"spinnerets" poems
In the calm still moonlit night
she silently wove a silken tapestry -
spinnerets spewing slender strands
light as air but strong as Kevlar.
A silvery armature spanned the trail
clinging to trunks and branches.
Rappelling down from its pinnacle,
she fixed radii to her deadly wheel.
Spiraling in from the outer ring
she knitted her way to the center
to await the tell-tale shudder
of a fly or moth flown into her snare.
She took no note of the hiker
paused alone on the trail -
transfixed by the dew laden spiral
shimmering in the rose-glow sun.
It mattered not to the spider
that a man would find her work pleasing
and it mattered not to the man
that the web was not woven for art.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 12:47 AM UTC
The ten commandments say nothing,
in the translations I’ve read,
against coveting my neighbor’s good
fortune,
timing,
intentions,
sense of style,
or the countless other intangibles
gifted by Nature
and our DNA's mischievous inventions.
I’m a strict constructionist,
when it suits me, and especially so
with documents carved in stone
by invisible hands
having no recorded fondness for the market.
I’d trade places with any nameless witch
caught cavorting in her coven’s canopied oases,
their cauldron-ringing capers
and care-free cackles cheered
by owl hoots and cricket song;
Or the smallish, self-sacrificing spider
who rather than a cigarette gets a close-up
view of his mate’s spinnerets dispensing
the silk sheets to wrap him
as a happy meal deferred.
I also envy their creepy hatchlings
who weeks later will climb to the tip-tops
of firry fingers, cast a single wistful thread
and wait for the wish-fulfilling wind
to carry them lifetimes away.
That’s how I could stiff this chill
that taps me on the shoulder, and chase
after a far-off warmth I’ve weened
since my weaning was done.
I count these covets no sins.
Nov 13, 2010
Nov 13, 2010 at 6:37 AM UTC
I just went to bed
left you on Read
I did it on purpose to mess with your head
Laid in gossamer sheets
tinged sickly red
with the blood of words
that went unsaid
hard to deny
who made the bed
who caught whom
in whose spinnerets
Distraught with rotting thoughts
locked in my own stocks
stalking twisted halls
the clocks have all stopped
Stuck in my head
kicking myself
with broken knees
and buckled legs
struggling to free myself
from myself
Entombed by one I never could deceive
darkness abounding when all that I need
is to catch the right light
and stop trying to fight
Oh, what a tangled web we weave
May 9, 2019
May 9, 2019 at 12:02 AM UTC
Poetry is not about rhythm like the heartbeat of a baby
Neither about display of grandiose words from an old treasure chest
Poetry is not constructed by three pairs of spider's spinnerets
Neither made by sticky saliva of termites
It is a choice of a hand connected to the veins of the heart
It is a chance of finding a warm spot
It is a change of fate
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 2:06 AM UTC
**The Mind used to be a walk in Spiders' Nest
A carving knife or two ,from the Treasure Chest
Too many to put to Rest
I Carve my way through without a Blink
To find a Place to Think
Spinnerets Dexterous
The Spiders spun
Cobwebs
The thoughts
Held Captive
Deeply Embedded
In Cobwebs
With
The knives Dexterous
I Remove
The Cobwebs
The Spiders
Now Tamed
Spin the Webs
In concentric Circles
The thoughts in Tracks
Each Compact Disc
Well stacked in Racks
Now
Played in the words**
Sep 12, 2017
Sep 12, 2017 at 6:35 AM UTC
i feel
like
space
given
shape,
a web
crawler
whose spinnerets
spit out
time,
leading toward
something
genuine and
whole and
present.
fear does not define me.
i am energy,
incarnating
now.
things can be silly.
i can allow myself
to feel
joyous
without stressing about
capturing the moment -
enjoying things as they come..
i am density
in hand with
fluidity.
i am
river rock
and rivulet -
i sit, center,
pool,
eddy
and
swim off
downstream.
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 9:20 PM UTC
vagrant in black corners creep
complaining with darkest meaning
remembering the border of commonness
or forgetting
she spins does life
the web we get so caught up in
wove into corners and kept for another day
complex as dark yes
no a minute to think
the spinnerets go on weaving
complex webs
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 1:36 AM UTC
Like minnows through trawler nets
They get by
Neutrinos stream in my head
All the time
A gross grip on spinnerets
Catch a fly
Where are you in the wakeless night?
Close your eyes
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 10:58 PM UTC
the creature has noticed me. it has thousands of broken legs on its face and keeps tabs, never wasting an hour without checking in, watching my home grow bigger in the corner. i am a long bodied cellar spider, suspended, inverted beneath the guitar case, just right of the bed frame. food is scarce, but i sense we share this hunger in the humid subterranean habitat. it takes on thinness, shakes at times, makes day into night, flips pages, tele-spells, turns night into day again.
micro-fibrous dust settles on my spinnerets, a twitchy sneeze draws attention, the cruelest of details. while unraveling undaunted one pseudo-day sort of night, a pulse was released comma intent to **** it came like resolute qualia, something my eight eyes can’t see. the plastic cave, the broken allegory, all ghastly and converging. as soon as the web gets jostled, a switch will summon my stunning epileptic display. i am ready to give it a leg, but only from the calve. it has never come this close.
Jul 18, 2020
Jul 18, 2020 at 5:56 PM UTC