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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

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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

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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!)

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