JOURNEY TO MY ANCESTRAL IRISH SOD

Dust snaps and swirls madly in brazen air,

Indigo stained hands lift dripping wool

From water filled with stomping, laughing

Men, animals bray, camels, horses, thin,

Full of Parasites, fleas, tired reddened eyes. 

Beasts of burden laden with patterns etched

Into centuries of cells. here are scorpions,

Flowers, the greatness of God, local heroes,

A knife flashes, a young girl grins upward.

The leathery face of her toothless

Grandmother who pushes and lifts,

Weft, warp, the heavy carpet rolls pass on,

While feet settle comfortably onto a surface,

Thinking only about magic.

 

        Linda Rosenthal (Feb. ’10) adds, “I love oriental rugs, the poem was a challenge from a friend.  My knowledge about how these rugs are made comes from books.

* a poem from the Mar 2010 edition of Ninepatch *

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