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Knitting the time
With colored yarns
Creating a pattern
Of useful thoughts
The rhythm of clackety needles
The peace it gives me
To just repeat
And repeat
And repeat
Till time is so
Painted and decorated
That we make sense of it
With tired eyes…
Looking back
At the net we weaved (or knitted)
To pass the time
And find ourselves in the now
We used to know
Prove me wrong, please
I’m tired of being right
Or thinking I’m right.
Prove all my thoughts,
Beliefs, theories,
Prove them wrong
Let me have hope
And believe something new.
All my behaviors – so cemented in me
Will fall apart
Will have no base
On this old shield
That is around me – supposed to protect
But all it did was destroy me
Prove me wrong
So I can start tasting life
If I were music
I’d be all over the score
Incoherent – no cadence
No rythm nor harmony –
A noise – mismatched sounds
Like the Orchestra tuning the instruments
Just before the concert –
The intention of calm melody
Being declared…
If I were a painting
Cubist I would be
With precise geometric forms
In an altered manner –
Landing ground for the chaotic stance
That reigns over the internal order
The colors of dried flowers
Proclaiming the inevitable – end
So we can complete the cycle – so round and circular
Thus reaching the beginning
If I were a tapestry
I would have seedy thread
A sign of fatigue that comes with time
Feet that walk the long walk of life
And found rest in me.
My stitches would be spun
By old women hands –
Quiet – arthritic – contorted bones
conquered by the mighty needles
With every stitch a story
Forming an image
Searching the memory
What an irony
The elder can only sew
The remembrance of the wound
I am not painting, music, nor art
I’m not whole – nor part
But I spread myself – in disasters
I don’t try to hide what ignites me
She wakes up early
And goes to work
Doesn’t take care of the house
She is the bread winner – not a homemaker
The kids complain
Food feels like plastic
No taste – no spices
The world is practical
More laundry to do
Dust covers the furniture
Husband works hard
She pays the expenses
Get children in the shower
TV is calling
It’s midnight already
No time to turn the dial…
She answers the emails
A little wired
And the day comes too soon
Full of routine
And smoke
Messes
And pranks
She takes a deep breath
And faces the world
Fights the traffic
Her personal daily war
Modern woman
Like sardine in a can
Feels robbed of her instincts
Cannot listen to intuition
And – to hide her shame
She has a pill
To stop her monthly menses
Open the faucet
Letting all words and ideas in a torrential spill
Flooding the soul
That was rusty and stiff – empty without inspiration
So hard to control the flow
The stream is powerful
Runs freely – no caution
It’s better to follow the natural
The little sprinkling of the water
Refreshes me
But the rocks
Make the walk harder
Bruising my steps
The fall is consequence –
The climax of the navigation
I’m so out of control – no rudder, nor compass
I continue adrift – submitted to the torrential waters
I shall get to the Valley
That is expanding in my mind
Yesterday I thought it was too late
I thought I was tardy.
Today it seems like yesterday went too early.
And tomorrow is delayed.
Meanwhile I see this gray hair
Growing resolute
Right in the middle of my head.
I had a garden
Now I am the censor of my flowers
I went around with scissors cutting all the dried leaves
Flowers that did not bloom
Or the ones who insisted on drooping
And took with them the colors that should have stayed
In this mismatched garden
Hay color
That crackles in my steps
The sound of dry
I go on with sharp scissors
For there is no place for quitting flowers
It’s important to free their souls from their
Dead roots…
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