Weaver's loom
There is no any special magic.
The weaver used the same thread and the shuttle.
Perhaps the loom is different?
but the usual fading cloth he made.
Life is a jigsaw puzzle
you have to take part
until he prescribes the bitter (sugar-coated) pill.
Dedication to the poetess Adrienne. Alicia. Aversa
theme extracted from your biography..............................
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Widow McFarlane
I was the Widow McFarlane,
Weaver of carpets for all the village.
And I pity you still at the loom of life,
You who are singing to the shuttle
And lovingly watching the work of your hands,
If you reach the day of hate, of terrible truth.
For the cloth of life is woven, you know,
To a pattern hidden under the loom i
A pattern you never see!
And you weave high-hearted, singing, singing,
You guard the threads of love and friendship
For noble figures in gold and purple.
And long after other eyes can see
You have woven a moon-white strip of cloth,
You laugh in your strength, for Hope o'erlays it
With shapes of love and beauty.
The loom stops short! The pattern's out!
You're alone in the room! You have woven a shroud!
And hate of it lays you in it!
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A Loom of Years
In the light of the silent stars that shine on the struggling sea,
In the weary cry of the wind and the whisper of flower and tree,
Under the breath of laughter, deep in the tide of tears,
I hear the Loom of the Weaver that weaves the Web of Years.
The leaves of the winter wither and sink in the forest mould
To colour the flowers of April with purple and white and gold:
Light and scent and music die and are born again
In the heart of a grey-haired woman who wakes in a world of pain.
The hound, the fawn, and the hawk, and the doves that croon and coo,
We are all one woof of the weaving and the one warp threads us through,
One flying cloud on the shuttle that carries our hopes and fears
As it goes thro’ the Loom of the Weaver that weaves the Web of Years.
The green uncrumpling fern and the rustling dewdrenched rose
Pass with our hearts to the Silence where the wings of music close,
Pass and pass to the Timeless that never a moment mars,
Pass and pass to the Darkness that made the suns and stars.
Has the soul gone out in the Darkness? Is the dust sealed from sight?
Ah, hush, for the woof of the ages returns thro’ the warp of the night!
Never that shuttle loses one thread of our hopes and fears,
As it comes thro’ the Loom of the Weaver that weaves the Web of Years.
O, woven in one wide Loom thro’ the throbbing weft of the whole,
One in spirit and flesh, one in body and soul,
Tho’ the leaf were alone in its falling, the bird in its hour to die,
The heart in its muffled anguish, the sea in its mournful cry,
One with the flower of a day, one with the withered moon
One with the granite mountains that melt into the noon
One with the dream that triumphs beyond the light of the spheres,
We come from the Loom of the Weaver that weaves the Web of Years.
poem by Alfred Noyes
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The Loom of Years
In the light of the silent stars that shine on the struggling sea,
In the weary cry of the wind and the whisper of flower and tree,
Under the breath of laughter, deep in the tide of tears,
I hear the Loom of the Weaver that weaves the Web of Years.
The leaves of the winter wither and sink in the forest mould
To colour the flowers of April with purple and white and gold:
Light and scent and music die and are born again
In the heart of a grey-haired woman who wakes in a world of pain.
The hound, the fawn, and the hawk, and the doves that croon and coo,
We are all one woof of the weaving and the one warp threads us through,
One flying cloud on the shuttle that carries our hopes and fears
As it goes thro’ the Loom of the Weaver that weaves the Web of Years.
The green uncrumpling fern and the rustling dewdrenched rose
Pass with our hearts to the Silence where the wings of music close,
Pass and pass to the Timeless that never a moment mars,
Pass and pass to the Darkness that made the suns and stars.
Has the soul gone out in the Darkness? Is the dust sealed from sight?
Ah, hush, for the woof of the ages returns thro’ the warp of the night!
Never that shuttle loses one thread of our hopes and fears,
As it comes thro’ the Loom of the Weaver that weaves the Web of Years.
O, woven in one wide Loom thro’ the throbbing weft of the whole,
One in spirit and flesh, one in body and soul,
Tho’ the leaf were alone in its falling, the bird in its hour to die,
The heart in its muffled anguish, the sea in its mournful cry,
One with the flower of a day, one with the withered moon
One with the granite mountains that melt into the noon
One with the dream that triumphs beyond the light of the spheres,
We come from the Loom of the Weaver that weaves the Web of Years.
poem by Alfred Noyes
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To me acting is like a jigsaw puzzle. The jigsaw puzzle is of the sky and all the pieces are blue. Out of this you have to create a human being and put it together.
quote by Henry Winkler
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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War
One night a feat was held in the palace, and there came a man and
prostrated himself before the prince, and all the feasters looked
upon him; and they saw that one of his eyes was out and that
the empty socket bled. And the prince inquired of him, 'What has
befallen you?' And the man replied, 'O prince, I am by profession
a thief, and this night, because there was no moon, I went to rob
the money-changer's shop, and as I climbed in through the window
I made a mistake and entered the weaver's shop, and in the dark I
ran into the weaver's loom and my eye was plucked out. And now,
O prince, I ask for justice upon the weaver.'
Then the prince sent for the weaver and he came, and it was decreed
that one of his eyes should be plucked out.
'O prince,' said the weaver, 'the decree is just. It is right that
one of my eyes be taken. And yet, alas! both are necessary to me
in order that I may see the two sides of the cloth that I weave.
But I have a neighbour, a cobbler, who has also two eyes, and in
his trade both eyes are not necessary.'
Then the prince sent for the cobbler. And he came. And they took
out one of the cobbler's two eyes.
And justice was satisfied.
poem by Khalil Gibran
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Jigsaw Puzzles
i am a piece of jigsaw
in a jigsaw puzzle
i fit snugly in the
bossoms of jigsaws
to carry my friends to you
i am blinded though
to the picture of it all
and is the puzzled
in the jigsaw that
you hold
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Duo
Hey! My mysterious shooter 'one eyed Jack'
Who roams along the dark mountain road.
Please load your rickety gun with that sugar-coated cartridge
And fire me straight before Sundown.
I am your moving target.
But problem is the Gravediggers as they are on strike nowadays for bonuses.
*[Doctor Mr.Weather. Bird, could you please prescribe me that bitter pill for the sickness; 'Life away from Home'.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Cancer Patient's Soliloquy
Has happiness ever come to my life?
if I go to North or to South
East or to West, somewhere else
Who brings me solace?
if there is a bitter capsule or a sweet sugar coated pill
can be swallowed easily
which kills the poverty or give strength to live peacefully.
if there is a doctor kind hearted
without spectacles which covers the humanity.
A bed of a soft mattress to kill the back-ache
I can sleep in a graveyard or a thick forest
listening to the birds and beasts.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Soma
Is is a bitter pill to swallow
But what is life but a bitter pill?
Then a feeling follows
That stuffs the Vedic gods to their gills.
Did it come from India or Persia,
Or only a lab in New Jersey?
Depending on your version
And what reaction it brings:
Skeleto-muscular relaxation
Lack of pain and spasms,
Flat-out beating an orgasm.
And the myth of soma is a truth-
No secret herb or root,
Just this bitter pill after all,
Indeed only a pharmaceutical.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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What Seemingly Is Vis-a-vis What Really Is
at the shop all the while what you may see is that
the two are merely haggling on a piece of cloth
a woman customer quite long asking for the right color
always asking the man that she does not like this and that
she feels the cloth silky on her hands above the man's hands
between the sheet as their mouths keep talking about the price
their eyes are speaking about something else hidden beneath
what she is really after all, she at her 40's widowed for 2 years
he at his 20's looking for a a sugar-coated mama.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Little Poem Story
A little poem telling a story about the poetess who were falling in love
A little poem smiled
She knew that the poetess was writting love words shyly
One..Two..Three.....Seven.....a lot of love words she wrote
They were beatiful, they were mysterious
A little poem felt the poetess’s emotion
The poetess was loving an awesome man deeply
A man who had filled in her absolute majority life
Like a candle in the dark., he lighted the poetess’s days
A little poem knew the poetess’s feeling
And the awesome man had to knew too
A little poem waited for that special day
One..Two..Three.....Seven...a lot of days passed
But a little poem never leafted from her place
The poetess never allowed a little poem to talked to the awesome man
The poetess leafted a little poem in her drawer
The poetess leafted her love words and nobody knew
A little poem had the blues
Love is about braveness
Love will become love when it expressed
“May be the poetess didn’t know about it”, she thought.
poem by Deasy Anggraeni
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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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Human Puzzle
human are like puzzle
there's some part filling
and there's some part missing
so they can't help to fulfill each other
some part fit well
some part unconnected
but they never give up to try untill
some part falling
and some part making
they know there is always sacrifice
they know it'll hurt
but they can do nothing if only alone
so in their uncertain path of life
they keep walking
they keep searching
a place where they are perfectly matching
in a giant puzzle
of God's creation
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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The Weaver
All day, all day, round the clacking net
The weaver's fingers fly:
Gray dreams like frozen mists are set
In the hush of the weaver's eye;
A voice from the dusk is calling yet,
'Oh, come away, or we die!'
Without is a horror of hosts that fight,
That rest not, and cease not to kill,
The thunder of feet and the cry of the flight,
A slaughter weird and shrill;
Gray dreams are set in the weaver's sight,
The weaver is weaving still.
'Come away, dear soul, come away or we die;
Hear'st thou the moan and the rush! Come away;
The people are slain at the gates, and they fly;
The kind God hath left them this day;
The battle-axes cleaves, and the foemen cry,
And the red swords swing and slay.'
'Nay, wife, what boots to fly from pain,
When pain is wherever we fly?
And death is a sweeter thing than a chain:
'Tis sweeter to sleep than to cry,
The kind God giveth the days that wane;
If the kind God hath said it, I die.'
And the weaver wove, and the good wife fled,
And the city was made a tomb,
And a flame that shook from the rocks overhead
Shone into that silent room,
And touched like a wide red kiss on the dead
Brown weaver slain by his loom.
Yet I think that in some dim shadowy land,
Where no suns rise or set,
Where the ghost of a whilom loom doth stand
Round the dusk of its silken net,
Forever flyeth his shadowy hand,
And the weaver is weaving yet.
poem by Archibald Lampman
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Her venue; The veranda
She promised him to recite the one line poem since a long time
At last she said; 'I love you.'
But he said; ' Sorry, I have already engaged with your widowed sister.'
The poor poetess swallowed the bitter pill under the roofed terrace.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Mama
Behind every life a Weaver ultimately
stands shrouding His plan for every man.
Dark threads are needful in the Master's
skillful hands for He knows the pattern He has planned.
What tapestry in mama's heart He wove, the
sacrifice self was decomposed. Love was
her goal, to train me up in ways I went with
Mama the time was well spent. His tapestry thread
of gold.
I've learned life's lessons when I've
grieved with lashes wet that God's plans
are right. Each life closes into
night and death has fused out temporal
light that this time is perfectly right.
The Weaver is interweaving the silver in the horizon of night.
The loom of which she's wove can never be diffused by
temporal light, for in thee does she repose. A crown of Glory she holds, she's the lily pure and white that He chose.
poem by Vanita Allgood
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Bitter Pill
And the label said take two for the pain
So now I medicate my brain
The conflict rubs against my grain
But I cannot flush this down the drain
We are so hopeless
We are so hopelessly in love
She breaks my will
Shes my bitter pill
Addicted to her
Cant fight off the chill
Shes blurs my world
Shes my bitter pill
We creep the night
Just to taste the thrill
Hopelessly in love
Shes the kind of love drives a man insane
She sticks her poison right in my vien
Spinning around
Over and upside down in love
She breaks my will
Shes my bitter pill
Addicted to her
Cant fight off the chill
Shes blurs my world
Shes my bitter pill
We creep the night
Just to taste the thrill
Hopelessly in love
She blurs my world
Shes my bitter pill
She breaks my will
Shes my bitter pill
We creep the night
Just to taste the thrill
Addicted to her
Shes my bitter pill
song performed by by Motley Crue
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Predestined space
every poem i wrote had existed
somewhere else - another realm
i worked on a jigsaw puzzle
to put word by word the poetry here
every misplaced word looked like
an upturned king's head
or a chair's leg in the king's mouth
each wrong entry was so telling
a mistake i had to make sure
each word did not slip in
the jigsaw puzzle,
that they went to the right place
every poem i wrote had existed
somewhere else - another realm
the mind recognised the space
for each individual word to make up
- the poem
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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An Afternoon Poem
it is all coffee without cream
no sugar, you say please, no sugar no cream
it is all about cold bread
nothing electrifying
unlike the softness of the arms of the beloved
it is about the coldness of bread
and the hotness of coffee
less the cream and the sugar
nothing sweet really
you guess it: there is something bitter
not from the water (for why should water be bitter?)
not from the cup (is there such a cup which has a bitter taste?)
guess further: you are wrong.
it is bitter, it is really bitter.
it comes from the heart. Not from the saucer
or the spoon.
it is the heart that is bitter. do not attempt
tasting it.
it can be toxic because it is mine.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Blow Out
In my mind and nailed into my heels.
All the time killing what I feel.
And everything I touch
[All wrapped up in cotton wool]
[All wrapped up and sugar coated]
turns to stone.
And everything I touch
[All wrapped up in cotton wool]
[All wrapped up and sugar coated]
turns stone.
I am fused just in case I blow out.
I am glued just because I crack out.
Everything I touch turns to stone.
Everything I touch
[All wrapped up in cotton wool]
[All wrapped up and sugar coated]
song performed by by Radiohead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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