Careful little stitchings
All across the surface
At the end of the day
I cut every little string
I let my sewn smile fall weak
I could smile without it
But it wouldn't be true
Because my cute little smile
Is merely a façade
The real me hides behind seams
She sews to be a survivor
The little seamstress I become
I am a master seamstress
I sew thoughts onto papers
The ink could never bleed through
My strong tight stitchings
Gliding across the blank paper
At the edge of the sheet
I find myself stopping
My stitches want to unravel
I have to let them out
Because they look so caged
So I exterminate my thoughts
They never come back to visit
I set them free for a reason
And it was for them to survive
This little seamstress has a heart
I am a master seamstress
I turn colors into thoughts
The thoughts I turn to material
The material I turn to beauty
The beauty I turn to stitches
The stitches heal broken hearts
My work is so well known
But then they go and leave
I do my part and they are pleased
I stitch their hearts up
They cut some stitchings
Right off my patched heart
The little strings I use
On my seamless tiny grin fray
The seamstress I was works no wonders
I am a master seamstress
I sew the strings onto the puppets
They act a lot like I do
So I admire their tough hearts
They are controlled by another
Little hands lift them up
And make them walk through life
They have their grins plastered on
Just like my seamless little smile
They prance and fly among us
But we never seem to notice them
It's like they are invisible
Falling upon deaf eyes
But I keep them alive
Because a seamstress always saves
I am a master seamstress
I sew what some call impossible
I prove them wrong with one stitch
Still they see right through me
I sewed myself invisibly
Don't let them see the real me
Don't let them know the seamstress
I've sewed their eyes to know
Not to look upon me
As I fix as I repair
They think of me as a fairy
Patching up their cuts
I'm just a small little figure
They never really see
That's just the way a seamstress likes
I am a master seamstress
I sew my wings of thread
Wear them proudly like a trophy
Every stitch is always perfect
They fly up off the wings
They soar when I fly up high
Drooping when I try to walk
My wings are seamless grins
They pretend to be when I'm not
Just like the little grin of everyday
Fly away all you little seams
All the little frayed strings
Gather up in all my stitchings
They look upon the air with care
But the seamstress can't fly away anymore
I am a master seamstress
Sewing up what cannot be fixed by man
Sep 12, 2017
Sep 12, 2017 at 2:35 PM UTC
Fine living . . . a la carte?
Come to the Waldorf-Astoria!
LISTEN HUNGRY ONES!
Look! See what Vanity Fair says about the
new Waldorf-Astoria:
"All the luxuries of private home. . . ."
Now, won't that be charming when the last flop-house
has turned you down this winter?
Furthermore:
"It is far beyond anything hitherto attempted in the hotel
world. . . ." It cost twenty-eight million dollars. The fa-
mous Oscar Tschirky is in charge of banqueting.
Alexandre Gastaud is chef. It will be a distinguished
background for society.
So when you've no place else to go, homeless and hungry
ones, choose the Waldorf as a background for your rags--
(Or do you still consider the subway after midnight good
enough?)
ROOMERS
Take a room at the new Waldorf, you down-and-outers--
sleepers in charity's flop-houses where God pulls a
long face, and you have to pray to get a bed.
They serve swell board at the Waldorf-Astoria. Look at the menu, will
you:
GUMBO CREOLE
CRABMEAT IN CASSOLETTE
BOILED BRISKET OF BEEF
SMALL ONIONS IN CREAM
WATERCRESS SALAD
PEACH MELBA
Have luncheon there this afternoon, all you jobless.
Why not?
Dine with some of the men and women who got rich off of
your labor, who clip coupons with clean white fingers
because your hands dug coal, drilled stone, sewed gar-
ments, poured steel to let other people draw dividends
and live easy.
(Or haven't you had enough yet of the soup-lines and the bit-
ter bread of charity?)
Walk through Peacock Alley tonight before dinner, and get
warm, anyway. You've got nothing else to do.
5.7k
I was born with a broken heart.
there was a deep crack in the middle and my blood couldn't flow the way it should.
I was three when the doctors took up my red thread and sewed me together.
my heart is fixed, now.
my blood flows
with each beat
tugging at the string of fate severed before I could breathe.
I see others, following their threads, searching desperately for who has the other end.
and my hands are free of red.
there is blue, purple, green, yellow,
but not the crimson of love and loss and longing.
my broken heart is still broken,
but now it works.
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 9:15 PM UTC
you play
finger puppets
in the black sky
warm
unperturbed
little worms
eating
hot soil
and foot
“I’m going to
eat this star.
Actually, I’m going
to eat them all.
I’m awfully
hungry.”
you find the
nutella I hid
under the rock
and dip the
puppets in
“Did you know
I sew?
I sewed these
puppets.
Even
the little black
eyes and the
teensy red
buttons. All in
the patience
this sky taught
me.”
your mouth
is dry and
you search
for lake water
“I swear, it’s
so hard being
a fish in
Arizona.”
the desert
agrees
once
we prayed for
rain and danced
naked in
the sand
now it’s
night and
the sand went
to sleep
now it’s night
and the stars
are disks
“Lord, take
me now. I’m a
painter, a
painter without
color.”
the act is
over
the shield
put down
and the night
swallows
disks
as you lick
chocolate paint
from your
fingers
“Goodnight, friend.
Sleep well, fish.
Until tomorrow, moon.”
your body
fresh
black
the emerald
of color
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 11:08 AM UTC
I watched myself die
Played it over and over
Scanned it for all the little details
How did this happen
When did this happen
Why did this happen
I saw myself fall away
Saw the parts of me I loved, leave
And the parts of me I hated, grow
I became super human
Able to shape-shift
I could break, shatter and crumble
And still come back together
You couldn’t see the cracks
But it took all of my efforts
To keep from falling apart again
I wept through the seams I sewed
And said it was sweat and maybe it was
After all I was working so hard
To keep track of all the pieces
I had left of me, the pieces
I didn’t lose when I watched myself die
Jun 12, 2022
Jun 12, 2022 at 7:29 AM UTC
You have stars in your hands
and you hold them like grenades.
The boats tattooed on your thighs
spread out like finger placements of the G major chord.
Synthetic drugs make chains
tying your first and second fingers
around the mechanically rolled paper,
canvasing your throat like too much sea water,
each breath as rough as the veins in your arms.
Close your eyes
there’s pollen in the air
spread out like imperfections on the skin of an apple.
Solar countries keep foreign coins
sewed into their cotton sails,
they put their money into the navy.
You have a comet in your circulatory system
leaving bright spots under your skin
a reminder to gather the sunshine back under your eyelashes.
Hand soap in ketchup packets
make bubble bath islands
and unhappy lips.
You’re as talkative as a poem and
as expensive as a poppy
with homemade constellations on your back,
staining your lumbar muscles with cherries.
I can’t wash off your fingerprints
with my favourite shampoo.
I’ll swim across the Georgia Strait,
dodge your dinghies and
make a home in handmade ships
where I’ll practice erasing scars from my arms
and washing the soap from my hair.
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 5:04 PM UTC
She had been at sea for three decades
her first voyage at age eighteen
a week after her marriage
in the year of our Lord 1883
She married a sailing man
captain of his own ship
handsome, bearded and tall
a fine commander of his men
as they searched the sea for whales
She loved life at sea
and could imagine no other
the motion of the ship
the sounds of the rigging and the sails
the quiet companionship
with her husband every evening
She was beloved by her husband’s men
whom she mothered well
having had no sons of her own
but nurtured and healed
patched and sewed
bloodied and broken hearts and men
Often she came out on deck
for she knew when they would find them
and though she was in the stern
and the lookout was high in the crow's nest
she saw many whales they missed
She thrilled each time she saw them
awed by their sheer size
marveling at their strength
humbled by their beauty
careful to hide her feelings
Sometimes she could feel
when a whale would blow
and she would call to the first mate
so the men looked at her
as the whale passed unseen
Most times she silently prayed
willing the lookout to search
the wrong spot of ocean
and felt again the pang
of disloyalty to her husband
for he commanded a whaling ship
But then the lookout's call came
"Thar she blows!"
and the men sprang to action
taking after the whale in longboats
while she escaped below
She had seen before the killing
she would not watch again
too many whales succumbed
to exploding harpoons
and a death horrifyingly cruel
And she wondered
what would happen
if only whales could scream . . .
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 6:49 AM UTC
I.
my lips
sewed together
with perfectly stitched thread
through thin needle holes
the wounds
still wounds
not healed
over the years
the daily torture
of wanting to speak
but not being able
to tell
II.
my hands
shaking
excessively clinging
to the thin rubber band
my voice
trembling
as i try to unwrap
one syllable after another
the aching in the throat
as i try to describe
in as little detail
the things i went through
III.
as soon
as the words
left my mouth
almost as silent
as a short breath
i leave
the room
you sitting there
trying to grasp
what i had just coughed up
and disappeard
directly after
realizing i actually did
IV.
i am nowhere
and everywhere
at once
i am there again
you try to unwrap
the tangled words
the things unsaid
the thoughts not spoken
i slip out of reality
and suddenly
i hear you say
loud and clearly
"It was not your fault. It never was and it never will be."
May 8, 2023
May 8, 2023 at 2:39 PM UTC
Dedicated to Autumn Nolen and Katie Ormsby
Sewed little pink stitches,
all over my broken heart.
Soothed my worries
with sweet words
and reality T.V.
I had forgot how important,
friendship is.
Late night talks and afternoon hikes,
little black dresses and curling irons
Our hands interwoven,
laughed through dark streets,
and bright rooms.
Smoke and sunshine and sisterhood.
I am so thankful,
to have friends like you.
Mar 26, 2013
Mar 26, 2013 at 10:08 PM UTC
I patrol in my backyard
Cruising im my pedal car
I can see the Joker
Well, it's really a toy clown
Locked safely away in the toy shed
I am looking for Two Face
A teddybear that my dog ripped
So my Mum sewed up his face
But now he is out there, free
I must track him down
I search for him in the kitchen
There I spot the Scarecrow
It is a puppet, long and thin
I must stop in my search now
So I can tackle with my foe
I put the Scarecrow behind bars
My search continues, relentless
I see Two Face hiding in the lounge
I now creep up, slowly behind him
I pounce, the battle is long, but I win
That scarred teddybear is put away
Where he won't harm anymore toys
My Batcave awaits, up in my bedroom
I am sleepy, my eyes are feeling tired
I am Batman, even I must sleep
Jul 4, 2010
Jul 4, 2010 at 5:53 AM UTC
When love hits two people
It's far beyond their capacity
It's not a choice.
Like God, bored in his kingdom,
Ordered the angels
To stitch them together
As one piece of fabric
Through thick and thin.
Then the Devil, jealous of such union,
Does his best to set them apart again.
He tries loosening the threads,
Uses scissors to rip them.
He even makes little unnoticeable holes
Just to damage the cloth.
But they must be smart
They must see through his villain attempts
At spoiling the embroidery of love
God sewed on the cloth of their heart.
They must resist.
Sometimes they do
Sometimes they don't.
F.Z.N
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 11:38 PM UTC
Betty Jones was a talker.
Had the whole town spun in her web.
Door to door she'd collect her prey. Cunningly, she'd score on each stay.
In confidence, they'd all come clean
About some week old drama
or the fresh cooked steam.
And while she twisted
And plotted
and sewed
the lies and propaganda began to grow.
She became ever so greedy
with reputations held up in her fist
that she didn't seem to notice, really, the deep hole they'd dug in her midst.
Shed thought she had it made,
her silky voice and her grin....
Thought she'd go on forever....
Until one day the did her in!
Betty Jones was a talker.
Had the whole town spun in her web.
Not thinking of the consequences.
She ended up dead.
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 6:39 PM UTC
1
Grey sky greyer sea
a litter of rocks balance
coat bright hat blue mittens striped
as on these November steps
you collect the gifts of the ebb tide
2
Glint green this living tapestry echoes
Jilly’s field with tractor not Devon
but salt-flats rocky revetments moorland rising
a map crossed by a chiromatic line
our destiny marked out on this concrete wall?
3
Beached clinkered double-ender
a bay-courser sjekte strand-crunched
fit once for Viking raiders two abreast
now daubed with tin ends of patriotic paint
a sea-steed hobbled hard on the shore
4
Bow faced a sea helmet thrice rope strapped
slow moulded over the boat builder’s ribbanded jig
a spanglehelm of wood
curved sheer straked plank bilged a tuck stern
raising its proud head seaward
5
Viewed from the air a map rolls out
north to the tilted curve of the horizon’s rim
cloud scattered mountained red
betwixt seas sun chalked wine-stained a volcanic isthmus
provokes desert the western waste land of a brooding city
6
Oh face of ropes knot eyed!
you blue cheeked wide smiler
wild wild your head of hair
beachcombed and splayed
wrapped on the sternest post
7
She sewed sugar kelp on the sea shore
a sporophyte with sheltered frond
strap-like stem stiff and smooth
of the species saccharina a spring-tide
stalk set among substrates shells and stones
8
I the camera turned and caressed
by her slight fingers (the pinky raised)
my viewfinder close to her blue grey eye / I
focus on this kelp-needled novelty feel her breath
wait for the thumb press the electronic click
9
Here is the beach walked in darkness
the fishermen shadows against the moonstruck ebb
fingers laced the sea’s breath in our ears
wave upon wave un-folding on the sand and later
we unfold then draw back in love’s relentlessness
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 4:09 AM UTC
I swallowed my lunch down the wrong way
and now there’s something in my lungs,
eggs, I think, cracked into little pieces
with the shells all picked out.
I really should have known when I couldn’t breathe
that I was doing this backwards,
but I swallowed anyway, and now when I hyperventilate
it’s like my body is trying to make an omelette.
It sounds so funny. It sounds like everybody
but me is laughing. I mean, it’s a ridiculous idea,
having eggs in your lungs,
but the more I think it’s true, the more I feel them.
I suppose this is divine punishment
for the impossible crime of eating lunch,
for taking those eggs and cracking them straight
into my mouth. There are probably some unborn
chicks thinking, in as much as chicks can think
like we do, that this is divine punishment.
Who gets the last laugh? The abortion does.
And now I’m on the table — medical, not,
you know, the dinner one,
and the doctors are saying that they’re going to cut
something out of me to keep me alive.
If it weren’t for the fact that my mouth
has been sewed up to prevent my own idiocy,
I’d tell them that that’s what I’ve been trying to do all along.
Jul 17, 2021
Jul 17, 2021 at 8:48 PM UTC