Long Knitting Poems
Long Knitting Poems. Below are the most popular long Knitting by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Knitting poems by poem length and keyword.
From the moment we became grandparents we have felt conflicted
at the way, in books and media, grandparents are depicted.
But we’ve been grandparents for a while now
(one grandchild just graduated college)
So we believe it is time to share some grand-parental knowledge…
When a cartoonist draws a grandma her hair is invariably in a bun
If she’s not wearing a sweater…chances are she’s knitting one.
When she walks it’s with a cane and we will forever take offense
how she’s always wearing glasses and has no fashion sense
When a cartoonist draws a grandpa he is never very tall
His hair is a vibrant shade of gray or white…if he has any hair at all.
His plaid pants never match his shirt…his glasses are as thick as a window pane
He could be in a wheel chair or like Grandma…walking with a cane.
If you look around at grandparents today, you’ll find us agile and nimble and spry
In fact you’ll discover to your amazement those old stereotypes don’t apply.
Deborah doesn’t wear a muumuu…her hair is never in a bun,
If you ask our grandchildren what they think, they’ll say their Nana’s fun.
She’s creative, she’s compassionate, she’s patient and I can verify
She’s great with babies, loves to bake and sings a soothing lullaby.
As for me, though I am a little bald, I don’t wear plaid pants, never would.
snd if I do say so myself, I make the clothes I wear look good.
I do not fish, don’t watch much TV, I don’t read the Farmer’s Almanac
When my grandchildren ask to play football…guess who’s the quarterback?
Deborah and I will try jumping rope, playing soccer and climbing trees too
because in this day and age, in our generation, that’s what grandparents do!
We are a mix of old and new, we are much cooler and hipper than before
(Even though I’m pretty sure people don’t say cooler or hipper anymore!)
We embrace some of the traits of our grandparents, yes the good ones have survived
but speaking for Deborah and the grandparents I know, a new generation has arrived!
So cartoonists when you draw Deborah draw her with style, grace and fun
And if you’re drawing her baking cupcakes, make sure they’re funky ones.
And when you take your pencils out don’t draw me in a rocking chair
Instead…draw me climbing up a tree or in a top hat
and if you want…
you can add more hair.
The Father knew you before you existed, knitting your face
Now seems some got this twisted and fallen into disgrace
Knowing when one doesn't exist, knowing you complete
The One who is in our midst and one day you will meet
By Him that time is already set for we shall all pass away
This is just where you place your bet and how you play
For it is His Rhyme, His Reason and Jesus His only Son
Not knowing when it's your season and this life is done
Those choosing not to believe are liable without excuse
satan so loves to deceive standing there with his noose
All contained within His Word which is simply ignored
To many this hasn't incurred in not feeling so implored
His Creation so impeccably great that all creation can see
Each one picking their own fate even if you don't agree
God has placed you here, gravity works even if you doubt
Thus let's be clear, only with Jesus will you win this bout
Matthew 18:20 (KJV)
“For where two or three are gathered together in my name,
there am I in the midst of them.”
The bars are all closed and I’ve got a full tank,
So we could idle all night.
I’ll buy us breakfast at the Swamp Pike Diner.
We’ll welcome dawn’s early light.
It’s been seven long years since the tire plant closed.
Right now the job I got sucks.
I only feel alive on Saturday night
When I can hustle some bucks.
My attitude’s the kind that suits
These tattooed arms and steel-toed boots.
Yeah, I grew deep blue-collar roots in Spring City.
I scored us some crank from a dude they call Slim.
He’s on probation; it’s cool.
He was a bouncer down at Banker’s Tavern;
Busted some guy with a stool.
It's a doggy-dog world and a b*tch of a life.
Nobody gives you a break.
So I don’t give a f*ck who likes me or not.
At work, I’m known as The Snake.
My dad’s a drunk; his wife’s a sl*t.
Did Satan curse this town, or what?
It’s hold yer breath and bust a nut in Spring City.
Check under the seat; I stashed two quarts of Bud,
A pint of Peppermint Schnapps.
We’ll do a line and then we’ll light up a blunt.
Just keep an eye out for cops.
Gotta numb down the pain ‘cause this town’s a disease,
Self-medication’s ok.
Don’t ask the doctor what you already know.
He won’t have nothin’ to say.
If drugs don’t get ya, gambling will.
There’s layoffs at the knitting mill.
Sometimes I think I’ve had my fill of Spring City.
Watch him,
he with the curlicue words,
he's a talker
he needs to be noticed,
every word in his mouth is
a mouth full of more words.
He's okay, no-yes really, he has a dog,
a talking dog. The dog does not do tricks,
even so, it will pull you in,
make you think,
about stuff you would
rather not think about.
Watch his wife, she's a doll,
no-yes really,
she's a doll. She does not speak
except when they are all in bed.
Him, Her and the dog.
They all talk at once.
You may feel you want to
join in,
but then you may start joining
with other joiners,
you may join a political part,
the navy, or a knitting circle,
a swimming club or
an interpretive dance class.
You may feel a constant need,
to join something -
anything.
Pretty soon though,
your mouth will be stuffed full
of curlicues.
28 Cracks In The Ceiling
I take my red-inked dagger in hand
And succinctly spew its secrets for all to see.
28 cracks in the ceiling, and I lost count.
There’s a storm moving out of the west.
I can smell the thunder and
The titillating turbulence of tintinnabulation.
An old lady sits cross-legged and knitting,
Waiting for the sweating sun to sink.
“I was just a girl in 1925… and now…”
The endless strained faces out there
Tell stories of death, disease and depravity.
They know the eternal worm is the other one
In this passion triangle.
28 cracks in the ceiling, and I lost count.
Snakes frothing in suburbia.
The megabytes of Zanzibar jettison out naked bone chips.
Later months and trivial dimes.
Smokestack realizations in a tent.
Church buttresses holding up my whining soul.
Green Edsels down in San Pedro.
Michelobs and round sassy broads fingering erect nipples.
With a Susie in each arm
He lights a cigarette in honor of grand appeasement.
Sensuous sinews entwine effervescently.
More loose chicks in short skirts,
Pouting and scamming.
Times are hot in the old town tonight.
Music and misery, wine and wickedness.
Stubborn clocks disarm with water-resistant influx.
I was a princox in petticoats.
We met at a Tastee Freez at twilight.
28 cracks in the ceiling, and I lost count.
I roam through cactus and moonlight,
never knowing how old marrow can be fleshed
from pores sewn in blank lines of endings ~
and here I am among rows of a year’s diary;
these hands sanded by memorials
of famine and feast ; sometimes wrinkled
by the laundry of evenings’ regret.
At times, like a torn gypsy rose burned in coal,
I remember the faces of my family smelling
of tar and mint , knitting arms flamed
though midnight’s love, then doused
by autumn’s muddy rain ~ gone just like that.
12/28/2015
For the Contest Deep and Dark
Sponsor; Broken Wings
A dense fog, a dense fog, it is so thick
My eyes cannot reach the other side of the street
I looked around, to my left, and to my right,
But I cannot see anything more than a meter wide
I know I am surrounded by a blanket of fog
But I cannot imagine how these could take
Such a blanket that isolated me from the world
But God! But Fate! you did it, you did it!
I seemed seeing you were snapping fingertips
Spreading billions of tiny droplets into my world,
Creating such an impenetrable cloak,
That could shut out my bright light
And making me shiver in front of your rights!
Oh my God! Wow, my Fate! you did it, you did it!
Knitting the pain, loss, fear, and self-doubt
A suffocating blanket blurring my life to this extent
If you are new to sewing, may I suggest following these instructions.
How to thread a sewing machine.
1. Be sure to have good lighting.
2. Put foot down.
3. Raise needle.
4. Hold thread, inspect end, trim if necessary.
5. Bend down into the light. Close one eye, squint with other.
6. With thumb and pointer finger guide thread toward the eye of the needle.
7. if it didn't go through the hole, wet fingers on tongue, pull thread through wet fingers and repeat steps 4 through 6.
8. if you are having no luck, may I suggest you find someone else to do this necessary step or perhaps find another project. Perhaps Knitting. No need to thread those needles.
Cute cat couple in the house, one white and one black,
our lovely pets, we call one Kite and the other Jack.
Wherever we go our close company they always keep,
on bed by our cozy side every night they like to sleep.
Jack would climb and roll over my sagged shoulder,
Kite would lie on paining thighs, for I’m getting older.
Knitting a sweater my wife sits on the sofa with the pet,
fur and wool strands intertwine to make it a unique set.
In separate bowls we give daily food to Jack and Kite,
for we’re in need of peace, don’t like to see them fight.
In the closed room when sounds subside, I sit in the dark,
listen happily to the rhythm of our pet cats’ silent walk.
We won’t let anyone touch or caress our charming cats,
nor would like them called our animal pets chasing rats,
for Jack and Kite are like our beloved children we fancy,
we don’t care a bit if people call us a feline couple crazy.
Make no mistake
snowflakes are not angel lace
or the tapestry of miracles
they're devil blades.
Drifting to earth to set the spinning metal in the mind
Turn life into a pair of pit viper eyes.
Slide you into the grave away from paradise.
Before you've made peace with your maker?
Snowflakes are white leeches.
Bloody lips anchored to shovel and spade-
Twisting ancient backs into candy canes.
Rip the heart from its throbbing cage...
Little white daggers of misery.
Hanging like devil's snot from Christmas trees.
Freezing little fingertips, churning eyes to charcoal.
Turning ponds to blue ice crypts.
At night when all is asleep, they dance-chant in a swirl.
White witches hiding their black ice sins.
Knitting snow white caps to warm your tombstone...
Snowflakes are the devil's cocaine.