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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
Image by ogme via Flickr
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
I GAVE YOU A CHANCE
AND YOU FLED
AND I, PENELOPE,
WEAVE MISTAKES TO MYSELF
TANGLED IN MY LOOM…
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
What do I know about God?
Nothing
except that God knows all about me
or maybe…
God spies on me when I sleep
and put dreams in me
and tells me the stories that should be told
when I follow that dream
or maybe…
God lets me be in my sleep
and watches me when I’m awake
but let me believe it is my doing
that keeps me going – sane or insane…
or maybe…
He is just changing channels
or playing with clouds
or is on a meeting with all angels and saints
about us – how to fix our disasters
how to go about so many petitions coming His way
or maybe…
God sits in silence
with eyes wide open – without rest
and doesn’t sleep
constant vigilance
He does tend to His flowers
But maybe – we became the weed…
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