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Robert C Howard Aug 2013
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.
Included in Unity Tree - Collected poems
pub. CreateSpace - Amazon.com
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.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 License.
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
No one can say that your poem is the worst.... as long as you have the heart to express, influence and touch the heart of the readers... you can be the BEST :)
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
mike dm May 2016
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.
rgz May 2019
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
The prompt was to use Walter Scott's "..tangled web.." line in a poem, this was what came out.
Young Al May 2017
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
In a war with myself, thoughts become thunder.
In a war with myself, hiding a storm like a wrongly placed book on the shelf, each author's name—a thought's labeling,
In a war with myself, hiding an intrinsic hurricane,
searching,
reminiscing,
between files, words, ink like rain, and masses of memories that look like books—chronological clouds.

In a war - outnumbered,
but I need no rescue,
We are all ******* helpless -
without any clue, that goes even for you.
Naive, ill, mute, deaf, and blind too.
Pin point pupils black, plug in the audio jack to bring old feelings back, feel your eyes roll back on frenzied spinnerets, skittering on a looped axis, rewinding tracks - like lit cannon powders rushed explosive power,
lit to end memories spread, and threaded like lines of gunpowder,
To hear them crash in an abrupt flash before the eyes, like an unveiled mask or facade disguise,
sceneries of shrapnel seconds began to shower,
and then land in flowers,
flowing from funeral-beds unbound to time, or the hour.

Oh, I'm alone,
I'm danger-prone.
Afraid,
but unphased,
Every night - I sleep this way.
I guess, it follows me like my shadow - a chain,
A casted shade of my body, the only thing that hasn't changed,
no matter how much I've broken, and been remade.

Every rose loses color, and doesn't look the same,
Especially, when aged
to the wisest stage - life after 8 decades.
Where a thorned stem becomes a cane, strong blooms become a wilted face, rose petals change from color to shades of grey, and a blossom's core becomes a glitched brain.
As everything seems to be
the same,
At least in sanity.

Like the wind,
I hear a secret calling,
from fiction, and make-believe,
They scream my name, "PTSD",
I look their way ~
To the whole world, yet there's only a few words to which they choose to say:
"Run, run away,
Escape all of reality."
Figmunt May 2019
The web of despair,
dissolves with kindness.

Water bows lines of fear, weight of compassion
breaks spinnerets of distrust.
Believe in transparency.
Believe in we of community.
Compassion of people will heal.

Or simply despair -
mothwasher Jul 18
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.

— The End —