My Stitched Darlings

“Life is sometimes hard. Things go wrong, in life and in love and in business and in friendship and in health and in all other ways that life can go wrong. And when things get tough… Make good art.” ~ Neil Gaiman

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Most things are born screaming,
fighting a world too new
to be wanted by any.

Not you, my stitched darlings.

You crawled out of me
serene (dark ink kissing paper
tasting of coffee or tea),
imagination and patience
making new out of old.

I love watching you grow,

my stitched darlings, watching you
being wanted by (m)any hearts…
and being loved (so loved) by me.

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the (not so) wee notes…
– I started stitching poetry in an effort to fight a combination of injury and disease that was stiffening my hands—handwriting and stitching requires specific movements that exercise tiny muscles that would not get a daily workout otherwise. I really liked the stitched results, loved them even. So, I started collecting them. Then, my friend Emma suggested they were so cool that I should consider making them available for purchase.

I giggled at her loving silliness. Who would want to buy this stuff, really? I thought. I love them because I love everything that is mine. Emma loves them because she loves me (she’s insane like that). Then, strangers who saw my stitched words on Instagram started asking if I sold them. When I said, “Of course”, they began to buy them. Yes, I’m still a tad surprised, but also proud… of my stitched darlings.

–  Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads ~ A Glance at Narrative. K, asks us to “think of some story in writing [a] poem.” I’m handfasting K’s prompt to Paul’s Scribble It, which invites us to birth poetry “that speaks in some way of a ‘First Time’”. Also adding to Poets United ~ Poetry Pantry 364.

Another Note (for those who’ve emailed me about my shop’s opening date): my online store will open in September. I apologize for the delays… It’s just that life insists on throwing wrenches my way. And I can only dance so fast… But September seems all right (for now… we don’t want to tempt Fate, do we? And yes, by “we” I mean “me”).

Abloom

I see you seeing me. I know you are a flourishing gift. Do you know what I am? What we could be… (for each other)? You, growing through brick walls and urban filth. Me, knowing what it is to be… (you and me). We are weirds of nature, abloom.

a wild thing—
city grown daisy,
me with you

I see you seeing me, but know not what you are… until you grow deeper in me. You see, a sprouting thing rarely shows its true face. Not before trust takes root. Not before desire grows into more. Never (not ever) before two taste what they could be, abloom.

a fresh leaf
always needs sunlight,
I want you

You see me seeing you. My fingertips reach for your extended hand. My wicked grin matches your knowing smile. We touch. We feel. We tremble. We are, abloom…

touch a bloom,
and feel his wilds spring
as you fall

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a wee note…
– While keying random thoughts on my phone, I accidentally typed “abloom”. When autocorrect didn’t show its disdain, I flew to the dictionary (I knew the word had to do with blooming, but I wanted specifics). The dictionary said abloom means “in bloom; blossoming; flowering”. I like it… a lot. Naturally, I had to feed it to a poem (or three).
– Linked to dVerse ~ Open Link Night 200