Poetry by John Kelly : The Weaver & the Silversmith

The Weaver & the Silversmith

I am the prince of folly who
Worships the metal moon,
I gave her my mangled ideas, and
She spun them on her loom.

His words are hard and heavy, cold
Like iron lumps; from a cookbook
Of acids and resins, I marinade
Chemicals for my silversmith.

She retires to her country cocoon,
Delved deep in the forest of lights,
In her hand a gossamer thread,
Attending to garments and chairs.

Commodes and baroque tables,
Hammered from the noble earth,
A rasping clang of his noisy pursuit,
I lay out his collection of brass.

She brings me silk of lotus flower,
Fresh weaves from the weavermill,
Her fate woven by vanquished Athena,
Arachne has spun me a reprieve.

Lachesis is measuring our destiny,
The shears are looking for our thread,
But I’ll cast us a gem-set shell,
She weaves between sleep and doom

Bio: John Kelly is an Irish poet and novelist. He lives between Lisbon and London.

By davidlonan1

David writes poetry, short stories, and writings that'll make you think or laugh, provoking you to examine images in your mind. To submit poetry, photography, art, please send to feversofthemind@gmail.com. Twitter: @davidLOnan1 + @feversof Facebook: DavidLONan1

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