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Scraps…

The familiar.
What makes for the look sideways,
Over there?
Just to make sure the stuff is in its place.

Is it the dream?
That maybe.
Another look, only one this week.
Might it appear different?
Transformed!

Truly, it was the imagination,
All of those cruel words.
Words, words, and words…
Hurled words, like boulders.

Am I alive
Or merely a shell
The remnant of a person?
Having withstood, facing head-on,
With few words of my own
In combat.

Fail quickly, someone told me,
Too late!

See there, the empty, bent trash can.
Fill and tie a tight, square knot, with lid crammed shut.
The heavy thing carried away, by someone else.
A kind, hardworking soul.
Or, the virtual trash can, that makes a real sound.

Who cares how?
Only in the gratitude
That the space is now cleared.
New meaning allowed for, in this pretend life,
My one chance, I presume.

Limp to the safety.
Of the empty space.

And, rest for a while.

Loretta Warner, I Love Knitting
Poet and writer who uses all things textile – as a distraction.

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Become a minister of the Eucharist
And, see the world.

Ours is a world of hands
Human hands – opened
And, of human hands – receiving.

Two hands held near heart, uplifted!
With faces and eyes gazing in reverence.
Of vulnerability, at the Gift.
In sharing, of commonality.

How can I not know
That I am safe in this world.
When I see these hands?

I am knocked down onto my knees
By this holy experience, of shared belief
That there is more to this world
Than any of us can see while in our human bodies.

In wavelike lines, waiting our turn, and we trust.
Every week we receive, as if medicine.
Our sharing in this ritual of Eucharist.

Though, here in Church, we are disconnected
From the streets and the lights of the city
In which our lives really occur.
Daily living, filled with chores that have become duties.

Where the world is – of voices.
Talk, and waiting for another turn,
To talk again.

Now I know and understand
That our God is a God of Silence
And, my heart sings with relief!

I can go anywhere.
I can be anyone.
I already am!

Loretta Warner, I Love Knitting
Poet and writer who uses all things textile – as a distraction.

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

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

Image

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

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