Best Patchwork Poems
Little stuffed bear
lying on a bed
Made of odd pieces of cloth
Not as handsome
as store-bought bears
Of this he was ashamed
But he captured the heart
of a little girl
And of this he was rightfully proud
Nestled in her arms
So loving each night
He led a charmed life
He brought sweet dreams
or so it seems
and had no wants at all
Years passed, and
the little girl
grew to think he was
of no more use to her
He found himself in
a trash can
His heart so hurt
the angels cried
And this is what they swore
To teddy bear heaven
they carried him
to rest in well earned peace
But from heaven he
could not bear to be
He wanted to be with her
That you surely see
One night the girl
had a frightful nightmare
and cried out for her bear
And in a flash our Teddy came
To keep away the scare
Now Teddy again lies on her bed
On his face a mighty grin
Cause Teddy found out
his one great love
Indeed still needed him.
Scrubbing dishes in a cold kitchen,
on a tabletop rats nibble
through a leather bible cover.
She turns,
a lock of sweat matted hair over one eye,
shakes a red knuckle at a wailing child
sat on the floor by the door.
When Mary, in washed-out despair,
leaves, she leaves a bible, the rats
and a child there.
Mary drying his feet with her hair.
Mary at the temple calling for him.
Mary full of sperm on a street corner.
Mary full of a Grace,
a face that makes her invisible
to rabid dogs and drinking men.
I want to put all of Her together
old and young,
fat Mary on roller skates,
sweet Mary sucking candy,
badly handled and shady Mary,
to speak now for all the wet and dry virgins
slobber some words from a beaten heart,
for all the mother’s, all the worshiping foot washers;
a patchwork Mary, a working Mary.
Let us adore her from an upstairs room
where the cockroaches scuttle near
having no fear. if we don’t,
she might one day castrate us with a steely smile.
Today I walked for Mary,
the sky was a blue egg, robed with light.
I ate a chicken sandwich, lips slick with grease.
In the Chick-fil-A a family was praying over their fast food.
The joint was hopping
kids scooting in and out of seats.
A dozen Mary’s were trying to corral them,
get then to be nice like Christ.
Later I spoke to her at the foot of a crucifix,
told her all my s..t,
felt better, a kind of peace,
knowing she knew all the things I do in the dark
when she comes to me for forgiveness and rest.
I make the sign of the cross,
I make the sign of the cross.
I mean why not?
Patches of snow are left behind
A patchwork, in the lawn to find
Zig zagging flights, songs can be heard
Different directions, from each bird
They are now, talking about spring
In bright sunlight, the blue skies bring
Flowers wait to show their faces
Soon, their smiles will be all places
Joining the birds in a spring show
As warmth designs the melting snow
So much movement has caught my eye
Winter, it's time to say goodbye
Heidi Sands
4/9/24
8 syllables
(C)opyright
Color me a Maple tree
Autumn storm dressed it naked
Patchwork of gold and copper
Robust crooked roots
01.10.2020
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
Writing Challenge - Dodoitsu
Sponsored by: Constance La France
2nd place in the contest
Whose heart-strings are a lute
embalmed in their echoing songs!
When Nature sleeps and stars are mute
at midnight, in the month of June.
A mystery, and a dream,
perchance is woven in thy sleep;
for the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Again- again- again-
Know thou the secret of a spirit
its echo dwelleth and will dwell,
while the stars that oversprinkle
tempt the waters from their bed.
Deep in the heart whose hope has died--
the leaves- withering and sere;
the ancient dramatist of eminence,
the music of the spheres.
Admiring Nature's universal throne
banners yellow, glorious, golden.
The requiem for the loveliest dead
sanctified in their Elysian fire.
An Eternity should bring the morrow
an Eden of bland repose...
of beauty- chasms, and caves, and Titan woods.
I scarce know which to prize most high.
An ivory throne, at morn -
at noon - at twilight dim -
and Mid-time of night.
Divine- a talisman- an amulet-
the mystery which binds me still
hath left me broken-hearted.
A burning blush came o'er thee
beneath the tamarind tree.
All my nightly dreams-
-breathe-
and veil thine eyes;
are but a dream within a dream
into thine hour of secrecy.
All from the works of Edgar Allen Poe, pieced and patched together from many poems. I
have a list of the poems but there is not enough space to post them here. This type of poem
is created of clipped lines and phases from other poems and is called a Cento or Patchwork
Poem.
Incremental layers, experience, pile up
Like quilts upon a bed in cold winters;
They weigh upon me. I occupy
Myself inspecting, describing them --
Like a child does squares of patchwork.
These multilayered patterns amuse:
I imbue them with richness, with depth,
Depending on my mood, my whimsey --
While their reality no more resembles
My perceptions than printed scraps
Of fabric are like fields
full of fantastic figures.
Everyone's life is a patchwork quilt
Made of good times and times of strife
What makes it such a colourful quilt
Are those special moments in life
Moments that change the mosaic forever
When forced to choose a new path
Uncertainty and apprehension takes hold
Each change more scary than the last
A myriad of events beyond our control
Overcome us and we tremble with fear
But as always, our faith guides us on through
And we manage to persevere
How dull and mundane our lives would be
Without these moments of colour
They add a new square so unique and diverse
It's a work of art like no other
Everyone's life is a patchwork quilt
Made of good times and times of strife
This colourful quilt is a true example
Of a unique and treasured life
Everyone's life is a patchwork quilt
Made of good times and times of strife
What makes it such a colourful quilt
Are those special moments in life
Moments that change the mosaic forever
When forced to choose a new path
Uncertainty and apprehension takes hold
Each change more scary than the last
A myriad of events beyond our control
Overcome us and we tremble with fear
But always, our faith guides us on through
And we manage to persevere
How dull and mundane our lives would be
Without these moments of colour
They add a new square unique and diverse
It's a work of art like no other
Everyone's life is a patchwork quilt
Made of good times and times of strife
This colourful quilt is a true testament
Of a unique and treasured life
Patchwork quilt, upon my bed.
Made with love, needle and thread.
Bits of fabric from worn out clothes,
cut into squares, to be sewn.
Hand stitched together, day by day.
In the evening, after dishes are put away.
An hour here and an hour there,
slowly transformed, with love and care.
My Great and Grand Mothers and my mom,
worked together, while singing songs.
Their pitch was off and no note was carried,
but that beautiful quilt sings of love and is cherished.
Paula Swanson
For the contest: Anything Handmade
sponsored by Nette Onclaud
Placement: 5th
Everyone's life is a patchwork quilt
Made of good times and times of strife
What makes it such a colourful quilt
Are those special moments in life
Moments that change the mosaic forever
When forced to choose a new path
Uncertainty and apprehension takes hold
Each change more scary than the last
A myriad of events beyond our control
Overcome us and we tremble with fear
But as always, our faith guides us through
And we manage to persevere
How dull and mundane our lives would be
Without these great moments of colour
They add a new square so unique and diverse
It's a work of art like no other
Everyone's life is a patchwork quilt
Made of good times and times of strife
This colourful quilt is a true example
Of a unique and treasured life
© Jack Ellison 2014
Illusions,symbols of childhood,
coloured filled swathes of painterly
hues.A private fantasy in slow
motion suspended in space.An
abstracted blur in flashbacks of
yesteryear,caught in a daydream.
Vagabond brothers in plaid patchwork socks
Crossing the street between stripes painted yellow
Stretching the avenue half past the hour
Dodging the drunk, he’s a staggering fellow
Grabbing a smoke from the stack on the corner
Begging a match that just isn’t the same
Identical twins from a different mother
Thinking the postman holds most of the blame
Belting a chorus while changing their trousers
Pressed at the seam near the fine zigzag stitch
Hiding the spot that is worn in the middle
Caused by aggressively scratching an itch
Checking the fridge just to find it quite empty
Not even leftovers left over there
Hearing their stomachs now growling profusely
Hoping that none on the sidewalk would stare
Reaching for handles of brass alabaster
Gathering things at a grocery store
Paying in cash with a currency foreign
Offering nickels, they don’t have much more
Pork chops on Sunday and sweet apple cider
Pushing their cart over ten city blocks
Still they are known for their colorful fashions
Vagabond brothers in plaid patchwork socks
Written for the Zany contest
Sponsored by Frank Herrera
Choice flavours poise
Watch tone of voice
Pick and choose well
Each line now tells
Each man hooks fine
Squeeze each thought line
One by one move
Patchwork verse groove
Voice after voice
Set jazzy poise
Each author sums
Stitch by stitch comes
Raw ideas paste
Sync with new taste
Cento now streams
Dream within dream
Quilt verse now binds
New collage finds
If you but see
What may yet be
Line by line says
New lease that plays
Leon Enriquez
29 Match 2017
Singapore
Soar over black earth birds won’t dare,
But flocks of bullets streak the air.
When rains on spring horizons loom,
Wreaths of shrapnel shall be in bloom.
Where I’m going, gods shall despair.
Wraiths of smoke will usurp the sky,
Mottle light where clouds nestled high,
Clods feud-flung into vaulting flights,
Soil memories of long-gone kites,
Smear winds by dandelions plied.
Where blood and sympathy are shed,
And in vain love with hatred pled,
I’ll serve a purpose no one knows,
When we march beneath burning coals
By a long patchwork sunset bled.
The wind thickens beyond measure
And life forces couple beyond fathom.
A chest of broken toys for a treasure
And a walk in the sun for a leisure.
Like a cigarette on a winter's night,
My will burns out slowly, wholly;
Ashes decorate the void of the window sill
As the filter corks have a way to loll their bellies
on the cocoa floor, graceless.
I've lived my whole life on an ox-cart;
Now the trail snaking down the oaks of my future
gets stonier as tombs of foliage crunch to the helm.
This life is a whirlpool of fates
and other things I cannot change;
There is a wretch and disgust
that comes with every rain season,
And today my thoughts are of a better poet than me
whose strings lost taut every time
he plucked them to sing his sonnets;
Much is left to wonder of what will become
of this my hopeless opus.
The fabric of solace opens its arms
before the wretch of a loner,
But my patchwork heart feels a cold beyond its warmth.
4/11/16