Unprompted – ‘Keeping Tradition’

I have been writing very little so far this year, but really, I can’t seem to find the time with everything right now. In a month I will be moving across the country, and my hands have literally been full with the subject of this poem. (I am determined to give my grandmother a finished afghan back, and I am half done as you can see above. I should’ve planned the colors and patterns better, honestly.)

‘Keeping Tradition’

The family afghans and quilts are made
By hand for married grandchildren.
Our grandmother, when aged well, but not
Quite well aged, use to spend months
With the monks cloth braced between
Her piercing fingers, tracing the patterns
Weeks before the needle ever dared to dart
And plant the yarn between its timid floats.

We were all suppose to get one.
In determination she bought the cloth,
And cut it before we even knew our own names.
The colors were selected with some divine
Understanding of each one of us, knowing
What we’d grow to prefer in adulthood.
At each marriage announcement she began
Weaving with pride and fearlessness.

Everyone has had one gifted to them, but me-
My family is quickly growing tired of me
Not telling them all the important things
They think they want and are willing to know.
Finally, last month my grandmother handed me
Three yards of indigo monks cloth and two needles,
She told me that once I buy my yarn to start
With a diamond pattern – the best for beginners.

If you like my writing please check out my book Moth-Like. It can be bought on Amazon here.

Unprompted – ‘Good Morning’

So I was planing to resume posting at least weekly like… a month or two ago, but then I got double pneumonia and work went a little crazy. I’m moving in about a month so I don’t know how active I’ll be – but hopefully I’ll pick back up again!

‘Good Morning’

Good morning,
It is dead silent and still dark outside
With all the cars sleeping in their spots,
Owners going slow in sleep without them,
Or in dreams going fast without them.

A stray cat is watching me watch him
Blinks, turns around, and carries on
His morning routine, and
I turn in time to carry on my own
Another step, walking, again, continuing.

It is uncanny and warm,
An oddly comforting dark February morning
With the moon contemplating it’s long shift
Watching over all the little things
We have built and become below it.

I step out into the street
As I do every morning at four am,
Drowsy and half stuck in some dream,
I step out and stop half across
Wondering if the car lights will catch me.

 

If you like my writing please check out my book Moth-Like. It can be bought on Amazon here.