Best Knitting Poems
I’m not as agile as before
but my heart continues to roar!
Joyous in my humble abode,
each life breath is to God an ode.
Knitting helps me focus my mind,
leaving mundane worries behind.
I’m not lonely; plants speak to me,
setting heart aflame and soul free!
By the window, back to the wall,
pictures aid memory recall
and the clock sounds its hourly chime,
alerting me to flow of time.
Hold my hand or keep your distance;
on my part there’s no insistence.
I share with all, my inner light,
like dewdrops birthing bliss delight!
Her hunched mound circles around
while near dawning approaches...
and my mind wonders of her need
to spin more rows in puffs
of hours, sewing and binding
a delicate blanket made from loops.
Somehow, I know what makes
her hurry... as time wheezes,
silken mother props her bed
upon new day's request
when egg sacs, her young, peep out
toward a gently crocheted, wet earth.
PD's Contest:
Any Poem (you wrote) that makes you smile
Uncontrollable frenzy the moment I set out for the wool market
Ecstatic madness losing the teeny heart to bagfuls of double knit
Every year newer hues and textures in my over loaded box beds do warmly fit
My soul flies to the heavens on their strings as I knit in love, purl out pain, crafting
Intricate cable patterns on cuddly baby frocks, scarves, stoles, capes, and afghans
January 1, 2016
Contest : Wool
Sponsor: C. T.
Knitting gives me pleasure.
Keeping me occupied.
Keen to create with some
Kaleidoscope colors.
Knowing cold winter has
Kinfolk's teeth chattering.
Knackered knitting for them.
Here i am, knitting thoughts in ancient rhymes
With a hope to come up with something good;
Something to be remembered throughout times,
To get looked back as often as one could
Centuries had flown since letters were made,
Many obsolete traditions had switched
We live in digital age, they said;
Still, our love of poetry proceeds
Eventhough i'm not a master of words,
Nor is myself a genius writer,
My dream is to script some notes for the world,
Some for the tears, some for the laughter
No matter who you are, or where you're from,
I wish to share with you my little poem
Busy Bee
You may wonder what I am doing
Sitting here knitting away
The toils of a busy bee
Are never finished
In my quest to impress my girl
The length of time it took me
To make this special gift for her
For sure I just got my girl
From childhood adore with love
Penny save to run to bookstore
Reading and knitting all day
Eyes and hands in drop of hill
In hugging the sea breeze
Inviting underneath no need to breath
Deep dive to sea as host
When came beneath in dream
In wet hands hosting pearl of shells
Breeze of the sea escaped white curtains
A new day to wash with sea and sun
Run to bookstore than get a new canvas
I am a mitten knitter
And I love mitten knitting
I knit to keep your hands warm during those long cold winter nights
I am a mitten knitter
And I love knitting mittens
Mitten knitting and knitting mittens is my passion
I am a mitten knitter
Unlike tricoleuse knitting room –
I hadn’t much fun by light of moon.
The crows at dawn abated soon.
I fairly swoon – I fairly swoon.
*tricoleuse: One of a number of women who sat knitting while attending public executions during the French Revolution. (3 syllables per Howmanysyllables, but no stressed syllable identified)
Famously referred to in A Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens
Light streams manipulate vaporous violin strings
meandering about open casements;
flantando melodies float, dream bridged sighs.
At table, coffee steam rises, knitting the brume,
hooding her sorrow pricked eyes.
Copyright, November 15, 2017
Faye Lanham Gibson
knitting scarf
cold wind coming from the north
picking up speed
AP: 1st place 2025
She came from that special tribe of women
whose hands have six fingers each.
Fingers that appear a blur of agitation
chattering amongst themselves
in a language I could never understand.
9th Row: * Yo, K1, yo, sl 1, K1, psso, K13, K2tog, yo, K1, yo,
K2 tog, K2 (yo) twice, K2, K2tog; repeat from * all round.
As a child I watched
as her architecture exploded
in rhythm and rhyme,
my eyes dazzled with reflections
of their ceaseless motion.
I thought of spiders spinning webs,
of clouds delivering snowflakes made
of white unfolding tapestries.
It was living art,
breathing from an inward rhythm,
gaining life before my eyes.
Her fingers, ten of flesh
and two of bone,
like fencing masters
parry- thrusting patterns in the air.
long bones bobbing, weaving,
nearly, neatly, kissing, then retreating,
fast as fighter jets leaving contrails
of air and finery behind,
kissing the air,
to leave each slender thread embraced,
membranes laced
with love and intuition.
Doilies brought to fruition
with loving hands;
her many fingers moving,
proving themselves
over and over
in secret patterns surging,
revealing their purpose
merging crocheted gifts
of adept urging.
Breathing life
to limp and simple strings
with all the love
that her attention brings.
Gifts brought to a world
made better
by hands and willing heart.
Hands that held six fingers each
and turned her sacred language into art.
Minutes eleven
soon it will be seven,
time is ticking,
I like knitting,
I have a horse,
do you like my porsche,
time is divine,
will you be mine?
A vibrancy on a washing line is often likened to a knitting needle in a hailstorm. Fold away the parachutes of umbrella and kneel down on a thistle. It is rather comfortable when it is in flower. Dashing darting deriving daffodil draperies. And a large hairy dog playing with a hula hoop. Whirling. Good. Woof woof then. Over nineteen thousand feet the parasol leans into the wind. Ornately dressed in flowery patterns and sheets of ancient chiffon. Curvaceous corrosive callings of a breeze. And a wide angled bucket in a yard pondering the sky. Question not the arrival. Question only the departure. And such is the word of the thesaurus on a train. Hahahaha now go and eat the high tea. Hahahaha flimsy wheeled and heeled skirts and blouses. Crusty blooms. Goods granting gables. And a wand from a stone. Fabled frog frivolities. Haha xx xx number of peas over there chanting pod pod pod. Lovely
enchanting. Xxxxx gastronomically z
The snow was fierce that weekend
It never let up, kept falling and falling
The drifts were getting higher and higher
The wind chill was getting lower and lower
It was brutal outside, wasn’t it?
Mama rabbit did not mind
They had plenty of carrots and lettuce in the larder
She had put them up in Mason jars the summer before
Anticipating this kind of winter
She read the Farmer’s Almanac, didn’t she?
The baby bunnies were getting older now
They would soon want burrows of their own
She was knitting them February blankets
With giant red hearts, for she loved Valentine’s Day
And Woman’s Day which she was reading as she knitted.
She was a multi-tasker, wasn’t she?