Aunt Inga never spoke much as the yarn she scanned
With a gentle touch she pulled each fuzzy strand
She tied all knots with knitting needles in her hand
With age spots and varicose veins her skin was spanned
The patterns that she wove fell in wrinkles at her side
Silently her hands dove leaving sprinkles of holes tied
Knit colored purl dreams live on and like her silently have not lied
In stiches of yarn schemes, an old woman and her work that never died
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Author:
sorenbarrett (
Offline) - Published: October 8th, 2026 03:02
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 67
- Users favorite of this poem: Teddy.15, Paul Bell, Cheeky Missy, Tristan Robert Lange, Poet\'s Dream, 🐤s.zaynab.kamoonpuri🌷🐦😽
- In collections: Caricature, Poetry/art.
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Comments10
Good write SB.
Thanks so much my friend I appreciate it
A heartwarming piece friend
Thank you Norman your words are most appreciated
most welcome
And may I say a beautiful legacy to leave. 🌹
Thank you Teddy for the read and kind comment it is appreciated
Aunt Inga I suppose is like the actor, or popstar.
They don't actually die, they're presence stays in their work.
Unlike us mere mortals.
Thank you Paul for the read and comment. Actually she was my grandmother's sister a quiet lady who never spoke much, probably because she did not know English that well speaking mostly Norwegian. She would just sit and knit in the corner and no one would pay much attention to her but she left us many knit memories.
What remains with us us heirlooms and mementos stamped and autographed by those that made impressions on our younger selves bring us back and keeps us tethered and connected. 🙏🏻🕊️
Thanks so much Cryptic your words ring true and are most appreciated my friend.
That was my Mother: Forever Knitting. I'd look at the Pattern Sheet and could never understand any of it. Good Write.
Thanks Kevin I appreciate it my friend. Yes those are past times now pretty much lost to kids that now play video games.
Talking of f Which. When growing up I used to Read : Superman and Batman Comics. Anything that was DC.
The local Newsagents had Racks of these .
You never see them now . I think we had the Golden Years of such things. 👍
I remember the days my friend
Soren, I enjoyed reading your poem about Aunt Inga. I particularly appreciate the way you use knitting as a metaphor for a life and for the things we leave behind. The image of an elderly woman working with her hands carries a certain tenderness, and the idea that her work continues to live after her is a meaningful one. Thank you for sharing it.
Thank you Rodriguez for your take on this piece. You have grasped the intent of it and it is most appreciated my friend.
oren, this is a tender tribute. There's something particularly touching about remembering someone through the ordinary things they loved doing. I hope Aunt Inga knew how much she meant to those around her. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
Thanks Tristan for the read and comment. No withdrawn into a corner and quiet, only responding to my grandmother in their native tongue she was isolated and quite timid. I appreciate your review my friend.
Lucid portrait of an obviously revered ancestor, Soren, Good work.
Thanks Dave I find it interesting that as much older than I she was and how young I was when she died as well as how quiet and withdrawn she was that I would remember her at all. Maybe by what she left behind. I appreciate your review my friend
I remember my grandparents (3 out of 4) vividly.. Perhaps because it was a time when I was accumulating memories at a rapid rate and had vacant space in my memory ?bank?..... or something...
I too three out of four since my paternal grandmother died in childbirth and I had a step grandmother.
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