"stitching" poems
If I ruled the world, I would be,
Not a benevolent leader, nor,
Would I be a tyrannical leader.
I would be something much unexpected and, hopefully, humble.
You see, I would be a quilt maker. Not of fabric and thread, though.
I would stitch the different cultures together, leaving each individual one unique, yet united by a common thread.
I would sit with my diplomatic needle and peaceful stitching and lead those whom hold contempt for one another see the other's perspective.
I would show them that,
The world isn't in black and white,
It's in full, high-definition color.
So let's celebrate unity,
Equality,
Individuality,
And uniqueness.
Because in the final chapter,
We all already rule the world.
It's up to us to thread ourselves to each other,
Or pull ourselves apart by the seams.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 7:29 PM UTC
After carefully
stitching up the patient’s heart,
she produced feelings.
Aug 9, 2012
Aug 9, 2012 at 3:08 PM UTC
She sits rather still, stitching her loom
shackled and bound to the whispering room
While the walls shutter speeches
she slouches then reaches,
her stitching resumed.
Threads of silk pool in spools
cast to the floor
Hushing the voices
as they pour
the voices repeat their crippling phrase
dancing the space
bound to their maze
Apr 11, 2018
Apr 11, 2018 at 5:49 PM UTC
Red stitching gliding on her fingers.
Bringing her arm back with force.
The bullet went flying through the air.
Steady.
Steady.
Metal hitting it.
The bullet went higher in the air.
Faster.
The bullet landed hard, yet softly in her hand.
You're out
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 10:31 AM UTC
I scream to drown the noise,
And fight to hold my poise
Against this sonic wave
That dismantles and destroys.
This place that I called home…
It’s all that’s left of what I own.
I fear I’m destined to the desert,
Or somewhere desolate to roam.
Tried to convince my brain this wasn’t real –
That lies are all I feel.
I’m not sure why I fear this noise;
There’s nothing left for it to steal.
- - -
Yet, I plug my ears and scream;
Tear the stitching from my seams . . .
I find it difficult to sleep,
And near-impossible to dream.
I scream so hard it makes me sweat,
And my skin begins to gleam
*This heat turns smiles into tears,
Like water into steam*
My head begins to ache.
My hands begin to shake.
If I chose the wrong path,
I made one hell of a mistake.
While my lungs still permit,
I’ll keep their volume set on high,
Lifting my head to the clouds,
To scream at the sky.
I have yet to hear an answer,
And while I’m not much of dancer
I learned some steps from Lady Luck
In hopes to cure me of this cancer.
- - -
Now, I don’t believe in luck –
But she still left me with something . . .
While we danced I took notice;
The noise dulled slightly to a humming.
I looked back to Lady Luck
– and I’m sure this wasn’t just a dream –
But she had vanished to the air,
Like water into steam.
I said “I don’t believe in luck.”
She still left me something, though.
She said:
*“You can’t predict the world –
I assume this much you know…
But if a farmer plants a seed,
In that spot, a plant will grow.”*
One day, my throat gave out.
For no longer, could I shout.
And I don’t believe in luck,
So I was simply left with doubt.
I cursed that lady’s words.
I told myself that she was crazy.
When something caught my eye…
There - at my feet - grew a daisy.
A daisy… In the desert…
So despite how bad my head hurt,
I thanked God for Lady Luck.
I thanked God that I had met her.
The noise I heard was her opposite.
It was the presence of chance.
I've learned the farmer can’t predict the world,
But, as surely as seeds grow into plants . . .
My only choices are my actions.
So, I think I’ll take today to dance.
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 9:34 PM UTC
The feeling of not being good enough,
inadequacy,
pulses through my heart,
out both ventricles, through the arteries
to deposit the tingling sensation throughout my body like
a thousand red ants
crawling up and down limbs.
Trees have stronger roots than I.
It takes a mere sentence
to break my stance and split me
in two.
You don't notice me
stitching myself back together
piece by piece.
You never notice because I am simply
not good enough.
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 11:01 PM UTC
This woman I know
quite the old hippie
gave me this lovely gift
A softened silk and denim dress
Folded loosely
just handed to me, unwrapped
(We felt the same about the waste of paper)
“This is for you.”
Opening it, I saw its gentle gathers from the shoulders
almost elegant, its drape
and the rough
but soft and dark of it
Real indigo dye
with silk laces from bust to waist
...then the tiny stitching...
NO!
Not by machine!
Knew the labor was – intensive
Every edge
was finished, sewn
by her caring hand!
"Oh, lady of my dream
whom I do not know
I THANK YOU!
From my soul"
I would have made this in another life –
time
of hope and longing
And then I saw that seam!
along the side
that wasn't... really...
just those thicker threads
a silk macrame
of knotted net
so – bold
to hold that one inch open
to hint at nothing –
and everything –
in between
“Oh hell! Oh ****
Does it come with an occasion??!!”
She smiled
somewhere between shy and sly
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 4:32 PM UTC
I
Stacked green crates by the futon,
records sealed as buried letters,
each sleeve longing
to be drawn out into daylight
by her small, thoughtful hands.
I just want to play that Nick Cave again
teenager’s resolve in her voice,
she drops the needle on "Tupelo",
traces Peter Murphy with her thumb,
holds Kate Bush to the light
like stained glass.
She laughs
at the ****** box on the speaker.
I tell her it’s never going to happen.
She grins, unbothered,
says she only came for the vinyl.
I watch her tilt each sleeve,
never touching the grooves,
brush the dust,
lay the needle like a secret,
slide the disc back without a wrinkle.
Each time I’m surprised
by her precision.
It’s the third time
she’s dropped by.
She makes mixtapes.
Pressing pause,
pressing record,
stitching songs
into a spine of hiss.
Once, to me, or to herself,
she said her father wanted a tape.
She’d mail it when
he had somewhere to send it.
She follows me across the bridge,
talking about her brother,
an ex-best friend,
mimicking her professor,
how he wags his tongue
when he writes on the chalkboard.
I haul a duffel:
apron, uniform, boots heavy with grease.
She skips in the rain,
strumming cables, humming
the last song played, still in the air.
II
I unlock the door,
steeped in garlic and kitchen sweat,
boots leaving grime on the boards.
She isn’t there-
only the crates, stacked neater,
jackets squared, spines aligned,
as if her care was meant for me.
The room settles with her absence,
yet holds me upright
in its small, thoughtful hands.
Sep 17, 2025
Sep 17, 2025 at 8:11 PM UTC
*New damage
new separation
and stitching
awaits sealing
and new union..
Knife and fork
breaking bread
for inner rising
in new strength..
Surgery on high
removed a rib
Eve's attraction
urges re-joining..
A line reading
linear distortion
yearns for
whole in-sight..
Surgery creates
and stimulates a
New Day...*
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 5:47 PM UTC
I rolled my ankle last month,
but didn't pay much attention
to the swelling because it didn't feel
like nougat flesh with a pushpin
center. It felt like skin, tendons,
and fishnet bones.
But now, when I make my bed,
I have to waste two or three
soft pillows at the foot of it.
So, I'm left with the burgundy ones
from the couch that I tried to patch
with boot liner and an eighth-grade
comprehension of sewing.
I stuck a rat's thimble on my ring
finger, so I could push the straw-thin
needle through the beefy seam.
No such luck.
Finished the stitching
with a Band-Aid beneath
the thimble. And I left
the cheetah-print liner hanging
off like a piece of skin,
hoping it'd fix itself.
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 11:22 AM UTC
Searing pain,
Flaring,
Pins and needles.
Pinch
Gone
Pinch
Gone
Pinch
Never ending cycle
Of stitching,
Like horrid embroidery
Embedded in my skin
That will forever be
Tattooed
Against my bones
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 11:58 AM UTC
White gauzy smoke is blown through the lily,
Floating on air,
Fondling leaves and dewdrops who're glittery,
A view so rare.
On a picture elegance is enjoyed,
A Polaroid,
Presented in a silver-gallery,
Who's gloomy ne'er.
With gauzy threads from a silky cocoon,
White as the moon,
Lily-hands craft blooming embroidery,
With flowers there.
Like gossamers this elegance's tender,
Lit and slender,
Shining at the afternoon silvery,
Which does not flare.
O Mâhî, this form is a web of rhymes,
Who slowly chimes,
With threads we're finally stitching poetry,
Crafted with care.
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 6:44 AM UTC
In west Virginia, they do things different
they don't want to advance too soon
if you don't believe me let me take you
to a west Virginia emergency room
deer hair sutures for stitching you up
then a duct tape bandage on your wound
redneck responses by physicians
doc needs a break to spit in the spittoon
this one is in critical condition
this poor feller has run out of luck
doctor redneck turns to mention
"go get my gun out of my truck"
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 9:00 AM UTC
The stitching creases on a blank canvas
A mindblowing beautiful pale coloring
Never showing justice to the beauty
As the canvas has already been covered
In permanent marking
That once made all stitching come undone
The depth the paintbrush had made
Was a cry for help
The markings of the painter showed anger
Not at anyone
But at himself
With no other solution
Your beautiful canvas has been destroyed
Yet rebuilt
With a story to tell with every marking.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 10:58 AM UTC
you ask me why I wear concealing clothes
the truth is that I am trying to cover up the paint that you have forced upon me
People have sewn in labels and stereotypes into my skin
it's a constant struggle as I try to rip out the stitching
the second it is gone more is put in place…
people think that its ok to deadname and misgender me
I'll tell you “its fine! I know its hard to get used to it, don't worry!”
but it's not fine, not at all
I am not some practice dummy you can use to practice what respect is and isn't
I am a human just like you, but I am not like you at all
you people who use being trans and nonbinary as a joke
you people who treat trans people as if we are mentally ill
you people who think its ok to disrespect what and who we are
you people who debate if we should be allowed to exist...
I am told to “just accept who I am”
those people don't get that I do, they are the ones who don't
I am here
I am real
and I am not you
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 12:27 AM UTC
Crystal White Pearl paint,
red racing stripes,
MX-5 traced
on the side
Lightweight aluminum
alloy, seventeen inch
wheels wrapped in
205/45 summer
performance tires,
Limited-
Slip Differential,
rear wheel drive,
Six-speed manual
transmission, weighted
shift **** perfectly
palm-sized
Black sport clutch
bucket seats, seamed
racing red stitching, a clutch
worked with a snap
of the heel, a flick
of the wrist.
Crystal White dash panel,
red racing stripe
MX-5 traced lines
match the stripes outside.
Piano Black
mirrors match
bucket seats
and the cloth
soft top
unfolds on summer days,
spring nights, fall
mornings.
Heaven/
Nirvana/
Happiness
found
now
with a snap of the heel
& flick of the wrist.
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 10:44 PM UTC
The tiny town's
talented tailor
swiftly sews silken suits,
in his shop he plays the Wailers,
Bob Marley fills his boots.
Beside his shop
sits Susie's Sushie,
she serves him lunch
every Tuesday,
he leaves a tip because
she treats him well,
he's got a crush
and she can tell.
After lunch
it's back to work,
measuring here
and stitching there,
everything is done
just savoirfaire.
All the town folk
say he is the master,
he smiles at this
and works all the faster.
Then on the corner
the clock strikes five,
with the last suit hung
he says enough of this jive.
He shuts the light
and locks the door,
nine bells tomorrow
he'll be back for more.
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 8:33 AM UTC
_[northern hemisphere: on a beach above the 50th latitude at the end of winter]_
_(Winter-export)_, the beach frosted by fingers of polar constellations. It’s too cold to walk without huddling, but we do it nonetheless, because we only have one more night together. Your frothy hydro-rhythm spears into pith, irradiance; I breathe again, deeply. _(Thick lips; quick still-hunt.)_ I rivet fronds of dependence into the seams of your boreal palms, never planning to return the floating colony of barnacles I promised I’d throw back; you, never planning to catch the sun bored through salt spray, clasping crisp foreheads, stitching on glistered lips and froze-shut lashes. And on a day when you didn’t rise early enough, I was left out in the water until my chest was steeped deep in ice over the thought of losing you. _(Glimmering isle)_; my hair disheveled in sea-foam. Annular light. You pushed me in, and I relented. My isotherm sent chthonically. But you, in your legendary mantle, adapted my eyes to see the light hidden deep within your belt; such pinks and fuchsias I have never seen before, suddenly inverted. At absolute velocity, I cut my foot on sea-glass, bleeding blueshift, aligning to the colours of the zenith. You take me back to the starry house and we struggle with your parallax, a nadir inseminated on the celestial pole. _(Parsecs quaking.)_ You whisper, I’ll heal you. I’ll heal you, only if you let me. Only if… you let me… Over and over and over until it’s as mundane as the crashing coast, and unrivaled, I concede to everything and wake up deep in redshift, the whole universe escaping, warmth-ribbons suffocating the abyss: without you, alone on the ecliptic at last. In the spring-sinking, you order me a silver sword, sharp in starlight; to remember you. You stand a guardian, beyond the sun, flinging tiny ice-hot rocks _(freighting gemstones)_; King of the Heavens. I submerge myself into the bathic depths, skulking in aestival despair, as you trade the night for day. Little do you know, my resurgence is also in your hands.
_[i watched Orion slip from view every night this spring. No doubt he’ll return next winter... it’s sad losing a friend like that, for so long]_
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 3:07 AM UTC
Golden hour daughter
Splitting eyes gouging light—
Harboring disfunction, not
Finding sensory stimulation
Beyond illusion— overactive/>
Am I a life force,
Or a chair for it to sit?
Stitching pixels to form—
A drive to keep an open
Ripped rib wind— about
My drouth stomach,
Itching, salivating…
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 11:25 AM UTC
Embraced again
My soul races
And is nourished times ten.
Filled with sacred knowings -
The mind's eye is glowing.
Reaching heights
Of indigo light.
Soft
And gracing the skin
Gently
As i fall within.
Flowing amidst
I am pieces of the sea.
I innerstand the motions
Of the winds that we breathe.
I see love growing green.
Stitching in gold, the fabrics
Of our never ending dream.
Together is our only way
To save our sleeping days.
United we can awake.
I am forever chasing grace.
Blessed again
With an exotic luxury.
The world
And love's potency
Is floating me along.
I tune in to
My favourite song
And slowly drift away.
Reaching heights
Of violet light.
Quiet
And losing the time
Clearly
As I fully unwind.
Floating admist
I am particles of air.
Simple stardust being -
So transcendent and aware.
We are a never ending flow
This is the only thing to know.
So I bring this all within me.
For here's our biggest goal:
To Stretch Beyond Our Realm,
And Be One Universal Whole.
Together is our only way
to save our sleeping days.
With love we can awake.
I am forever embracing grace.
☼
(( miss.....mica. )) ***
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 1:28 PM UTC
You were the needle
Stitching me together
I was the hay
So brittle, so fragile
And when you left
You left that needle
Hidden within me
A part I could not find
Nor could I remove
And just so I could
Remove from me
That small part of you
I burned that hay stack
To the ground.
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 10:42 PM UTC
rhythm is
comfort
and predictability
stitching my days together
through the notion
of repeating the motions
an illusion of stability,
but no matter the way I
structured my day
no matter the perfection
I strived to attain
no matter how many
unkempt strings I cut away
I think deep down I knew
that life
should be a little frayed
as counterintuitive as it seems
the unexpected becomes
the rhythm of dreams
ripping through the routine
changing the patterns
of what I planned to be
into new designs entirely
so I embrace this chaotic beauty
with its endearing knots and
erratic threading, ready for
living imperfectly
balanced in the uncertainty
is rhythm
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 10:38 PM UTC
I cannot understand
Am I dreaming beneath the living?
Tell me if it’s just a part of my forty winks
Coz I’m rusted by chance when fully awake.
Why are dreams so large and
You forget it in a momentary climb?
The departed stories are so dear
That they never come to pass in life
The impossible happenings with strings
And things I’ll never find are so ideal.
The scars are reasoned and seasoned
But it was perfect when I was asleep.
I was dead to the world, totally ignored
Leaving one earth for a different one
Was so brilliant when I was buried.
But I realize I was not just dreaming
I was stitching them into reality,
Let me catch all my dreams
That they might never happen again!
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 11:53 AM UTC