"weavings" poems
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
“Nobody owns life, but anyone who can
pick up a frying pan owns death.”
– William S. Burroughs
Through a door that is not mine
that’s left ajar from time to time
we see a man with zany eyes
scarred-up face, mouth full of lies.
Through a window at an ungodly hour
the night our neighborhood lost power
we see the man pull on a mask
and knit the weavings of his task.
I should have gotten quite the scare
when he pulled that woman by her hair,
then tossed her in the hole he’d fill
and quickly cover with daffodils,
but I’m no stranger to playing detective;
his plots have proven rather defective.
A call to the cops brings a rap on his door
that eventually leads to the lush garden floor.
Now, I don’t think I’m deserving of fame
my ego is simply much too tame
but I have kept dark things from view
and you listen well, so I’ll share with you.
There is something you should recognize
in that man with zany eyes;
don’t always believe what you’re told to see,
for he who plants the daffodils is me.
May 17, 2017
May 17, 2017 at 8:56 PM UTC
I stitched each of them on to me, knitted
It tight on my flesh. I bleed for a moment
But it was just another etched on my flesh.
Each perforation was another that joined my flesh,
Entwined on my soul I made their hair in to fine
Cotton and each was given a place upon my being.
"Eye,
"Neddle,
"Backstitch,
"Scissor,
"Seam,
A honour of their offering was felt as I seeped on
Their twine. Pain was a lust that was sort but
Never harvested and my culling was full.
Flesh was just moment of time aging ever moment
Decaying since birth. Their hair lived longer than
What was but food for thought now no more.
My limbs like a puppet on stings, but I am their keeper
Of life on me, in me they live on. I stich their memory
So many colours do I weave on to myself.
Blonde,
Brown,
Chestnut,
Ginger
But the ones that are lucky that never grace my being,
They are those of least crowns on their scalp.
I am one of such no hair on myself. But weaves I
Sculpt upon myself, they live on even though bodies rest.
I have many stitches on my flesh of weavings not my own,
But their essence will always be here as long as I live on.
Seeing those moments which will be etched on myself,
I will weave all into the picture etched on my skin.
"A stitch in time ebbs your existence your soul to mine,
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 6:32 PM UTC
Arctic Seasoned Disguise
Winter breathes in sepia tones along a lonely two lane street
divided amongst the sweeping frozen dunes
now forced into shouldered amnesty
Street lights shiver in snow capped bonnets
while sidewalks sleep ‘neath blankets of flittering flakes
The air, frigidly crisp…moves of tiny chiffon sparkles dancing
Rooftops, plump and soft, show off their frosted padding
as evergreens find alabaster fingers tickling their branches
in chilled teasings and frozen dustings
Footprints, once there are gone, covered and recovered again
all evidence of life is erased beneath pearl clouded skies
and faint outlines of distant thoughts
White on black stripes drape in glacial wanderings
spanning the slush of asphalt weavings
in straight line piercings across the wintry landscape
February reigns brutal, sub zero ponderings swirl
from high above the icebox wasteland, once brimming with color
now opaque in its arctic seasoned disguise…
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 1:38 PM UTC
I couldn’t put this must-read down, nor yet
Its many woven layers of tapestry
(Or maybe layered weavings of mystery?) -
This book seethes with passion; much blood is let
Beautifully crafted in the tradition of
A riveting re-telling all gritty
Wild, bold, and haunting, nuanced and witty
A daring, different tour-de-force of love
Lyrical, satirical, and compelling
And when the heroine’s not whispering
she’s yelling
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 4:02 PM UTC
The trembling thunder chains soul to awake.
Though depths be the bane of the weak,
To strike the divine is to drain the opaque.
What holds your reason, should judgment mistake?
Though the alternate prospects are bleak,
The trembling thunder chains soul to awake.
Were it be you, could comfort forsake?
No, unaware, your posture bespeaks.
To strike the divine is to drain the opaque
The valiant of will won’t welcome the quake
Empowered, the sordid, the broken, the meek,
The trembling thunder chains soul to awake
Ethereal dance, whose lost weavings partake
those apes, who stand tall, boasting technique.
To strike the divine is to drain the opaque.
Yet pardons, in diligence, to the transparent fake;
On fires dwell qualms of conceit.
The trembling thunder chains soul to awake.
To strike the divine is to drain the opaque.
Nov 14, 2011
Nov 14, 2011 at 3:02 AM UTC
The frontiers meet in the flow of time. In the calmness do the fabrics of the realms intertwine. Like a thread of lace, like life, an aesthetic tapestry is woven. The masterpiece intricately crafted, with such a gentle touch.
Though within the weavings, something's revealed. A perfection of symmetry, like a mirror, underlines these expressions. As if like the stones at the base of a river, are these expressions of symmetry the base of this tapestry - a desire etched in.
The gentle craftsman, with a stern yet gentle movement of his hand. As simple as taking a breath, does his work take form. The life within the lace vibrant in expectations, crafting a genesis exerting extravegance.
The tapestry draws nearer to completion, it being embroided into the waters of time. Each strand of fabric, being woven with purpose. Encapsulating the forms in the thought of the master of craft.
A great expression of joy radiates through the craftsman's smile. Engineering such magnificence to a maturity. This tapestry, framed within an everlasting water, an awe-inspiring sight. Radiance fashioned in the glistening of the eyes of the realms.
Apr 4, 2019
Apr 4, 2019 at 8:01 AM UTC
I sip slower
At weavings and
Winter wisps
Where, weather is withering
Blue.
And I enunciate
Evil everlasting.
Dark kraken
Dreams spelt in ***
Eating-
Colourless mixtures
Throw hues that
Don't exist yet.
I trip for a second,
And grey slips
Out-
As I fumble,
I see
A broken hare
Well?
I wept blindness
Into my hands
Gratefully declining
My friend
Who's Death.
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 9:20 PM UTC
leaving you didn’t feel how I thought it would
someday maybe I’ll let go of this half assed serendipity
if I broke your heart I’m sorry but what else could I do
my hands are tied against this brick wall this music in my ears almost makes me think
that someday all my ends will be tied off
(in the meantime I will wait and unravel)
if you ask me what I want I won’t have an answer
if I tell you the truth there is some part of me (all of me) you’ll have to let go
tonight I will paint myself into the highway and try
to hold on to these silver strings that haunt me in the night
I am a mesh of fraying edges of threads unfurled
as I tumble through these stagnant streets their weavings come undone
you should know by now not to believe me
next time I tell you I met the sky leaving you tell me I’m full of it
leave me instead
because until I’m drowning in this deep blue horizon I know
I’ll never feel like it’s over
(I should know by now I’m not enough for this)
they say inside me is a swarm of locusts they talk about me like a tempest
(I should know by now this life is bitter and I’m too ragged
too much) I’m sorry if I broke your heart but what else could I do
tonight I will sit quiet
and the night will bear down upon me while I cut the calluses from my fingertips
these sheets are stained with blood my hands are numb and treacherous
maybe someday lightning strikes will cauterize my mouth and
tonight I will paint myself into my bed posts until I can let go
there’s a whole world outside and it’s vicious
you can say I loved you as long as it means I broke you too
I was born into scrambling hands too rough too tired to be untouched
as I stumble through these dying streets my insides come undone
(I should know by now I’m too rugged, too much
the wake of my body will tear this turf asunder)
I’m sorry if I broke your heart but what else could I do
maybe someday my acid tongue will cauterize you
maybe this low key atrophy will simmer long enough
to bring me full circle
you should know by now not to believe me
and I should know by now what’s real
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 11:52 PM UTC
there is a place called violet beginnings
beneath the shoulders blades
i breathed upon -- weavings of honey, lavender,
and soil -- gripping my expectations of life like reins;
watery half globes form from my thought of absence
and the feeling of my legs sprinting
through dandelion sweeps
and wind caresses. there is a way
to abandon these memories, to strip yourself
of any lost feeling, a coined exchange
for the desire to find something easier to stomach.
there is a way to render yourself motionless; i
am looking for the ignition.
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 1:25 AM UTC
~~~
spindles filled with tattered thread
looms of rusty wood
a shuttle made of ochre
sheds stains of finger's blood.
dusty from their constant use
mem'rys make their mark
pain that succors the abuse
creating shadows stark.
time with distance weavings
all snarled with great care
i sit the loom a'weaving
the woof and warp...
despair
(c) soulsurvivor
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 6:40 PM UTC
Speaking to you from a photograph,
No longer body but idea,
I say these words
Without the twitch of a muscle.
As the August wind twined your hair
Into absurd weavings,
You heard emptiness echo.
You held emptiness instead of a hand.
You heard silence instead of your name.
As my train thundered toward a dream world,
I became an abstraction,
A solemn idea demanding a ceremonial tear.
I will wander blankly in a new place
Among blank faces, thinking of you.
As trees fly backwards at the speed of sleep,
I whisper that I love you,
But the train hears only its own roar.
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 6:32 PM UTC
I am but a weary minstrel
Step by step to bide my time
Looking for my one true answer
In a love that I may find
Shaded fields of hopes and wishes
Flowing stems so softly breathe
Taking all that life does offer
Forward weavings to believe
I have found the golden idol
Sitting still in chamber’d light
Reaching off for some existence
Far beneath the stars at night
With its eyes of diamond whispers
Only now it sheds my fear
Precious metals tore us under
As I search the far and near
What is this my heart now calling
Echoes play about the rim
If this line of worn endeavors
Finds the time to soon begin
Will you walk with me at sunrise
Whisper that you love me so
Count the petals of a daisy
Set aside against the flow
For you see my truth is baring
Everything that I can share
Take my hand and please remember
I am but a man who cares
In this endless dream of summer
Warming trends eternally
You are mine, my only sunshine
Won’t you walk this road with me
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 7:45 AM UTC
.
The day closes
behind a screen door
branded with a bread label,
yellows and blues,
blues how appropriate
as I stand here, sore feet,
tired muscles watching the shadows
play in circles on the lawn
Two cats sleep on the porch
as if this day was like all others
with cloud formations
in unrecognizable shapes,
claiming another victory
with a blade and a sun beam,
both glistening in defiant smiles
While on wings of gossamer weavings,
beyond the crested and fallen snow,
she flies like the wind,
touching me in all areas,
engulfing me with her presence,
lifting me so that my existence
is only hers, and that is how it should
I whistle a happy tune
though this happiness, this poetry
is weighing on those who read
and even those who don't
which number many more
in counted blank margins,
straight line columns of silence
Still I reach, hoping for something
which takes a back seat to the others
who prove more talent, more resolve
in crafted words spelling that relief,
poetry that breaths in the soft reflections
desired in these eyes now weary...
the day closes...
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 9:11 PM UTC
An illustrious rose she arose from fields dystopian.
Concrete tapestries a gallery of desecrated art.
She bless a soured dream,
willing colour on a scene
tainted monochrome.
She's the contrast in the weavings of fine art,
nexus that binds together delicate prose;
sole reason words morph effortless.
Energy tantamount to a thousand suns
and a gleam just as potent.
Thievery at play, usurped my heart;
embezzled like colonial gold,
hauled from the shipwreck of me.
Feb 22, 2018
Feb 22, 2018 at 7:15 AM UTC
it has been, some
seven months
since i started writing
here seriously..
before that a couple
of bread crumb poems...
so this i would like to say...
to all who care to see,
this place,
has become a sort of
nesting place, a home
of the thoughts, that
rattle around inside of me.
i feather it with words
strung together,
some like, gaudy paper chains.
and some threads of a deeper colour, grey, black, indigo blue...
some have the scent
of an autumn morn,
smokey, salted and crisp, some of musk and lover's after bliss
others sweet reminiscent vapours, wafting from my past...
a few of, the little blucat
and his human toys.
most of love and life,
and the blessings,
that are my boys,
pebble and rock
oak and acorn...
my hope and daily joy...
i string these threads
and weavings up..
for all to come and see
and to those who do
i will for ever grateful be.
i thank you for giving
my words wings to flutter
and fly about...
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 9:21 AM UTC
Removed from paper inner sleeve
shiny black disc
catching light, rainbows across the groove
carefully placed on turntable's
spinning platter
to keep finger marks at bay
spinning, 33 1/3
snap, crackle, pop
the needle takes flight
leading in to
the rumble of bass
crash of high hat
singer's lyrical weavings
a density of sound
the smell of vinyl
a whiff of aging cardboard sleeve
artwork fit for a gallery
Jul 28, 2019
Jul 28, 2019 at 6:36 AM UTC
I was disguised upon the reality of what I perceived,
my life was an incomplete picture. But what filled
up the holes of what couldn't be camouflaged in
in reflections, was that I was unable to visualize you.
My face wondered on the elegance of what was a
mirage of my essence. Even though my world was
imperfect it wasn't in the value of what was seen
without witnessing. symmetry was my guide dog.
I visualized the delicacy of ever word what was
spun upon the weavings of air. It was knitted
within my reflections even though not seen
I saw ever word you wove on to my eyes.
To envision all that is but a canvass yearning a
paint brush to touch in visions of what speaks
more than sight. I'm incomplete but I visualize
more than you could possibly conceive.
"My world is incomplete, but I see more than I did with sight,
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 5:41 PM UTC
Spindles filled with tattered thread
looms of rusty wood
shuttle made of ochre shed
the stains of finger's blood.
Dusty from their constant use
memories make their mark
pain that comes from sore abuse
I work in the dark.
Time, with distance, weavings
all threaded with great care.
I sit the loom a'weaving
the woof and warp
despair.
S~S
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 11:14 PM UTC
_... intricate weavings unlaced,
winding steps retraced,
unleash the magic of the maypole,
god and goddess made whole..._
Jun 1, 2019
Jun 1, 2019 at 7:33 PM UTC
.
Shadows preach unending nightmares,
bent fingers probe the minds of the innocent
Scratching beneath surface rust, corroded meanings
Torches burn long faded eyes staring
into an inferno of expected fears
As I crawl, slowly, silently
along a night shrouded path
of sharp pebble and dried blood
caked existences snuffed out
ash and dew mix, a’stew in deep dish demons
My silhouette, outlined grey thread weavings
trap the fumes and stench
of last night’s vanity in pockets
filled with good versus evil
and tiny lint fragments of hope
The horned one, painted in crimson glare
Standing tall, this breathless beast
jagged teeth, rotted flesh clings
like goat cloth on twisted branch,
thorns gouge, children weep endless
I raise my bow, shoring my aim
Straight this arrow of my lone chance
To quell this deadly dreamscape,
slay the evil that forces men to their knees,
women to pieces of discarded disgrace
With one closed eye, I find the heart,
if blackened charred remains can be a heart
My hand trembles slight, release, flight – hit
The creature wails an unholy noise, echoing despair
through countryside canyons ablaze, collected back to hell
And clouds part, clear skies appear
Grimaced faces re-gather smiles
warmed by sun beams dancing on daisy fields once more
Stealthily I take my leave, due west
My task has only just begun
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 8:27 AM UTC
needle idling
leading in
taking flight
across the groove
crackling into life
unchanged since 1889
black disc spinning
revealing secrets
from the darkness of vinyl
rumble of base
crash of high hat
lyrical weavings
entwined around
a density of sound
unmatched by digital cleanliness
the smell of aging cardboard
with artwork
fit for a gallery
Jun 20, 2021
Jun 20, 2021 at 5:51 AM UTC
I once decapitated my
thoughts as I watched
the syllables each roll
The words were bleeding
seemingly fast, then but
a drizzle on white cloth.
My insistent meanings
dried on synthetic weavings
and each was read in time.
I was once not of the body
singular apart from each
feelings but all are joined.
I am apart of two meanings,
that even though isolated are
a merging of both now one.
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 4:21 PM UTC
We are embers of the universe
smouldering within existence.
Till we fade unto the finite weavings
of frail flames..
But we will always be somewhere,
Just not here...
Sep 8, 2017
Sep 8, 2017 at 7:42 AM UTC
Loose weavings suffocated
her breath...
That inanimate object of fear.
Glanced her last breath
statically smiling....
Jul 4, 2017
Jul 4, 2017 at 6:24 PM UTC