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Plump Hurrah

needle hanging by its thread
the light of a moon
upon a bed

cups with worry buttons
in its ocean of dust
the bright cascade
of snow
and the broken trusts

sickle smile
cut the mile
a bootheels grind
sharpens an eye

worry hurry come
the eve
where the ghosts
come to sit

and never leave

Editing stage: 


I get it! Images of memory, both the beautiful and the ugly truths that we don't like to dwell on. Ah, I've most likely got it wrong, but as usual, you've said it beautifully. ~ Gee

There is value to commenting and critique, tell us how you feel about our work.
This must be the place, 'cause there ain't no place like this place anywhere near this place.

the oddities noted
and then the sentient beings
that settle

not always too unbearable
or too harsh
but its not all about pretty stars
and lost love

but about just the day to day
and the end of the day

Thank You both

author comment

Needle hanging by a thread.
Moonlight lying on my bed.
Cups with worry buttons...dust.
Snow's bright cascade of broken trust.

A sickle smile cuts through the miles.
A bootheel's grind to shape the eye.
Worry, hurry, come the eve
to where ghosts sit and never leave.

I couldn't resist tweaking this into 2 quatrains, loved the title and the poem,especially the first line, hanging by a thread is a cliche but when you add needle to it, it is suddenly transformed, bravo, beautiful images. I think punctuation is valuable in verse as it lets you signal pauses etc to the reader and gives you more scope in metre. hope you don't mind my rewrite, say if you do, I veer towards extremes.
kind regards

I heave a sigh
with this your needling
on the strand
of the ocean
now quite deep
I understand
that you're skipping on
with words
connotations and absurds
but saying something
in a way quite new
as only you can do.


"The image of yourself which you see in a mirror Is dead,
but the reflection of the moon on water, lives." Kenzan.

the oasis eye licked by a moons kiss
I saw a burning star skip by
stitching tattered truths
and banner lies

I still myself sew buttons on jackets
pants and shirts
a meditation
and skill preserved from mother to young

a days end is like this
repairs to ponders
and pulling useful from
the discards

layers of days
and days of nights


author comment

and feathers sew my thoughts
at night
by light of moon
and star

repair the troubled mind
swing into focus
stranger views

to contemplate
awakening surprised
we meditate their worth

when darning socks
and stitching dreams into the day
is just another way


"The image of yourself which you see in a mirror Is dead,
but the reflection of the moon on water, lives." Kenzan.

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