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

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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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The blues stood next to the whites.
The reds near the browns and golds.
Grey wanted to hog the middle.
Navy gave us some relief.
Lilac wound a path.
Purple made an appearance.
As did black.
Lime green skirted the edge.
Pink pretended not to care.
A small mass of smoky grey laughed!

They let themselves fall
Onto the cream paper.

They let the paper feel their weight.
Paper smiled.

A marching burgundy swirled in
For the capture!

They rested in relief.

The trashcan stood near
Empty, without hope of being included.

It could have been worse
They told themselves.

“We have been saved,” the colors said.
“We have new purpose, we stand together.”

“The woman called us art,” they said.

Loretta Warner, I Love Knitting

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A cigarette – it used to be,
In my grandmother’s day.
A drink, a good strong one!
My father had, even at the office!
A glass of Chablis, or Napa burgundy,
Port wine with lunch?

Peace for a few minutes,
Calmness, intelligence.
Shoulders relaxed.
Clear thinking snatched
From the confusion
That is life.

It doesn’t work, it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work.
The disorder spills out
In a tangled ball.

 

Someone over there sits with two sticks
A ball of color, in between.
Wrapping, looping and pulling through
Each is a stitch.

Over and over, over and over again, and again, and again.
The stitches fall down,
Form becomes apparent.

Nothing to do with mouth or eyes,
No smoke blows out.
No clinging to the glass.
No disappointment, that it didn’t last,
No lingering flavors.

The taste is of another kind.
Warmth, sustenance,
Simple math becomes a thing to hold.

Happiness is being let loose
Into something, for someone.

 

Loretta Warner, I Love Knitting
(The photo is of knitting that was begun in Africa by an unknown person. I wonder if she knows how happy it makes me to have this small piece of the work of her hands!)

We compare life
To a journey.
“The road of life!”
We are the people,
On the road.

Going somewhere?
Planning something?
Have you a drawing or map?
Goals?
Intentions?
Dreams?

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A decision made
Is thought to be
A twist or turn
A left, perhaps a hard right
A direction
On the road.

That is your life.
Our life.

 

I sometimes like
To let the colors
Come together.
As if I’m not looking.
All in the same color family,
Yet, opposites can work.

Rarely a perfect match.
Always the perfect relationship.
A patchwork!
A reunion!
Chance!

I just happened to be in the right place,
At the right time!

Loretta Warner, I Love Knitting

It is the pair of sticks
That allows
For the gesture.

I want to share my life,
Leave something behind
That is representative.

 

Is it crazy
To save the selvages?

Not when I look at them.

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A seamstress often,
When laying fabric flat
Will disregard the selvage edge
In the cutting.

The selvage is
The always edge produced
In woven fabric,
As the shuttle makes its way
Down the long warp.
It is the edge created by
The weft yarns
As they somersault,
Much like a swimmer.

 

I laugh at the thought,
Like an old bible story.
The disregarded,
Too pretty to toss,
Saved.

Become the story.

“Here, see that bright, shiny, red strand?
It is the dress, I once made for you, my child.
There, see the pieces from the tops that went to the East, my first job.
Remember, our matching pajamas, for the whole family, I made them!
And your favorite, adult, silk dress, you still have it, I hope.
And mine, too, see it here?”

Loretta Warner, I Love Knitting

When spending time
Putting things that go together
The choice might be very clear.

Tomatoes, onions and garlic with lettuce
Sugar and cream with coffee
Warm apples with butter and cinnamon
Bread with cheese, and a drop of wine.

White socks and black, shiny shoes
A blue fountain pen with sheets of clean paper
Big leather couches with soft knit pillows
A bright rug, bigger than the table, on a dark, wood floor.

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There used to be a sewer’s rule
When picking thread for fabric:
“When in doubt,
Go Darker!” – I still hear the words!

Yet, where is the fun in that?
Where’s the surprise?
Where’s the drama?

Why not play?
Why not look around?
Why choose the obvious?

 

Making a bold statement
Does have consequences, though.
The sewing must be perfect
In order to pull it off!

 

Loretta Warner, I Love Knitting