Needle & Thread

Photographer Ilse Bing — Poster, Henry VIII, 1934


Needle & Thread
The Glue That Binds Us

Charred sentiment dispensed
The remains of our days,
Spent: cleaved away
As leaves torn of paper.

Distant memories entangled
The feeble free fall
End over end;
Tumbled as pigeons
Latched together
With arms open.
We headed towards
Eliot’s perpetual April;
Never giving thought
To the tire of love.
Youth’s newness, blind elation
Staved off the wolves of reality.
Salt of the earth
Took leave, our loss;
We pushed the pieces forward.

Soiled uniforms
Dressed in suits of grace,
Cumbersome and too large,
We traced our paths
Again and again;
With dogged determination
We dragged ourselves

Through foot worn ruts.
In the end, we realized
There would be no phoenix
To rise f
rom the ash.


“It may have been in pieces, but I gave you the best of me.”
― Jim Morrison

Hindi Zahra – “At The Same Time”                                                    


Artist — Arnaud de Vallois



It’s a cruel world.
How many chances do we get?
How many chances do we take?
How many chances do we give?

Do we walk away too soon?
Do we walk away too late?


“Remember, remember, this is now, and now, and now.  Live it, feel it, cling to it.  I want to become acutely aware of all I’ve taken for granted.”
― Sylvia Plath    *

Meg Myers — “Sorry”                                                           Trust                            Urgent

Sisters’ Endgame

Unknown Artist


Sisters’ Endgame
100 Words Only

What of fate and faith? While they embrace, hold hands, which rules the other? This perpetual thought is a silent cancer that creeps within, like rust that never sleeps. Should they drift off into slumber, the dark-grey melancholy wakes them. Before their cries reach a fevered pitch of malignancy, they dance the last tango, what if and if only. Loyal duty and service to this thought wavers, to what purpose does it serve, and to what end? Lost days pass, the finish line inches ever closer, what of the final moment? Grace reserved, wishes fate and faith to be kind.


“Life is grace. Sleep is forgiveness. The night absolves. Darkness wipes the slate clean, not spotless to be sure, but clean enough for another day’s chalking.”
― Frederick Buechner, The Alphabet of Grace

Staind – “It’s Been Awhile”                                      Flattery       Careful       Graceful


Unknown Artist



Living on the edge
Of your warm breath’s precipice
Right before the sigh
Invisible, relentless
Traveling on the exhale

Counting the seconds
Of a beating crimson heart
Hallow muttering
Muttering and muttering
Resounding, lub dub, lub dub

Still — its sound unheard

Rhythm undetectable
Under the plectrum
Plucking the harpsichord strings
Beneath the Venetian lid

Of cornflower eyes

Sick with tears, leftover fears
Trained myself to walk
Instep with cinnabar coals
On my tippy-tippy-toes

Rested a moment

Consumed the red temptation
Slept beautifully
Waited for resurrection
From a nine-inch nail slumber

Woke to find myself

Stained, in a worn flaxseed shroud
Handfuls of spent soil
Pushed aside, while digging out
So I can stay on the edge


“I wake abruptly, my breath jagged and heart racing, my mouth stale, and I know immediately that’s it. I’m awake. The more I want to be oblivious, the less I can be. Life and light will not let me be.”
― Paula Hawkins, The Girl on the Train     *

The Kills — “The Last Goodbye”

Originally posted — March 03, 2016