Single Thread
Life is but a single thread
that stretches into infinity.
If the thread is ever broken
life then drifts away,
lost to the eons of eternal night.
There is no mending the thread
that is once severed,
no going back to recover.
Gone forever the control
it drifts endlessly away
into a greater light
than the one we know.
26 November 2009
poem by David Harris
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Broken Thread
Broken Thread
Waking early I hear myself breathing
Covered up in my hand me down hand me down
Hiding under my patchwork freezing
With my wedding dress calling me, calling me
I dress myself in dis-function
Do I drown you in sympathy, sympathy
You could be my winter messiah
Scarred around and around me....around me
Cause im stiched up like an angel chord, I'm fixed up
They try to run and hide somehere in there defense
And now want to hand me down again.....
On a broken thread
On a broken thread
I choose to set you on fire
No-more wearing and tearing me, tearing me
Your still my only desire
And now it seems like your leaving me, freeing me, healing me.
Cause im stiched up like an angel chord, I'm fixed up
They try to run and hide somehere in there defense
And now want to hand me down again.....
They try to run and hide somehere in there defense
And now want to hand me down again.....
On a broken thread
On a broken thread
On a broken thread
On a broken thread
On a broken thread
song performed by by Natalie Imbruglia
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fabric Of Life
the bullet rips through the night
like a needle trailing a thread of blood
mending together the fabric of my life,
but the rain is falling and drowning me in self-guilt,
as i rape the pain with angel tears shed by the dealer of design,
wondering who created this fabric of life,
my life,
torn by the hands of depression,
mended
by bullets and blood
needles and thread
as i fall into a euphoria
of tears
Copyright 2007
poem by Slam Metalpuppets
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The Old Army Blanket
Coarse and ruff quite often thread bare
The soldier did not seem to care
Let the enemy try to take if he dare;
Coarse and ruff quite often thread bare
Driving rain or snow wearing his blanket
Coarse and ruff quite often thread bare.
Being a soldier he could expect no better fare,
Coarse and ruff, quite often thread bare
His fight done, read over with a prayer
Wrapped in the old grey Army blanket
Coarse and ruff quite often thread bare.
He did his duty few could compare,
Coarse and ruff, quite often thread bare
poem by Derrick Fernie
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Tapestry Of LIfe
I see life
Like a Tapestry
Were you weave
In and out of life
As the journey unfolds
Each thread
Inter woven in your dreams
Have vibrant colours
That burst into being
That burst into life
Then often as in life
You have the black
Grey and white
The hidden nightmares
The hidden dreams
The shadows of life
The beauty of it all
Is how each thread
Intertwines its way through life
Each colour vibrant
With each thread you sew
Even the shadows
Bring out the colours
On a tapestry of Gold
poem by Kaila George
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Do not leave me
Do not leave me in this world without you.
You are woven through the fabric of my life.
If you abandon me I will unravel
slowly,
thread
by thread,
until I am nothing but holes.
How then will I continue when so much of me is missing?
poem by Diana Rosser
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Mindfield
He screams at me in my own voice.
Dismantling my being thread by thread.
While inside I cower to the deepest depths of my soul.
I rage, yet I am gentle.
I am not good enough, yet I am great.
I am weak, yet so strong.
I am ugly, yet I am beautiful.
I am right, yet I am wrong.
I do what I think, and not think of what I do.
Greed, power, control and fear.
Feeding my starving mind.
A glutton that can never be satisfied.
I must be right.
In order to be right, I cannot do right.
Burying myself deeper and deeper inside.
It is not the world that can fix me.
It is the world that broke me.
I am truly broken.
I try to seep through the cracks of my brokenness.
I still see no light though.
I beat myself to a pulp.
The final blow.
A knock out punch I delivered.
Which came at the hands of another.
I am now shattered.
Yet, I am now truly free.
Pick up the pieces of myself.
I was my own worst enemy.
It was when I was broken,
I broke others,
It was when I was hurt,
I hurt others.
It was when I was lost,
Following the lost,
Becoming even more lost.
I am now found.
My inner light shines.
To help guide you home.
For your home is truly.
Deep inside my heart.
poem by Ryan Lee Morris
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Mr Spider
We are comrades in the strugle you and I
Trapped dangling helplessly in the air
Twisting protectively in the evening breeze
Destined to live life in a captive fear
One silken thread our only hope
Fate cruelly in control
Be still, you’re safe in my hands
Delicately placed you scurry away
A crashing fall escapes you
Oh my brother, turn and think of me
Twisting ever faster my thread unwinds
Fate cruelly in control
poem by Adrian Murphy
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Unspoken
some things need not be spoken
they serve no purpose
no use, like peripheries
of a used clothing
anger for instance
not just any kind of anger
but anger for love that was never there
in bed, in the first place, when what you
offer is only your body
your mind goes somewhere
in one corner of your self, like a ball
of thread
a blue ball of thread rolling on the floor
and stopping beside
one of the feet of the lonely table
you try to pull the thread
endlessly wanting to find the end of this
misery,
there is no end to the bad colors of your
dream, there is no light in this darkness
when the morning comes
you tell yourself, this is another day
another awakening
you go outside and look at the garden
and around the fence
carefully surfing each pathway
you pretend again to like the flowers
that bloom for the sun
you pretend some more that you are
sad of its wilting
at noon
you stop on a shade under a tree
and then you begin to think
and tell a story to yourself....
once upon a time, there lived a princess
far away in a castle on the clouds....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Love Hanging By A Thread
I'm not yet in love
For it is hanging by a thread,
But soon it will break
And my love, it will shed
With it broken I will fall
Until I hit the ground,
Only then will I be running
Destination...lovebound.
I hope she understands
My feelings for her,
Will she accept them
I know not for sure.
But there it is hanging
By a thread so thin,
Hiding in the dark
So secret and dim.
Waiting to be unlocked
From my heart with a key,
Only then will my love
Be released and set free.
Until then I dream of her
As I lie there in my bed,
Waiting for the break
Of love hanging by a thread.
poem by Adam McKim
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We construct a narrative for ourselves, and that's the thread that we follow from one day to the next. People who disintegrate as personalities are the ones who lose that thread.
quote by Paul Auster
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Thread sofetly
thread softly my love.
thread softly my sweet
for you have made my life complete.
in you i can see all the love that is meant to be.
you have captured my heart and soul.
you have captured everything that i hold.
in you i finally see-that our love is meant to be.
so thread softly my sweet
for my heart is beneath your feet.
poem by Louis Rams
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Lady On The Loom!
In the old folk lore, at her loom the old lady in the sky,
Spins dreams and wisps of clouds in the blink of an eye,
One of them could have been mine,
Not to believe in anything is no longer a comfort but a whine.
The warp- the foundation thread stretches, languidly lengthwise on the loom,
While the weft thread entwines in the arms of the warp,
for different types of cloths allowing room,
The trees chastised by the wind gather strength, so is the warp beaten.
To analyze the relation of line to line, that stretches from skyline to horizon
Without considering the texture, is an artistic affection,
Now place line on line braid the textures of the fecund threatening clouds,
Where necessary interlace with the Seraphic cross-sectional symbols,
Brilliant Sun, honeyed Moon, the burst of stars, under it let the flowers assemble,
Kill that moment there & postpone the problem of the next,
Let’s run from tree to tree, till the last hard veer from each other, so dressed.
That step, the binding thread from sensualism to irrevocable cynicism binds us together,
A piece of disjunctivity—where form, matter &texture hadn’t coincided.
Like two trucks entering one lane junction at the same time,
Stakes are high, but never has one collided.
The butterfly shuttle hovers, with it’s colors weft thread rescues, with a purpose
Finally under the blue skies, the cloth is spun; let’s together lie down in it once again,
Thus the old lady shall dispose.
Seema. Joglekar
26September-2009
poem by Seema joglekar
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The Fates
The Lady`s Three, The Fates
Daughters of fair Goddess Night
Three aspects of the moon in flight
The Moerae, phases of thy lunar dates
First by name is Clotho
'Spinner of the Thread of Life'
Maiden fate of waxing light
Lissom love not doleful
The second Fate by name, Lachesis
'The measurer of Life`s Thread Length'
The burnished white, in full moon`s strength
Nymph fate of sanguine blood is
The third Fate by name, Atropos
'The cutter of The Thread'
The crone Fate of the dead
The waning moon, sends Banshee`s of apropos
Zeus`s folly claim, of siring these Fates three
And command of thy delegations
His mendacity, met him relegation
For even he, couldst not flee, The Fates that be
Oh! Parthenogenous Daughters
Of great Lady Necessity
The Strong Fate o`er land, sky and sea
I`ll await, The White Robed Fates, when my time abates
poem by Steve Trimmer
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Thought Of Ph---a At News Of Her Death
NOT a line of her writing have I,
Not a thread of her hair,
No mark of her late time as dame in her dwelling, whereby
I may picture her there;
And in vain do I urge my unsight
To conceive my lost prize
At her close, whom I knew when her dreams were upbrimming with light,
And with laughter her eyes.
What scenes spread around her last days,
Sad, shining, or dim?
Did her gifts and compassions enray and enarch her sweet ways
With an aureate nimb?
Or did life-light decline from her years,
And mischances control
Her full day-star; unease, or regret, or forebodings, or fears
Disennoble her soul?
Thus I do but the phantom retain
Of the maiden of yore
As my relic; yet haply the best of her--fined in my brain
It may be the more
That no line of her writing have I,
Nor a thread of her hair,
No mark of her late time as dame in her dwelling, whereby
I may picture her there.
poem by Thomas Hardy
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Thoughts of Phena
at news of her death
Not a line of her writing have I
Not a thread of her hair,
No mark of her late time as dame in her dwelling, whereby
I may picture her there;
And in vain do I urge my unsight
To conceive my lost prize
At her close, whom I knew when her dreams were upbrimming with light
And with laughter her eyes.
What scenes spread around her last days,
Sad, shining, or dim?
Did her gifts and compassions enray and enarch her sweet ways
With an aureate nimb?
Or did life-light decline from her years,
And mischances control
Her full day-star; unease, or regret, or forebodings, or fears
Disennoble her soul?
Thus I do but the phantom retain
Of the maiden of yore
As my relic; yet haply the best of her--fined in my brain
It may be the more
That no line of her writing have I,
Nor a thread of her hair,
No mark of her late time as dame in her dwelling, whereby
I may picture her there.
March 1890.
poem by Thomas Hardy
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Eve- Song
I span and Eve span
A thread to bind the heart of man;
But the heart of man was a wandering thing
That came and went with little to bring:
Nothing he minded what we made,
As here he loitered, and there he stayed.
I span and Eve span
A thread to bind the heart of man;
But the more we span the more we found
It wasn't his heart but ours we bound.
For children gathered about our knees:
The thread was a chain that stole our ease.
And one of us learned in our children's eyes
That more than man was love and prize.
But deep in the heart of one of us lay
A root of loss and hidden dismay.
He said he was strong. He had no strength
But that which comes of breadth and length.
He said he was fond. But his fondness proved
The flame of an hour when he was moved.
He said he was true. His truth was but
A door that winds could open and shut.
And yet, and yet, as he came back,
Wandering in from the outward track,
We held our arms, and gave him our breast,
As a pillowing place for his head to rest.
I span and Eve span,
A thread to bind the heart of man!
poem by Dame Mary Gilmore
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Thread
I know the thread
That threaded me.
I know the earth
I know the water
The fire and the air
I know the ether the mind
I know the reason the ego.
If you want to go
You may go.
You sustained in me
You strive to realized me.
You know how to disappear
You know I am the thread
You know I am being
Threaded with you.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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This Is Think I Know
that when you are holding
a thread
and you know that the end of the thread is this..
then you don't mind giving up everything
whatever that was hidden
a hundred fathoms down
whatever was unsaid because you have been muted
at the end of the last dot
you don't mind who listens at you
a priest or a prostitute
a snail or a snake
you tell them all
you let go what winged creature stays in the nest of your hair
and then
you smile
close your eyes
totally
embrace the darkness and expect
the meeting of another light
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Spider Web
No stronger than
A gossamer thread
To be brushed aside
No inkling
Of what drama
May have passed
In the night
Or what life
Was lost.
poem by Vince Gullaci
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The Spinner
As I calmly sat and span,
Toiling with all zeal,
Lo! a young and handsome man
Pass'd my spinning-wheel.
And he praised,--what harm was there?--
Sweet the things he said--
Praised my flax-resembling hair,
And the even thread.
He with this was not content,
But must needs do more;
And in twain the thread was rent,
Though 'twas safe before.
And the flax's stonelike weight
Needed to be told;
But no longer was its state
Valued as of old.
When I took it to the weaver,
Something felt I start,
And more quickly, as with fever,
Throbb'd my trembling heart.
Then I bear the thread at length
Through the heat, to bleach;
But, alas, I scarce have strength
To the pool to reach.
What I in my little room
Span so fine and slight,--
As was likely. I presume--
Came at last to light.
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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