"weavers" poems
Are all footy fanatics
Total raving lunatics?
The flag's in the bag!
We've got lively lads
The best we've ever had!
Peter Pans on ***
The flags that time forgot!
Footy finals fever,
Talk about dream weavers!
Footy finals phobia,
TV claustrophobia,
Why didn't we win,
Any old excuse again!
Footy fanatics,
Raving lunatics,
Footy finals fever,
Melbourne's dream weavers!
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 4:20 PM UTC
Sailors, chanters and politicians
Proselytize our new dimensions
Warriors, weavers and priest-drawn blood
Sanctify our new haven.
The sun comes up
We chop wood
Toolerize and gamify our fun
Still the same man under the same sun.
And for millennia
The new is suppressed
Marked as devilry
To keep us meek.
Feeling crazy today
Going to have my say
But first I'll impregnate
The Chief's chief lay.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:01 PM UTC
Sanctuary is here; hiding in plain sight
Bedimmed beings step into the light
Stumble upon you may; hear us you might
All is welcome; no guard dogs that bite
Step inside, matters not armed or unarmed
Come as you are; steady or alarmed
Sip and drink from our collective fountains
Rest your eyes on our self painted mountains
Come on close and meet us all
Under shady trees or beyond the knoll
Some of us don masks or hide behind names
Some come naked but we're all one and the same
See our lives, spun from heavy layered bales
Woven intricate telling fantastic tales
Weavings we let fly, to catch each other's fables and stories
We admire them for what they are and the seed each carries
Be aware... Should you not understand
We may bear similar signatures but wear different brands
We, the people, trade in euphemisms
Broken sentences and long forgotten idioms
We are weavers, dreamers and scribes
Pouring here the outside world we imbibe
We are unguarded hearts speaking in metaphoric tongues
We provide safe haven for bruised souls with punctured lungs
So welcome traveler, shed your load
You might like it here in our coveted abode
Revel in the monochromatic sights you see
Where freedom of thought is revered in this here Sanctuary...
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 2:12 AM UTC
Tear down the clouds, kindle the summer sun
Let the bright, flooding clarity come
Displace the darkened world’s gloom
Let all the liars speak too soon
Make the wise men start to shave
Give voice to bodies in mass graves
Shatter insecurity, staring from its mirror
Pack away the things we most fear
Spark bonfires in every child’s heart
Teach them love, the most delicate art
Show all the CEOs what emotions are
Build great ladders to hug the stars
Put bows round each headstone
Free the debtors, forget their loans
Free every convict of insignificant crime
Fill the public fountains with a hundred thousand dimes
Make all the mourners dress in white lace
Let the summer sun shine from every face
Remove the cobwebs from the sad boys’ rooms
Steal the black thread from the weavers’ looms
Watch all nightfall melt away
Into a celestial menagerie
Stark prison of the heart
Let beauty’s peaceful riot start
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 1:28 PM UTC
The Allusionists (Mary Winslow and Jeff Steir)
these two allusionists (not illusionists!)
composition is a criminal sentencing, a full-time sensitizing,
a never ending t/rue seeing, recalling, photography by word.
I am a career criminal. I know.
these two retranslate by digging into word wells and
well hid storage closets under stairs so that we,
the not-in-attendance may envision their sightings with
two hands clutching, comprehending almost better than
the one who is actually there.
for our version, the one they provide is,
coffee with cream,
scotch with a beer chaser, tea with honey,
all to be, sipped slow, so
the hot frost on my the chest, infiltrating nostrils,
Vaporub-spreads slow and easy, brainward.
the allusionists.
the habitual employers of this
specific filter,
(word weavers, I call them behind their backs),
weaving is not in my eternally planned skill set.
I do so admire their tapestries
that guilt alone demands tribute and obeisance
and this poor imitation.
I do so admire their tapestries.
Nov 25, 2017
Nov 25, 2017 at 11:12 AM UTC
Looking down from over their bodies - I count them.
My split mind at once rejoices in and recoils from that counting.
Peering back over my shoulder I make
dark associations.
It’s as if I was afraid of becoming lost
the way the bodies made a trail like bread crumbs,
leading back from the places I had been.
I walk with the Holy Light.
I walk with my dark companion.
I walk between the spines of the body shrikes.
They harvest all my crumbs and remind me I am lost.
They hook the bodies high from spikes
so I look up to make the body count.
I can see the Holy Script
but I can’t seem to find the way.
Red and gold beacons in the dream,
flickering off and on like syncopated declarations
as if saying:
Here I am
Here I am
Here I am.
All elbows and knees I slip between the webs of the
orb weavers and the cactus spines of the butcher birds
while they count the bodies for me:
Here they are
Here they are
Here they are.
Hang-dog and hard of breathing I have my medicine.
I’m hanging from the sleeping cliffs over
hell’s half acre and the high deserts.
I remember my brother flying me to California on a great olive branch.
He fed me sushi and smiled while he watched by brain heal.
But I was coming for the bodies.
My count was smaller then, but it was high enough for him
and his hands were the keepers of the flame.
The fire there was exiled and quietly he laid it by.
My brother spread out over the carpet of time like
the faithful departed with the weavers and the shrikes and
mounted bodies in the sky.
A child appears before me on the walk - eyes like a baby deer.
His mother is two blocks behind, so he asks three questions while he waits:
Why are you smoking?
Where are your hands?
Is it getting dark soon?
He leaves me to wonder where my hands are and where the dark is,
the Holy Sage smoking at my side.
Like some dark sabbath.
Like some reading of the will.
Like some dark and holy delta sleep in a crib of red clay.
I have a feeling I have been gone a very long time and I
want to be home now,
but there is buzzing and chirping and a red light and
Saul of Tarsus holds a great tome before me and with my hands
I hide my eyes.
I am the dreaming of the world of dreams.
Therein the Holy Light rages like the flare of 1000 suns
while my eyes are shuttered tight
like old memories all gone beyond the sorrow.
The old oath keepers are all plates and screws.
The golden woven orbs and cactus spines are all empty on
the altar like a decommissioned slaughterhouse.
So I go and make a body count.
Jul 31, 2020
Jul 31, 2020 at 8:00 PM UTC
The flowing water in the dawns mist
Whispers memories of our youthful bliss
Carried away, downstream, endlessly
Into the open arms of a restless sea
This shall be the place we forever rest
Intertwined and woven like the cape weavers nest
Never again to know solidarity
Cradling the life of tomorrow is our apogee
Dec 17, 2016
Dec 17, 2016 at 11:05 PM UTC
This carpet - a Turkish Smyrna -
is made with Gordian knots,
tied by the fine fingers of a child
tied to a loom
by a thin, pale leg.
Every centimetre - a hundred knots
This carpet - two and a half million knots
all Gordian
tied tightly
by the fine fingers of a child.
Each thread is dyed
with plants
picked by nomad hands
from shifting lands
Henna oranges and Madder reds
Saffron yellows and Indigo blues
Colours bloom and fade
with the change of seasons.
Patterns are centuries old,
never drawn or sketched,
only sung to the young
by the old blind weavers,
who walk the workshops
and the aisles of looms.
In this shadow world
of soured and fetid air
dreamless children
live threadbare under a black sun.
Wide borders holding everything in place
no figures or stories, just a labyrinth
of abstract shape and colour
drawing you in to the treasure
at the centre of the rug.
And the knowledge of the knots
the Gordion knots
tied by the fine fingers of a child
tied to a loom
by a thin, pale leg.
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 12:07 PM UTC
you will know she is a poetess
if she likes to wear long-sleeves
long-sleeves that hide the scars
long-sleeves that hold her bruised arms together
long-sleeves with a slit near the shoulder
where she tried to wear her heart
(but poured it out in ink instead)
she will have long hair
or walk like she does
because hair is memory
cutting it is like erasing yesterday's you
restyling it is like recreating you.
her hair will have leaves in it
and leftover twine
from the flower crown she wears
or if she is the daring kind
her hair will have silverdust
(proof of how close her words
got her to the moon)
if she smiles and laughs
and never shows pain
she is a poetess
because a poetess writes her hurt down
in free verses and half-finished sonnets
and she cries not on a boy's shoulder
but on paper where her tears are caught by
the swooping syllables and dauntless denotations
making her words come alive
(because where there is water, there is life)
if you meet a person and assume she is a poetess
check first her palms
(if she will show them to you)
they must show no sign of ink
(for a poetess is sometimes secretive)
no, you must be able to trace the constellations
along the creases of her palm
smell the rocket smoke
and see the nebulae dotting her flesh
where she managed to catch stars.
congratulate her
and maybe, she will lift the hem
of her long pearl blue skirt
and show you the wings on her ankles
and if you're lucky, she will tell you story
upon story
upon story.
if you are able to tell a poetess from a person
and you find her,
keep her.
keep her close to where
the drums of your soul beat from
keep her next to your dreams of sailing and pink seas
keep her in the mental list you keep
of people you will never, ever leave
(and she will keep you, too)
when she dies,
wrap her body in a white Ilocos blanket.
use no coffin.
let the earth swallow her up
(but don't let it swallow her words)
tend to the fire she left you
plan to set out on a quest
to look
for other word-weavers
because it is impossible to live without
these storytellers
then go back to her writing desk
touch the last thing she held
and look for a hole
a false drawer
a hidden key
anything that keeps.
and i promise you,
you will find
more poems.
and if you spread each page out on the floor
its letters will rearrange
and form your name
and point you to a poem hidden
in a pocket she sewed inside her coat
and the first line will read,
"how to tell if she is a poetess"
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 1:15 PM UTC
Flowers shot in the dark like hearts shot through with darts
Clotting blood in the voice box
Time moving slow as the clock tick tocks
And more bricks are laid
Between me and God
Children smearing on war-paint
Grandmas spitting against the devil's taint
Broken churches, corpse of the saint
Images listless and visually meaningless
In a long array of destructive days
As more bricks are laid
Between me and God
Overlarge toads bellow in the park
Green slimy beings croaking insults in the dark
What they're singing has meaning and the meaning is stark
Rhythmic insults haunting the night like the bark
Bark, bark of a wolf seeking prey
As more bricks are laid
Between me and God
A murderous man has a knife and he stabs
A touring killer with no remorse as he jabs,
Jabs, jabs whilst their blood coats the floor
Serial killer with an unquenchable need for more
Though the police are paid
The case runs cold
More bricks are laid
Between me and God
Chanting children there, with the devil's eyes
Urchins that smell fear, young weavers of lies
They encircle a dog and they throw it with stones
A cold-blooded giggle surrounds the dog's imploring moans
Little demons are made
And more bricks are laid
Between me and God
Are you friend or foe
Rattlesnake or doe
In the night or day
Do you fight or pray?
Curse or hymn
Hate or love
Does it differ?
As more bricks are laid
Between me and God.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 5:19 PM UTC
I think you’ll see
life’s getting scary
there’s someone out there
who knows everything about me
See, everywhere in my emails
there’s some tortoise-shell reading
of my inner desires, needs and personality
Today for example
I’ve got several magic readings
several secret readings
Let's start with the first:
*Meet **** women in your neighbourhood* -
Oh my God, how did they know
I was thinking of my neighbour’s wife?
Make $4000 per week - work at home!
Oh my Dear Stars! How did they know?
Though with this of course I can combine
my need to meet all the **** women in my neighbourhood
while I’m making $4000 online
O it’s all so easy, see -
but scary
And it gets scarier with these mystics reading
my needs and wants
Grow an extra inch!
Oh! Oh! How do they know? How do they know?
Erectile problems? We’ve got the pills!
OK , listen guys - my wife has been talking
hasn’t she?
*Best Buy ****** Generic Online - ****** 100mgX60 Pills $125*
OK...my wife has certainly been talking! That precision exposes her!
And comes more:
Stop Snoring Tonight - Guaranteed!
Party on all night with our wonder pills...
Dental plans - Oh God! Defend me from these mind-readers!
They even know I’m losing my teeth and need dentures!
Is nothing sacred any more?
And there’s another one
and now it gets even scarier
cos they tell me things I didn’t know about myself:
Put on this bra and see your man rise to the occasion!
But Oh ye Aliens who observe all things human -
I always thought I was the man!
But maybe I never knew I am a woman actually?
for they keep coming:
Bras of all styles, types and sizes just for your body!
Dear God! Heavens!
Why have you done this to me?
Why do you create me as man, run a male program for over 5 decades
and then bring in these soothsayers
to break the harsh truth in a gentle way:
I am a woman - and needing more bras!
And one more:
Ladies, look 20 years younger with LifeCell!
I’m finished! I’m zilch!
I'm a woman and I'm getting old!
The magic weavers have found me out
the truth even I had not known...
Do you suffer from depression?
Yes! Yes! Oh - not before, but now yes! Yes!
The Scientific Breakthrough is here!
Oh, the devils know me! The devils are out to get me!
and so gentle reader
be you aware
the demons are out there
and lest you laugh at me
they may already have started work on you
they know every thought and wish and desire in your heart;
and if you don’t believe me - just check your emails - if you dare...
for I think you’ll agree
life’s getting scary
there’s someone out there
who knows innermost secrets
everything about you and me
Oct 28, 2011
Oct 28, 2011 at 8:56 PM UTC
Spirits, sages, mystics and wizards
shamans and charmers
voodoo, hoodoo...wanga and juju
and..
old old women- those teller of tales
weavers of dreams....casters of spells
Warnings of darkness and deepness
conjuring clues or readings
from spangled stars on black nights
Guidance on this spiritual journey... this mystical quest
Sunrise into sunset... dark into night
Answers to questions you never asked
Questions to answers
long buried in self shrouded past
There are those who would lead you
to dark alleys astray
Those who would steal your hearts diamonds,
your trust.. and betray
You hear whispers and rumors
strange tongues, and hushed voices... muffled sighs
You search for everything and nothing in the shadowy mist
What are true truths... what are lies?
Keep your eyes open..receive the whole
and know..
That real truth is sometimes
in the unexpected, the untold, the unwritten, the uncharted....
Like..
in the moment of exhale from one true kiss!
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 6:30 PM UTC
From grey plaster dwellin’s they come to us
fer enough sun t’ melt their lollies but
after sun-burnt migrations, some remain
as they can choose our shacks fer their castles
and their spawn breaks the spines on each weaver
and fer their red-faced fuss ‘e is broken.
The ‘ermit crab too takes ‘is leave broken.
The ‘ome ‘e made now closed to all of us
Not passed by ta’ooed ‘ands o' net weavers.
The painted shells still litter these streets but
suited slugs paint gray on our small castles
till only mockin’ shades of age remain.
“Shave off, bastards’ll pick till none o’ yer remain”
screamed mad John as relaters “fixed ‘im” broken
into some plastic ‘ouse from ‘is castle.
‘ow ‘e used t’ tell those old tales to us
'o the deep places and the things there but
they ‘ad ‘im by the gills, poor old weaver.
Spines down, in nets made by ‘is own weavin.
we did it to ourselves, we can’t remain
Wi’ nets o’ money, o’ ***** o’ smokes, but
black flags still fly, bein’ bent never broken.
Cross-bone attractions will be left as us
‘eld by those who took away our castles
Stormin’ beaches to kick down our castles
the sandy ‘oles and ‘ides of those weavers.
Sellin’ our anger like lug, dear to us
cast from the sea of us that will remain
‘ook lipped, ring-eared, ink-stained and not broken
nothin’ t’ be fixed and no-one changed but
In come those nets, I ‘aint been caught yet but
that gray, that London gray sweeps my castle
away where the concrete can’t be broken
t’ reach lug beneath dried surface weavers
as gulls break beaks t’ peck at the remains.
yes, we’ll eat each-other if they take us.
Take enough of us, and leave shell castles
no ‘ands to ‘old jolly Rodgers and sing
‘appily swear, or dance on tables but
**** that.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 8:10 PM UTC
To the Poets of Hello, Hello!*
We write, we share.
We hope there’s someone there
To read
Perhaps need
Poetry,
Precisely as we
Say it,
Hoping that they see it
As we do.
(They seldom do, but
It’s the memo
Of the heart,
Our smattering of art
That matters.)
Hello, Hello,
My fellow poets.
Ego-less
I come to you,
Admiring, commenting,
Caring for the things you dare to share.
Over simplified, naïve maybe,
Never diva we,
The weavers of profundity.
Hello, Hello to poets and to poetry,
Its crystal-gifted company
And you who take in what you see
Here.
To The Poets Of Hello, Hello! 7.4.2016
The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II;
Arlene Corwin
*Hello Poetry; a site encouraging one and all to submit & share their oeuvre.
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 2:43 PM UTC
will I hear a fly buzz
when I…?
will my hands
be too weak to…?
once
thunderous pink anvils,
house builders
unholy home wreckers
woeful word weavers
plan writers…
now
crossed,
helpless and flaccid
hiding under hospice wool
shame covered by a thin green veil
on my antique grey chest
crossed,
my heart-beating
faintly
my eyes
scanning,
slowly
catching lonely light
missing even the fly
who is now
in another room
another world
buzzing in another’s ear
Apr 18, 2012
Apr 18, 2012 at 8:27 AM UTC
A child found a book of war ,from hay where her mother and father lay dying .
From page to page she turned ,
each page of sage dripped in blood and gore .
Each page spoke of vengeance’s sharped sword ,
each page of sorrow and death ,
each page of sabered ****** hand .
Call of tyrants from mountains came to fight forever in Odin halls ..
The weavers witch spinned and cut the thread and cursed the land .
and goblets of blood of man slept till nevermore .
Spin spin tales of woe ,
Spin spin the weavers go and blood and goblits forever until
the curse is broken .
Gods poets spoke of love and peace to take the darkness that stalked
the land one bright light to guide them,
so even God in his mighty love might not judge them .
Spin the thread the tales of woe ,
Spin the weavers gold and blood ,
and goblits until the curse is broken .
And the fires burnt and furnise fired for shells of war,
that fed the cannon and muskit .
For King and country ,
For Cromwell’s army ,
to over throw the country .
Spin the thread the tales of woe ,
Spin the weavers gold and blood ,
and goblits ,
until the curse is broken .
Two lovers with beating hearts ,
one left for King and Country.
He looked
into her eyes ,
“;don’t be sad when I have gone for you’re sadness forever take you .
Then over the top to the four winds blown ,
over the top for King and country .
.” So weep beside the willow tree ,
for letters of love for me .
For where flowers grow our hearts will go ,
See the flowers they grow
beside you .
and though the trench in death you lay my heart will forever find you for a telegram man arrived today as i was picking flowers .
The girl closed the book and placed a flower in ,
then danced around a young willow tree for now the curse was broken .
Dance around the willow tree ,
plant a flower of love for me ,
for now the curse is broken.
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 11:34 AM UTC
Subtle and submissive I consider it and wonder why the weavers
motives are so hard to see.
Certainly a pleasure not to be the one.
Ease me off and teach me all the details of my ending.
Wide eyed and full of lies these reapers I am rending.
A long white trail and coffin nails to hold me from the bottom.
Security in ignorance it seems.
So careful not to let you go, it's meaningless and we both
know his blindness is only temporary.
Before too long he'll hear it all and you will beg his pardon.
During the time of which we bleed, I'll lose all sight of wants
and needs.
The matter hugged from soil to sun form the shell rest in his gun.
The flesh and bone between us rips,
you and I apocalypse.
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 8:41 PM UTC
these are our leaders: ash-born, clay-footed,
emerging in the fudge grays of beyond light,
shadows of the incense plumes
we light in prayer
long washed ashore here from yonder worlds
of darkness and mystery
by a wand wave thieve-made,
exiled our kings to the far realms, alien
then this self-lost band
of otherworldly priests, effeminate
our smiths and weavers, liars
our bards that sung of heroes
and conniving crooks our tradesmen
no we are not to prosper in common
with our kinsmen across the hills
but in the name of God, amen,
say peace to the holy ghosts,
rises deified a language and a nation
so we break the idols of the past
and garland our heroes of reason
clay-footed they come,
and die drowning without an heir
alpha and omega
of our rootless world,
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 1:05 PM UTC
Poetry is a dance
Of woven words
Crafted from the intricate print
Of memory.
Like that of a widow's woven art,
Patterns unveil the melodies
Of our hearts.
Then may we indulge in the fabric
Of love,
And dance upon fair dewdrops.
May we spin the initial swirls
Of sweet silk,
Beneath the shimmer
Of the resplendent moon.
Till the thread coarsens at a core
Of wearied entanglements.
The ghost of silk glows far away
Haunting the distant margins
Of our memories.
Scorch this knot
Of coarse wire,
Lest the dance of rhetoric will cease,
The fine fabric of love will sever,
The melodies in our hearts will mute.
Burn this knot. Blaze it with
the endurance
Of timeworn love.
The dance beckons its final stage,
Where we ignite the warmth
Of familiar eyes,
Lure them into a new dance
Of wordplay.
We are all but weavers
Spinning satin spheres
Dancing in discourse
To the symphony
Of our hearts.
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 7:04 AM UTC
He has given a luxurious twist to the dying art of weaving and popularised the use of Khadi. Award-winning textile designer Gaurang Shah is more than happy that the Indian fashion industry has welcomed handlooms. “As a textile designer, I would like to say the Indian fashion industry has embraced handlooms with lot of admiration and helped revive our ancient traditions of weaving art, like the jamdani weaves, that we use in creating our fashion pieces,” Shah told IANS.
“It also reinforced its unparalleled beauty around the world,” he added. The designer says that one must acknowledge the passion and intense amount of production hours every weaver at the looms puts to bring out timeless pieces of handlooms.
“The fashion industry did contribute to bring them back into vogue in recent years,” he said. Shah showcased his latest collection of 40 garments titled Muslin at Lakme’s Fashion Week Summer/Resort 2017. His anthology for the gala was inspired by romance of nature.
Giving details about his range, he said: “Our collection incorporates weaves and techniques from West Bengal, Andhra Pradesh, Uttar Pradesh, Madhya Pradesh and Rajasthan. The amazing all-in-whites collections integrate gorgeous Mughal motifs and geometric patterns on Khadi, chikankari embroidery and Parsi gara.”
The designer’s collection involved 50 weavers working relentlessly for over six months. Shah, whose handloom creation made its way to the 69th Cannes Film Festival when Deepshikha Deshmukh, producer of Aishwarya Rai Bachchan starrer “Sarbjit”, stepped out in an ensemble featuring Paithani and Kanjeevaram details, says that handlooms are a glorious heritage of India and it is important to preserve and help the artists’ community grow.
“I would like to add that a few years ago this beautiful art was fading away. Thanks to persistent effort and motivation from label like ours, followed by the efforts of our Prime Minister Narendra Modi, that pushed Indian handlooms to higher level of acceptance,” he said.
Shah began his journey in the textile world with just two weavers and today the label works with 700 weavers, and the number is still growing.
“The biggest contribution we as a designer can make is to keep our artisans motivated and also help them gain confidence that it is a highly profitable profession,” said the designer, who has styled the stars like Vidya Balan, Sonam Kapoor and Kirron Kher.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-adelaide | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses
Feb 5, 2017
Feb 5, 2017 at 10:00 PM UTC
I think you’ll see
life’s getting scary
there’s someone out there
who knows everything about me
See, everywhere in my emails
there’s some tortoise-shell reading
of my inner desires, needs and personality
Today for example
I’ve got several magic readings
several secret readings
Let's start with the first:
*Meet **** women in your neighbourhood* -
Oh my God, how did they know
I was thinking of my neighbour’s wife?
Make $4000 per week - work at home!
Oh my Dear Stars! How did they know?
Though with this of course I can combine
my need to meet all the **** women in my neighbourhood
while I’m making $4000 online
O it’s all so easy, see -
but scary
And it gets scarier with these mystics reading
my needs and wants
Grow an extra inch!
Oh! Oh! How do they know? How do they know?
Erectile problems? We’ve got the pills!
OK , listen guys - my wife has been talking
hasn’t she?
*Best Buy ****** Generic Online - ****** 100mgX60 Pills $125*
OK...my wife has certainly been talking! That precision exposes her!
And comes more:
Stop Snoring Tonight - Guaranteed!
Party on all night with our wonder pills...
Dental plans - Oh God! Defend me from these mind-readers!
They even know I’m losing my teeth and need dentures!
Is nothing sacred any more?
And there’s another one
and now it gets even scarier
cos they tell me things I didn’t know about myself:
Put on this bra and see your man rise to the occasion!
But Oh ye Aliens who observe all things human -
I always thought I was the man!
But maybe I never knew I am a woman actually?
for they keep coming:
Bras of all styles, types and sizes just for your body!
Dear God! Heavens!
Why have you done this to me?
Why do you create me as man, run a male program for over 5 decades
and then bring in these soothsayers
to break the harsh truth in a gentle way:
I am a woman - and needing more bras!
And one more:
Ladies, look 20 years younger with LifeCell!
I’m finished! I’m zilch!
I'm a woman and I'm getting old!
The magic weavers have found me out
the truth even I had not known...
Do you suffer from depression?
Yes! Yes! Oh - not before, but now yes! Yes!
The Scientific Breakthrough is here!
Oh, the devils know me! The devils are out to get me!
and so gentle reader
be you aware
the demons are out there
and lest you laugh at me
they may already have started work on you
they know every thought and wish and desire in your heart;
and if you don’t believe me - just check your emails - if you dare...
for I think you’ll agree
life’s getting scary
there’s someone out there
who knows innermost secrets
everything about you and me
Oct 28, 2011
Oct 28, 2011 at 8:56 PM UTC
The first deceivers were weavers
mechanically believed,
maniacally manufactured
trying me to finally find the answer
as to why we hurt.
Let's see who stands my test of time,
threads spin, intertwined
as styles synthesize
minds ripe for picking,
shrines leap off limbs lending
me a branch to climb up and end it,
a cloud to puff a cig with,
a chance to shine
just like the sun
cant tell a canyon
from a figment of one
mind the bend of the cliffs edge
sailing through time
at last, alas my ship's wrecked.
Oct 10, 2015
Oct 10, 2015 at 3:56 AM UTC
MEPHISTOPHELES. Make good use of your time! It hurries past,
But order and method make time last,
So, friend, take my advice to heart:
Hear lectures on logic for a start.
Logic will train your mind all right;
Like inquisitor's boots it will squeeze you tight,,
Your thoughts will learn to creep and crawl
And never lose their way at all,
Not get criss-crossed as now, or go
Will-o'-the-wisping to and fro!
We'll teach you that your process of thinking
Instead of being like eating and drinking,
Spontaneous, instantaneous, free,
Must proceed by one and two and three.
Our thought-machine, as I assume,
Is in fact like a master-weavers loom:
One ****** of his foot, and a thousand threads
Invisibly shift, and hither and thither
The shuttles dart - just one he treads
And a thousand strands all twine together.
In comes your philosopher and proves
It must happen by distinct logical moves:
The first is this, the second is that,
And the third and fourth then follow pat;
If you leave out one or leave out two,
Then neither three nor four can be true.
The students applaud, they all say 'just so!'-
But how to weavers they still don't know.
When scholars study a thing, they strive
To **** it first, if it's alive;
Then they have the parts and they've lost the whole,
For the link that's missing was the living soul.
Encheiresis naturae, says Chemistry now -
Moccking itself without knowing how.
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 3:45 PM UTC
Ace fashion designer Rajesh Pratap Singh, who recently collaborated with Kullu-based handloom weavers Bhuttico for a collection, says he is passionate about the handloom industry which is his source of inspiration. Rajesh Pratap and Bhuttico’s fashionable affair was held in Kullu last week and highlighted the farm-to-fashion journey of Merino wool which is part of the Woolmark Company’s Grown In Australia, Made In India initiative.
“I am extremely passionate about the handloom industry as it is the primary source of my inspiration. I love the versatility of Merino wool, especially since it’s so easy to work with and supports various techniques and blends,” Rajesh Pratap said in a statement.
The designer, who is known for using Indian textiles and for working with ikat, presented a menswear and womenswear collection. The special line focused on the handloom journey of Bhuttico and their rich legacy.
The collection was a juxtaposition of clean lines and colourful weaves, and highlighted Rajesh Pratap’s signature minimal aesthetics and intense construction.
The designer feels “the fashion fraternity has constantly been striving to highlight the textile and handloom industry in India”.
“Owing to our country’s rich heritage each state adds another dimension of culture which is also captured beautifully by our weaves,” he said.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-canberra | www.marieaustralia.com/plus-size-formal-dresses
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 2:53 AM UTC
*creepy night river awake like a fever
as fireflies glow in furtive morse code
the eerie evening commands silence
in the hollow empty spaces yielded
in sonorous silences by a yawning dearth
of everything that's sacred, pure and sweet
once there was raw laughter and joy here
and weavers wove rich tales of fat worms
for their pampered nestlings afloat on air
once there was life and presence here
but now small spaces abound in this vast absence
of sunshine smiles and catwalk swinging
now it's plovers, owls and night jars galore
as their apocalyptic cries smite the night
like a plague in New Canaan where glory
is never too far away from the surface gloss
of a loveliness kidnapped by the salacious gods
of lewd desires and morbid libidos alive in tales
that are forever testifying to the loud presence
of envious divinities on a free ride upon our egos
everything is gone now but the thunderous silence
and the smiles that lit up our days are now but a memory
of wan looks and faded joys clad in the hollow feelings of pain
and that's all that ever remains when our futile antics are done*
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 7:20 PM UTC