Photo Credit: maggy le saux Flickr via Compfight cc
My Grandmother, the Weaver of Rugs
She knew spells.
She talked to the stars and
That's how she took my fever away.
Her fingers, like talons,
The red rug, my dowry, she said.
When she thought no one was watching,
she cried to herself about something.
Then she took off her scarf.
Her braided hair fell to the floor, still copper red.
I don't remember well what she looked like,
but sometimes I catch a glimpse of her in the mirror.
We are the same age now.
I have never tried to weave a rug or cast a spell,
but blood is thicker than water
and some things are passed on
GloPoWriMo Day 10
Photo Credit: barbaragaillewis Flickr via Compfight cc
I am proud to say that the following poem was featured on the NaPoWriMo blog.
Something was in the post today.
A plain blue envelope, no address.
Inside, a white button.
Maybe someone came undone on a bus.
Perhaps they were trying to reach home,
and the button didn't make it.
Maybe it happened in a dark alley,
or in an office after work.
Or it was one of those seedy hotels
and the husband never suspected.
Did the button come off willingly,
or was it forced off?
I don’t know why it was sent to me.
My eyes have grown weak.
I can't thread the needle any more.
I was never really good at sewing anyway.
GloPoWriMo Day 7
Photo Credit: _luizfelipe Flickr via Compfight cc
I don’t know what this is.
It is something foreign and mysterious.
The taste of mushrooms on a rainy day.
The taste of soil and smoke.
Salty like the sea and tart like buckwheat bread.
Stubborn like newly plucked nettles.
Something like Brie and red wine,
something like fresh beets, like aubergines in September.
That’s what they say it is.
And, though I like all those things,
I still don’t know what umami is.
It is something foreign and mysterious,
like wasabi and za’atar,
like harissa and garam masala,
like ras el hanout and saffron.
It must be something very expensive and hard to find
GloPoWriMo Day 27