Long Crocheting Poems
Long Crocheting Poems. Below are the most popular long Crocheting by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Crocheting poems by poem length and keyword.
The normal joy of Christmas is dead in my house.
No enthusiasm or anticipation of laughter
It will be another day without family or friends
I may have a twinge or two of loneliness
But I will quickly tamp them down,
crocheting them into quilts of frolic and madness
The frolicking and madness of one.
One who can entertain herself easily
cartooning, painting, writing poetry,
and pretending it is not Christmas today.
If someone Zooms me, I probably won’t answer.
I will be too busy, playing.
Unless the loneliness creeps up.
Then I will Facetime someone.
Technology has become my new Santa Claus.
Risking the absurd and death in every verse,
The poet, like an acrobat, swings over the heads of
The crowd, in a world where writing is a tightrope act
And rhyme is the ladder to the lofty heavens of words.
He climbs on ropes of images, crocheting
In the fine thread woven from dreams and harmony,
Balances on beams of gazes, over an ocean
Of faces, feeling his way with dance-like steps,
Juggles with metaphors, with concept pirouettes,
All without ever confusing, magically,
The essence with the illusion.
He, the super-realist poet,
Senses the truth stretched like a violin string,
Before any motion, any scenic gesture that could
Elevate the stage just a bit higher, closer to the pedestal
Where Beauty, sovereign, dares
To begin her mortal leap - that flight over the abyss,
Charged with graceful tension.
He's the little Charlot of words,
Who may or may not catch, to his celestial form
An eternity stretched out, in the void of existence,
Finally embraced by the space of ink.
But he dares, a hero in his own poem, to walk,
Step by step, on the thin wire of fantasy,
Concentrating on reaching the vastness
Where beauty awaits to unveil itself.
And we, the spectators, remain with upward glances,
Captive in the anticipation of the supreme act,
Where every stanza, every elevated word
Is an act of tightrope walking in the void, sigh and anticipation,
Until the applause of infinity when at last,
The poet, with Beauty in his arms, concludes his celestial dance.
zealous woozily throbbing
quintessentially narcotic
karaoke humble ecstasy bubbling
yawningly vibrantly
singing praises motivates
ineluctable fancy caparisoned
zestfully whooping tellingly
quaking novel kindles
heartfelt essence
blubbering yipping vocalizations
sincerely pronouncing
myriad jubilant gleefulness
describing absolute x2c
unbridled rhapsodic
obeisance loosening
inimitable fabulous communication
zeroing wakened tremendous pleasure
marinating joie de vivre
gurgling dynamically aspiring xylem
unstoppably roiling
overtly liberal fawning calculus
zinging wordy tome
proclaiming motive jangling
glorifying divine adulating
x uber rants obediently liberating
inducing fantastic crowing zestfully
warbling tenderly quiet nursing kingdom
harkening enjoyment bestirring
x unnumbered remarks
outlining linkedin impressiveness
from crocheting zany way
this poet marries juxtaposed grammar
describing atypical xfinity urging requiem
oozing libation inside
fleshly corporeal Zen wordsmith thyself
questioning messenger's (mine) jabbering
gets decoded accurately.
I feel the spirit of Christmas all around me
The spirit of Christmas is in the air
Especially during December
The spirit of Christmas is all around me
It’s buying coffee or tea for a homeless person to warm their insides
It’s writing a letter to a friend or relative
It’s knitting and crocheting and then giving your knitted and crocheted items to the needy
It’s giving your time to volunteer
The spirit of Christmas
It’s all around me
it gives me chills and makes me smile
I feel the spirit of Christmas all around me
The spirit of Christmas is in the air
The spirit of Christmas is all about contributing to society and making a difference one step at a time
i g n o r a n c e~
is a rhyme without soul
an art of f a d i n g into oblivion...
like crestfallen tulips
twirling through tethered rays
in the midst of seething sighs...
and I am more than the
blazing thorn
of a phoenix rose moon,
infused in scarlet elixirs
of a sorcerous twilight,
weaving l o v e
in golden glows
amidst double-flamed scales
burning my velvety h e a r t...
pondering, would you
be the galactic gardener
that waters
my weathered spirit
when I am but
a mere memento~
tangled in
vindictive vines of vanity,
for I have a voice
I sing in garnet grace...
if tomorrow
you feel my heartbeat
between vintage verses
of a scentless sonnet
long forgotten, and e r a s e d
remember,
I am the silk and sage
and the untamable
silhouette
of a balmy blossom
that refuses to breathe
in the ossuary
of perished petals,
and wrinkled dreams,
ostracized by
chauvinistic thistles
and unpolished ink
pricking the soft stems
facing cyclones of greed
c i r c l i n g
in sheer arrogance....
tonight I trace the hyacinth heat
of unwavering zest,
drawing sanguine
smoke of love
with winged gossamer
tied to the redolent roots
of unblemished skylines
while crocheting
petrichor promises
unto the backbone of
a nocturnal garden,
where handmade
wreaths of hope and faith
feel softer than lunar light~
as this heart resembles
a maternal bouquet
of burgundy b l i s s ...
a woman who heeds not
misogynistic mantras ...
Outside, feathery snowflakes drift slowly to the ground.
Inside, love, fun and cozy fellowship does abound!
The dog and cat snuggle nigh the warm and glowing fire.
'Tis an intimate Victorian portrait that would any artist inspire!
The soft light of oil lamps overshadow the pervasive gloom.
Their flickering flames provide dancing illusions all about the room.
Father settles in his chair with his favorite pipe and book.
Mother's fingers fly with the rhythmic motion of her crocheting hook!
Danny sprawls upon the floor viewing stereoscopic potpourri.
Little Nan serves her dolly, Betsy, scones and savory tea.
Sophisticated Beth with fingers deft is busily tatting lace.
Mother serves hot, spicy cider to all with flawless grace.
The kids play "Find the Thimble" and "Squeak, Piggy, Squeak",
"Hard Boiled Beans" and "Hunt the Ring" with excited shriek!
Mom and Dad join to play charades, to everyone's delight.
Indeed, this has been a very special and happy family night!
Mother plays the pump organ for an impromptu family choir.
Anon, the sonorous toll of the clock declares its time to retire.
Father leads evening devotions as they gather about his chair.
Thanking God for family, friends and home with joyful prayer!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
Senectitude is Re Wreck Ta Tude
My teeth are failing, my gums blowing darts
My hands are spotted,
Grandma hands, and she has been gone fifty-five years.
Yet I look down and there they are
Surprising they are not crocheting
Or knitting or soothing a crying child.
They are perpetually typing.
My eyes are going; they have lost their lilt.
They no longer sing or play or skip or dance.
They do not light up a room the way they once did.
I am invisible now.
Not sure when that started,
But I am sure now.
People walk by my cellophane self,
Not seeing me in any human way.
My teeth hurt and my soul is raging mad.
My grandma hands are spotted, but no longer laughing.
Senectitude is Re Wreck Ta Tude
I am a cellophane woman
The twelve year old girl I see in the mirror
No one else has seen for a long time.
Floaties crowd up between me and interstate signs.
I am breaking the mirrors, slapping them down on the highway,
Angry that my teeth are failing
Did I tell you my gums are blowing darts
I hope they stop soon.
My mind is not dancing
any more.
And my soul
is crying.
Happiness Is:
Hearing and singing my favorite songs,
Accomplishing tasks that've been planned for so long.
Spending a day with a needle or hook,
Crocheting or stitching, or reading a good book.
Creative juices abundantly flowing,
Keeping poetic endeavors fruitful and growing.
Baking chocolate chip cookies on a cold winter's day,
And sharing with friends - it's better that way.
Inner security, freedom from fear,
Nestling close to my husband, so dear.
Hugs from my sons given "just because",
Spending time with family, including in-laws.
But what makes me happiest each and every day,
Is knowing God loves me and for my sins He paid.
Each day I awaken knowing God's on His throne,
And no matter what happens, I'm never alone.
12/7/2011 for Carol Brown's Being Happy contest
Continued from Part 1
The Beggars ’neath the balustrades,
and broken Children, Chambermaids,
are running wild from wraiths, afraid
of dreams where death redoubles.
They fritter time with tattered threads
(from ragged clothes they’ve left in shreds),
crocheting hoods to hide their heads
and faces, full of rubble.
But many things will not remain
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
when goblets filled with cool champagne
evaporate in bubbles.
The White-Robed Maid adorns the trash
with charnel urns awash in ash,
then fumbles with an untied sash
while pacing in the Palace.
Her hopes congeal in coffee spoons
with memories adrift in dunes;
yet, still she smiles with teeth like prunes
and lips of painted callus.
And long before the midnight drains,
the Saviour wakes, the Loser gains,
the waters of the Hurricanes
will fill her empty chalice.
The storm (behind the clarinets,
the silver flutes, the castanets,
the foghorns belching in quartets,
the bagpipes, puffed and swollen)
is keeping time to tambourines
while Tom Thumb and the Four-Inch Queen,
pick up the shards and smithereens
of moments lost or stolen.
They’re trekking through the Dim Domains
(where fountains weep, the mountain wanes),
yet can’t escape the Hurricanes
with trundling eyes patrollin’.
The Crowds (arrayed in jewels) in jails,
stoop, peering through a fence of nails
while light behind their eyeballs pales
with plastic flame that sputters.
They huddle there because they must
(with eyelids hung like peeling rust,
their tears, palled pellets in the dust),
behind the bolted shutters.
They’ll reawake without their pains
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
without their sores, without their stains,
their agonies will fill the drains
and overflow the gutters.
End
All seems peaceful on a normal day, cheerfulness is no disarray;
friendly neighbors greet us with a warm good morning,
we wave and smile back, wishing them well and speed away:
slow was the life of yesterday, many happy tunes to sing!
The only person in the house is Emma sewing a dress for Jenny,
she had promised it for her birthday, two locked lips on her part....
secrets are kept to oneself, it's surprises that excite and delight;
a Colbert dress that matches her eyes can make her look pretty!
Why is the house quite, the hushing wind brushes her silver hair;
granny is crocheting a blanket for her couch, the other her chair,
" Everything gets old including me, " It's her resounding lament,
" Winter comes for all, it's a sad season so ghostly and so silent! "