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Roann Mendriq
Roann Mendriq Mumbai / India, Female, 45
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  • Roann Mendriq (5/23/2013 5:04:00 AM) Post reply

    Weaving golden memories,
    in the spindle of my mind;
    Adrift upon a silken breeze,
    of patchwork so designed.

    I lose my thread of errant thought;
    with every stitch I drop;
    And find the memory I sought,
    till panic slows to stop.

    Busy at my memory loom,
    I weave myself some laughter;
    As an intricate costume,
    for a happily ever after.

    I start to smile in reverie,
    at life's quirky little riches;
    Chuckling soft inside of me,
    I find myself in stitches.

    Tangled in the silken skeins,
    I pause and use my skill;
    To break free from the chains,
    To stop myself unravel.

    A tranquil tapestry arises,
    it comes from who knows whence;
    Cross stitch scolds, chastises,
    Blanket stitch, a reminiscence.

    Embroidery at this juncture,
    in everything I do;
    Is a parrallel acupuncture,
    of an applique of you.

  • Roann Mendriq (4/18/2013 3:12:00 AM) Post reply


    I love to watch the rain, fall in big fat shiny drops,
    I love to know its helping grow, every farmer's crops;

    I love to hear it thunder, and roar loudly as it pours,
    I love to feel it wet my face, my cheeks, my eyes, my nose!

    I love to sit on window sills, and sip hot chocolate milk,
    and watch the rain wash shiny leaves, like velvet watered silk;

    I love brown muddy puddles, I jump and they go 'splash! ',
    And every night I love it, when the lightning starts to flash;

    I love the smell of fresh washed earth, I love the cool crisp breeze,
    When it rains, it's Heaven on earth, as God waters all His trees...

  • Roann Mendriq (4/17/2013 6:49:00 AM) Post reply

    India is a patch-work, of every single hue,
    Vibrant reds and ochres, and pensive shades of blue;

    Skeins of gold light up the sky, when the sun wakes up each morn,
    The heavens weave a tapestry, of a glittering brand new dawn;

    Gilded pink and shimmering peach, the clouds weave in their lace,
    India is spun golden, in the sun's new morning rays;

    At noon the sun is up and bright, the ocean is sun kist;
    Villages and towns bask in, a gilt-edged white hot mist;

    Paddy fields and valleys, reflect the golden green,
    While ribbons of grey roads, mere wisps of silvery sheen;

    As twilight spins her burnished spool, on the fabric whirling high,
    A dusky lilac, wine red sky, breathes out a drawn out sigh;

    As night enfolds my country, with her quilt of deep, dark blue,
    The Master weaver gently smiles, from vantage His point of view.

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