"silkworm" poems
i emerged from a dark cave
a hole in the ground by a tree
bare feet dragging behind me
dressed in shreds of cotton and silkworm fibers
wearing dirt on my cheeks and twitching hands
i was drenched in sweat and malnutrition
Nov 23, 2011
Nov 23, 2011 at 12:05 PM UTC
Muck bit her ivory nightgown, as if earth hungering
after her...the delicate collapse of a napkin,she.
Hours poured atop her head, her shaggy, silvery
mane suspended--its reluctant bounce captured
at midpoint...as a spiderweb under ultraviolet light.
Desert sands lost in contemplation, reminiscent of
her flesh--divulge her core as she sleeps in a
fetal position.
Her body spasms awkwardly...its will visibly slowed
from initial motion.
As the paralysis experienced by prey amid the astral
annals of nightmares.
She'll rise into that shine, wonder at the nightmare's
symbology...talk to her garden--whilst thinking of her
time to come.
Silkworm breached the parcel
of time, its cocooned inertia
coarsed through the opalescent
eye of God to Godhood.
Of time's ruination redeemed
in a solitary work...cupped
airless the unbridled form of
a trapezist spent itself.
Opened and closed somersaults
atripped a piece of said space...
nothingness regenerated to
move, to take step of itself.
A self-argumentative abstraction
glowed...undid its silken flag--
firmly planted in an undiscovered
region...her time come.
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 7:45 PM UTC
Building a tiny white room around
it where thousands of white threads abound
The threads began as pure, but gradually compound
into a clutter of entanglements that almost drowned
the little silkworm, that it's feeling confounded
by life experiences that were so profound
But soon enough those threads would unbound
on it, a pair of wings would be found
The sudden ability to fly would make it feel spellbound.
Nov 13, 2011
Nov 13, 2011 at 12:23 PM UTC
Sometimes i wish i was a silkworm
so that i could weave something beautiful
out of nothingness
and wrap myself up when i feel lonely
or scared.
Sometimes i want
oh so badly
to feel a lover's hand in my hair
just give me a sign
two tugs so i know you're there
i just want to make sure.
I am like a silkworm
because the thread i hang from
is so fine and fragile
but when woven together with more
we are strong.
I'm so scared that without you
I'll snap
I'll fall.
Hell, maybe i'll even cut myself down
and just walk away
unscathed.
unscathed?
i think not.
life is far too hard on us
to leave anyone unscathed.
from the moment we emerge into this world
the weight starts to set in
that's why babies cry so **** much
that's why i used to care so much
but what's the use.
once everything's gone to ****
you might as well enjoy
dangling
and watching the chaos ensue.
we are all ruined
we are all so broken
and ******
and that what makes it nice.
we are all ruined together
we've woven a fine tapestry of disaster
we spin destruction.
the destruction of innocence
the destruction of silence
the destruction of perfectly good bonfires
but that's what makes it nice.
We weave a web of bad choices
we like to pretend that we are spiders
we like to pretend that they're afraid of us.
but they still hold on to the illusion of calm
they think they can control us
conform us
or destroy us
and we play along because it's easiest that way
they can see us
and they are seeing a lie
because we are too cowardly to show them the inside
to spill our guts in the name of honesty
and confess our sins
to cut our silkworm threads
and trade our saturday nights
for shackles
because we are tangled up
in a spider web of lies
but it's nice
and i like feeling invisible sometimes
it helps ease your worries
if no one can place the blame
because it's not easy to find
someone so perfectly wrapped up
in a silkworm thread cocoon:
the only thing that holds me together.
i'm happy to be falling apart
i'm so happy to be dangling.
But sometimes i need you to give me a sign
two tugs on my silkworm thread
to let me know you're here
and i'll cut myself down
so beautifully ruined.
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 10:49 AM UTC
A silkworm made my purse so fine,
yet a tiny fly has ruined my wine.
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 9:19 AM UTC
*
Mind can be a Spider ...
Swinging between the things
Spinning a web of threads
Elastic thin intricate
To hunt food for self
Or end up eating itself...
~One can be a think tank
Stuck, but no outcome
Or
Mind can be a Silkworm as well..
Confined in darkness
Spinning a cocoon of fibres
Strong lustrous fine
To be weaved into
Useful valuable fabric...
~One can be a writer
weaving words twined with thoughts
into beautiful write
*
Dec 15, 2017
Dec 15, 2017 at 10:56 AM UTC
The excavations on serpent scaled cliffs !
Close to the cirrus !
Here
Blind wings must labor for
****** adventure
They spin like silkworm into language holes.
Mar 19, 2012
Mar 19, 2012 at 9:33 PM UTC
power rises in the production
deep in intangible factories
churning digestive juices into valuable
spittle
extracted through death in a warm bowl
battling with tweezers and collected
in spools to make silken wonders
for this you lived on leaves
gorged on mulberry
to vanish in a pillowcase
silkscarf, maybe a tie
poor thing whoever discovered
your intestinal value
give up your secrets
gut wrenching rainbows of delight.
man knows how to breed you for himself
somehow.
Author Notes
silk production happens this way.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 5 days ago
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 6:59 PM UTC
A silkworm burrows through the building
creating narrow passages for the many to follow.
A path designed to teach them how to live,
as it slithers through each hallway
it spews out gray compost for the people to thrive on.
Mindlessly this creature repeats it's pattern knowing no better;
each corridor the same blend of dreadful and brain dead.
Beneath it the muddled mix of moss green and **** brown tiles
symmetrical caverns line it's domain as feeding homes for the children.
Third stage monstrosities recycle what they have ate for the young
what they seek is what they are losing the longer they feast.
Their lust for creativity and a sense of humanity fades with each nibble
minds that were ever able of change become part of the cycle.
Ripe with potential until swallowed by the worm
losing their limbs: Hands that could have sculpted new halls,
feet that could have spread the news "to escape while you can",
and their minds for the future can only relish in repetition .
They themselves become part of the system of life--
where rotten fruits of thought are absorbed and digested by all.
The struggle for survival of the fittest
becomes the fight to find your own knowledge,
keeping your mind fresh and alive.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 2:37 AM UTC
The net is finer than the spider or silkworm's.
Curling, it catches and flares here and there,
grazing down the ribcage of this world
and occupying all spaces, tenderly.
It has come from the farthest places
where a star has passed into senescence
and no light remains.
In August the silver maples
flip and wave backsides of their leaves,
chiming and tinkling under its protection.
So much air and light
has looped through the beaks of birds
and pulled them down from flight.
Departure is what the speaker inhabits.
A self turning photograph
pulling away during the taking.
But slightly over-saturated,
full of the green turned gold.
The earth will become bald white again,
faultless and raked by the winds.
For now, the net slackens out
over the borders of woods
and resting in treetops, safe to be viewed.
A hawk drifting,
turns over the topography of the day's catch
in his eye.
Shadows close like open waters.
But the low and unending dilation of cricket song
of this month plays well beyond dusk.
Hear it extending into you
like delicate limbs
to enter the ear.
Aug 22, 2011
Aug 22, 2011 at 8:13 AM UTC
Once I understood the cry of the gull,
And why the hibiscus flowers for one day.
And I could sense the caterpillar’s anticipation
As he broke free from the cocoon in which he lay.
And I knew why the silkworm ate the mulberry tree,
And the tiger chose stripes instead of spots.
And I understood why the dolphin never sleeps,
And why the python tied himself in knots.
And I could speak the language of the honey bee
And converse with the grizzly bear
For I understood this infinite universe
And why I was here and not there.
But life takes away this deep comprehension
This understanding that we each have inside
Because when we try to comprehend as we are
We are all searching from the wrong side.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 11:15 AM UTC
The night's deep well, where Whispers of a Silent Heart reside,
On silken winds, a phantom dance, where secrets softly glide.
My silent heart, a jade-clasped box, each thrum a muted strain,
Time, like thick honey, slowly drips, a sorrow's gentle rain.
Shadows on papered walls now bloom, with memories' faint trace,
Lost dreams, like plum blossoms, swept from a forgotten vase.
A single star, through clouded panes, a fragile hope's thin gleam,
While the world, in breathless hush, awaits the dawn's first beam.
A sigh, like rustling bamboo leaves, stirs tender thoughts anew,
Wrapped in the warmth of solitude, where only truths accrue.
The heart, a silkworm's hidden thread, its softest sighs impart,
Whispers of a Silent Heart, a world held deep apart.
In quietude, a lotus pool, where unseen depths unfold,
A universe of solitude, in stories yet untold.
My painted brow, a furrowed line, reflects the moon's pale light,
Whispers of a Silent Heart, alone in fading night.
Feb 27, 2025
Feb 27, 2025 at 9:55 PM UTC
hanging halfway out of a cocoon
woke up in a rage
my new body was congealing
suspended in soup like a silkworm
like a bee without a brain
drinkin up all that Royal Jelly.
I had my eyes closed
I was lying so still for so long to be just shaken awake like that.
What even is this Light?
an instagram aesthetic told me to
‘shed my circumference.’
like I haven’t already woven a whole tapestry of snake skins
wide enough to cover the whole ****** sun.
So I lifted my ax and
bam
manifested myself something to chop.
maybe now I’ll put the ax down once
and see where goes the edges of my world.
maybe the Masculine isn’t what they told us it was.
maybe the Masculine isn’t some rugged five’ o'clock shadow come to steal ya girl.
maybe the Masculine isn’t some ****** frat boy who gets the most toys and wins.
maybe the Masculine
is just an old grandpa
holdin up his baby granddaughter girl,
laughing;
eyes shining in the sunlight
sitting atop a bronze hippo at the Philadelphia zoo.
©️ Jordan gee
Sep 6, 2022
Sep 6, 2022 at 1:20 PM UTC
why does my mom never mention the details,
about the prince she told me in every bed time stories.
whether he has a pair of laying silkworm eyebrows,
that he raise whenever he sings.
whether his piercings would dim weakly,
as its defeated by his bright blinding smile.
and if the prince got this little habit
of bringing the hand closer to his mouth,
as if he’s afraid someone would steal his precious laugh.
I grew up wondering in my teenage days
whether the stories were about you
as i’ve been longing for your presence
ever since I heard my very first fairytale
Dec 30, 2017
Dec 30, 2017 at 6:58 AM UTC
She plays mother,
wraps a scarf around her neck.
Red, once,
a proclamation of this,
of who she is.
In her letters,
she writes of little strong hands
taking her
up and up to the end of the world,
the breathlessness
of love, in which she thought,
and afterwards wrote,
and afterwards danced.
The world takes her
and she paints her neck
with something beautiful;
there’s a lot here
about getting to the roots
of it all.
And from this,
something grows.
Something, now, is cultivated
in the passive tense,
and then poets flock to her,
their little strong hands
grasping against her neck
for a taste of the bruises
and the colours.
But she is a spiral in herself,
a coil waiting to snap,
she is the roots of it all.
And the world wants
what the world wants;
to dig it all up
and plant something acceptable.
Still,
the silkworm woman
will not yield,
caught in the effervescence
of spider webs and champagne
she sings,
she shouts,
opens her mouth,
and silence pours out
of the wound.
Apr 15, 2021
Apr 15, 2021 at 7:31 PM UTC
emanation wise
of trees
whose catchment
grieves silkworm
in its leaves
that ties are natural bounds
to flutters in the wing
and sputters wind in hurricane
their minute features spin
a lasso of fear
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 10:09 AM UTC