How big does one play this game?
How badly does one have to want it?

When does the old get thrown out with nothing to replace?
When is emptiness the better choice?

When does the space become more important
Than all of the accumulated stuff?

 

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Old, beautiful things,
Collected over time,
We call them the
Tools-of-the-trade.
Not found easily
In the marketplace.
Searched, scrubbed,
Rubbed dry,
And oiled.
Purchased with pennies
Spilled from tattered
Pockets.

 

Materials and the embellishments, aptly called findings,
Collected over time, for use in an unknown future
When working with a particular piece, incomplete,
A need is seen by the eyes and soul
Of the one pair of hands.

The maker’s dreams, give forth a knowing, that in time
Things find very specific places, fulfilling the certain need.
A touch of magic then passes through the maker,
Creating a whole and complete picture.
Signature placed with smile.

Yet, life seems shouting for exploration, for more than this!
New territories appear to call out with undecipherable words,
Words nonetheless, speaking to the heart, yearning.
The eyes and soul not yet finished; one pair of hands
Begging to hold things never imagined.

When do I get to pick up my mat and walk?
How long must I wait here?

Loretta Warner, I Love Knitting

One is holding,
Sitting with unbearable longing,
Impatient, waiting, trembling.

The other is bursting
Playing, full out
Alive.

One has begun
The unfolding process
Aware.

I so dislike the word
Process.

I want it all now.

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Flower
Peeking from its very own petals
Girl rising from her previous
Self consciousness.

Fear shrugged off
Light warms.
Joyful.

Loretta Warner, I Love Knitting

Feathers fall from trees.
A tiny step upon a branch,
A slight shift,
Of movement.
The feathers float downward,
Gravity pulling for them.

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Lighter than the wind
Dense against the stillness
Reaching ground.

Finding self.
Discarding self.
Tangled in a web of new color.

Wondering, wandering
And becoming still,
Only for the moment.

A cascade of engagement
Follows.

A mass of uncertainty
Presents itself.

Feathers hold on
Everything seems to suggest
The perfection of the entanglement.

No use asking why.

Loretta Warner, I Love Knitting

Lost,
Wondering,
Alone.

Thinking too much,
And, not nearly enough
How is this, my life?

Questions arise.
What matters?
This day.

Things
That I can’t figure out
Their answers – not in my knowing.

I am tied
To a body,
To this place,
To these people.

I want to escape,
To the mountain where
I can fly.

Real connection
Needs none such
Restriction.

The knot may become untied.

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Yet, never unraveled,
Nor falling apart, nor separated,
Nor disconnected.

Merely, becoming unbound.

Creative,
Playing with what’s possible.
One laid open.

Loretta Warner, I Love Knitting

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I want to say
I love you.
And, I’m happy.

I am surrounded by things,
A world created
Long time in the making.

A home.

Dishes and things,
Books, papers, supplies
20 years worth or so.

Of doing.

Now, it is finally
The new year
Of the Horse.

The Chinese lunar year.

The only new year
That really counts
Because it seems so real.

Concrete.

I sense the change.
This is the time
To begin again.

May peace be with you.

Loretta Warner, I Love Knitting

Sweet, juicy, sun warmed;
Fresh from her garden.
Carried with gloved hands
Into the house,
The kitchen,
The bowl.
Delicious!

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Touch, texture, possibility;
Searched from among many…
Hands must work it
Into the form
The expression.
The life – of the
Dream.

Her purpose, and knowing
Who it is she meets
With eyes opened
In anticipation,
Wonder,
Hope.
Served!

Her dishes, her dreams…delicious!

Loretta Warner, I Love Knitting

Here is a little ship
I built it out of love.
Thinking that I was doing
The right thing.

A place of work,
If one could call it that.
A project begins and becomes
With the effort.

The act of making
An art of moving thread, yarn, a piece of cloth
Into its seemingly rightful place.

Transforming one material, and another
In hopes of making something new.
A bright and shining star of a thing!

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Here now is the imagined world
Beyond my wildest dreams
Of how it would turn out.

Filled with the makings of,
And with the first samples
And the last samples.

Tools, trims, findings, fabrics, papers, patterns, books, bundles, ribbons, yarns.
Machines for sewing, machines for knitting, and machines for living.
Art on the walls, and flowers in the small garden – always giving.

 

I wake from my dream,
Asking the question:
Where can I land my ship?

I want the world to see,
For others to come inside,
To learn to use the tools and share the things made.

I want to swim away…
Leaving my little ship
In the good hands of others.
To dream a new dream…

Loretta Warner, I Love Knitting

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A person is a person
For however long
The ride lasts.

A ticket in
Thanks to the mechanics
Of lovemaking.

An instance when
The whisper from the unknown
Shifts the act.

A nudge, a push, a shove
Into the being of:
One of us.

Life to celebrate begins and ends
For however long
The ride lasts.

Tickets, they come in
All colors, sizes, shapes
And, mostly accepted.

Too busy, too focused
Each to his own activities
No notice of yours.

Doing what we do
Not telling all of it
Keeping some distance, of course.

But, wait: “Hey, hey you!
I need your help.
Can you buy this sweater?”

The kids need food.
The kids need new shoes.
And, the car needs some gas!

For the ride, you know…

Loretta Warner, I Love Knitting

The circle folds
An unknown breathe
Pushing.

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Stitches like tiny organisms
Swim in rows and almost parallel lines
Chasing.

Daring to reach.

Stitches the color of hot fire
Light as air, close upon each other
Stretching.

Coming forward.

Stitches as though mini dancers
Intertwined as energy pours forth
Consenting.

A base of wild chaos hardly aware
And, darkness creating contrast
The circle forms.

Spiraling to life.

A rose is born
A life of one’s own
Created!

Loretta Warner, I Love Knitting

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A woman stands alone,
Her back to the crowd.
Her is head slightly bent.

She is an old friend.
She is soft to the touch.
And, wearing a favorite, furry top.

Her colors seem as if, impossible.
Bluish, brownish, purplish stains.
Yet, she almost blends in, to the background.

She is marked with use.
And, has a few scares.
A white gash near her neck stands out.

Who are the people behind her?
Perhaps children, her own children,
A late husband, a young, wishful companion.

Who is it that she faces?
Who seems so distant,
Who wishes to be unseen.

She seems serious, yet not.
She holds herself well, shoulders straight,
Hips in line, with sway that the camera cannot see.

Maybe we’ve got it all wrong?
Do we step back, or up?
To change our point of view?

We can only imagine her life, going forward.

Loretta Warner, I Love Knitting

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