Long Embroidering Poems
Long Embroidering Poems. Below are the most popular long Embroidering by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Embroidering poems by poem length and keyword.
Although she's always attired in exquisite clothing,
Miranda Vasquez dances, but she's not a socialite.
She spends most of her days embroidering dresses
and decorating flowered fans long into the night.
Her finely sown garments would fetch a nice price,
but money is not what brings Miranda great joy.
No. For she gives them away to low-born ladies
who proudly wear her raiment of felt and corduroy.
Her garments are beautiful works of creative art,
similar to grand paintings from a master's brush.
Bright and bold colored fabrics she loves the most,
green, gold, and crimson hues of cheeks in blush.
Miranda is loved by young and old in her village.
A legendary figure she's bound to become in time.
With her dark lashed eyes and dainty red lips,
she's adored for her heart and tailoring, sublime.
SOULMATE
Some where some when somebody to expect
my soulmate to take care, share, love and protect.
I searched, searched prolong
to choose and select.
I prayed my earnest
on life- long quest
of heart-touching song
to resonate long
till heart- beats to rest.
Embroidering emerald emotion
Dreamy drowsy dormant desperation
spread to reflect.
I yearned for super perfect.
Soulmate! How to select.
My ardent ardor
met dismal dismay.
Destiny weaved life-pattern.
Tingling passion wept and slept.
05/02/17
The Creative Collective Analogy Series Contest by Geraldine Taylor
In the labyrinth of time, we weave webs of hope from threads of light and shadows,
Wandering souls in the ocean of existence, clinging to dreams like life rafts,
We breathe the illusion of progress, an intoxicating air that fills our lungs with promises,
And every morning we wake up, once again, on the edge of the abyss of nihilism.
We are children of a world that collapses and is reborn with each heartbeat,
We carry in our blood the irrational belief that tomorrow will be better, a sweet and necessary poison,
We intertwine our destinies with threads of "maybe" and "if", weaving a magic carpet of possibilities,
On which we float above the abyss of despair, clinging to every thread of hope.
People of the present, prisoners between past and future, we dance on the edge of time,
With closed eyes we throw ourselves into the waves of change, believing we swim towards a better shore,
And on nights when the moon weeps its loneliness, we whisper stories of a brighter tomorrow,
Feeding our hungry souls with dreams of progress, an imaginary feast of our minds.
Without this mad belief, we would be just wandering shadows in an indifferent universe,
Puppets of flesh and bone, manipulated by the cruel hands of destiny, without will or purpose,
But we choose to believe, to hope, to dream, even when reality tears our hearts apart,
Because in the illusion of progress we find the strength to go on, to breathe, to live.
And so, we weave our own stories, embroidering with threads of hope on the canvas of existence,
We build sandcastles on the beaches of time, knowing the waves will wash them away, but building anyway,
For in this beautiful madness of belief in progress, we find the meaning to continue,
To move forward, step by step, verse by verse, breath by breath, towards a future yet unwritten.
When summertime has kissed the rose,
And nestling trees blossom so fair
The dappled leaves twirl in repose,
Bathed in mist’s spray… beyond compare.
I crave her touch on paths winding
Like a damsel amid lush grass;
Sultry when the vibrant breeze flings,
As limbs thrusts in passion’s contrasts.
On blushes of night’s wild glimpses
Embroidering her russet veil;
In slow movement… this enchantress
Drops heat’s thrill while she bids farewell.
As mornings welcome Autumn’s gold
My breath lifts in a mellow way,
When tinsels of fog glide… to unfold
A silver whirl through fall’s ballet.
Kelly Deschler's Summer's End Contest
8/30/2014
by nette onclaud
Without a ripple, the world moved,
Heeded a whisper uttered into a secluded room,
I felt every last drop of blood drawn,
All the sketches shared in our times alone,
Though in a blink the tides turned white,
All the pigments burnt out of sight,
An eternal elegance is forever etched,
For embroidering a love into me
only is orchestrated in visual effects,
the moments we wove in the midst of sublime storytelling,
We dreamt of a hill we knew was so unbecoming,
We were bound by bare beauty and synchronized strength,
Yet so little to teach in each other’s length,
A short-lived hope
Slid right down the slope,
With no time to cope,
I guess this is why love letters come in a little envelope.
Yesterday, at Maker Space, I completed
Embroidering the image of your second home,
And you were sitting in there alone.
I also added embroidery of the poem,
Titled 2024.7.29, the first poem I posted
The one being featured on the Poetry Soup home page once.
I also included a popular poem in foreign language,
Which formed the lyrics of a movie's theme.
It crossed my mind,
How would you feel the minute you saw it?
If I was you, I treasured every meaningful item,
Especially if it directly related to me.
It depicted your image, from green beanie,
Black and white stripe woolly scarf, khaki creamy jacket,
Blue jean and the runners of bright green soles colour.
One day, when you have a chance
To read my poems on the Poetry Soup website
Please be kind to make some comments,
Have my memories served me well?
Except for the grammar, was there anything I wrote,
Was untrue or inaccurate?
It was hard to believe but it was true that
Honesty and keeping promises,
Were not the best policies,
In the current society.
I couldn't help it. It was me.
Can not help and can not change it.
The cobalt mind of ancient mariner of the seven seas,
the surfing sailor tosses on the waves of youthful life,
rolls on the curled crests with the splintered moon,
drawn into dark agony troughs of the drowned stars,
spread pearls of joy on shore embroidering exuberance.
Crushed sands sculpt the trail of the seaward footprints,
designed by the crumbled contours of transient decay.
Time arrow points to the turquoise terrain ethereal,
away from the wistful wilderness abandoned,
where the chasm stratifies the collapsed hopes undying.
The weed-webbed wasteland defined deep within,
piles up the shipwrecked splinters of life unlived.
Withering garden garners tinny bleakness, yet shining,
as the path paved outside the obscure familiarity fence
waits to be walked by the mesmerized wanderer
to the marvelous meadow of tantalizing tomorrow.
The invented alchemic aptitude of the mystic memory
makes glittering gold on the rusted crust of the ruins.
Marigold blooms on scrap heap with steadfast sanguinity
in Midas touched shipwreck junkyard of the metallic mind.
MY GRANDMA DEEMMA
My Grandma, whom I called Deemma
bathed me in showers of limitless love and blessings.
Those feelings I am still carrying in my life.
Deemma! An ideal hostess not to even guess,
most competent in domestic chores and household management
Grandpa! An unsuccessful lawyer with irregular income low and slow.
Deemma met up his inefficiency, never blaming rather running ideal family.
Off and on, in vacations, I had spent days with her.
She narrated her life-long struggle and concluded‘While raising up kids,
whole day’s ceaseless work made me frantically fatigued.
At late night I had to seek for a small space to throw myself in bed.
Yet, as I took glance on sleeping faces of my kids,
I realized, I as the happiest woman in the world.’
She had only primary education permissible for women in those days.
But her craze reached her daughters and son to succeed as toppers
She was my idol holding extraordinary skill in sewing, knitting, embroidering.
All the dresses of her grand kids were stitched by her.
Lots of charming dolls excelling in handicrafts were gifted to me.
Once she voiced to me ‘You call me Deemma, a typical address to old lady.
Dear my child, I am aged, but mind is still young not coping up with body.’
Now being a Grandma I had to sense the same ruthless truth.
She had bestowed me compassion and care in opulence.
I got no scope to repay but only to offer my gratitude as tribute in silence.
Trying to honor with my tribute roaming through reminiscence.
03/08/ 19
Fifth Place
'What's In A Name' Contest by Kim Rodrigues.
'YOUR CHOICE TRIBUTE VERSE' Contest by Brian Strand
The experience of writing
your thoughts and feelings on paper
for the perusal of others;
offers instant satisfaction,
that must be experienced to
be truly appreciated.
By letting your muse guide you to
a deeper awareness of your
humanity and surroundings:
poetry, empowers the ink,
that reveals the artist within;
whose pen morphs into a paintbrush.
The power and enlightenment
of poetry, inflames your soul,
when it's your thoughts embroidering
the page: and the poet in you
desperately wants to be heard.
The page is your canvas to fill
in any way your muse may choose:
never let critics deny you that
opportunity; ignore them,
for they love to critique mistakes.
Colors descend enmeshed from glowing horizon,
the scarlet tinge of the sky paints the blushing land,
embroidering the tapestry of the unfurled dawn,
flushing the glorious day with vibrant hues grand.
Gleaming hours invoke joyous kaleidoscopic lilt,
birds scale the sky before they return to the nest,
sing to the mesmeric melody of the resonant colors
while the clouds design the fresco at its creative best.
Moony night orchestrates peacefully quiet rhapsody,
spreads on land silver dust through the mystique air.
On the sparkling adornment the stars shine bright,
the bejeweled sky glimmers with rare celestial flair.
Abysmal blackness consuming daylight envelopes fast
my identity as flash of twilight in your sapphire sky
where you will see me shine forever like a drifting star
when in the halcyon night I will grow wings to fly.