Long Needlework Poems
Long Needlework Poems. Below are the most popular long Needlework by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Needlework poems by poem length and keyword.
When my knitting queen aunt
Feels that needlework pull,
She starts knitting some squares
Using leftover wool.
They’re rectangles, really,
With colorful stripes,
Their patterns and stitches
Of similar types.
Then when there are enough,
Using needle and thread,
She will sew them together
To cover a bed.
If no blanket’s requested
By someone she knows,
To a charity’s stockpile
That handiwork goes.
Though some unattached pieces
My aunt did produce
Found their way to my granddaughter
For a new use.
Now her dolls all have blankets,
Two interests in sync,
Crossing ages and miles
In such a sweet link.
I got a SoupMail; didn’t know
Who sent it, so I read it.
A person found a poem of mine
And had the thought to thread it.
By that, I mean embroidery –
She stitched it, oh, so neatly,
To make a lovely sampler which
Just floored me, quite completely.
Although she also sewed my name,
She needed my permission
For in a contest it would be
Her needlework submission.
To think, a rhyme composed by me
In New York months ago
Will be in a hand-sewn sampler
In a prized New Zealand show!
The world’s become a smaller place
As, miles and miles apart,
A stranger reached into my world
And lifted up my heart.
Far away when the sun goes down
The evening steals in quietly
Settles down waiting for the night
The birds fly to their nests
The animals seek shelter
Owls and bats come out for food
The cricket starts calling
The lamps is lit in all the homes
And seated in one of the old armchairs
Is my grandmother
Keeping her feet on the cushions below
After a long hard day
Settling in with the evening
Needlework in hand
She frowns a bit then smiles again
Thinking of the time gone by
Happy memories come flooding in
Of her youth and motherhood
Suddenly comes the much awaited
Sound of the car
Announcing the arrival of her grandchildren
They all come rushing in
Hugging her one by one
They sit around the armchair
Keeping their heads on her lap
Quietly listening to her soothing voice
Telling the stories of the time long gone
The evening goes out
And in comes the night
Time for them to go
She stands up leaning on a stick
And waves to them from the door
The night is quiet and dark
She comes in again and settles down
Happy and satisfied
To wait for the evening
To pass by her cottage again.
Cape Comorin (Kanyakumari) of Tamil Nadu,
Might be copious of the core concept called Xanadu;
Indian Ocean, Bay of Bengal, Arabian Sea,
Amalgamate and mingle here, like mermaids, full of glee...!
Treasures of silver, gold, and gemstones within oceans lay,
Sea gods and goddesses; ghosts and angels; live here, they say;
The sun, like a pendulum pushed from the sea, rises up,
Descends and disappears, like a kicked ball, before we sup...!
The southernmost part of the Indian nation is this,
Men and women of many religions live here in bliss;
Temples, mosques, churches, gurudwaras, and palaces antique,
Exhibit their inter-religiosity, unique...!
We don't have the Angel Fall, but a few falls we have here,
Young and old, at leisure times, play within them full of cheer;
Nature has made her paintings, lo, with green woods and forests,
Lullabies of little birds and beasts, never find a rest...!
Coconuts, Arrack nuts, spices, and tapiocas grow,
Bananas of varieties put up their fresh fruit show;
Goods trading we do; fish in terms of fresh tapioca,
We share, our simple love, in cups of coffee or cocoa...!
Jewelry, stone carvings, cane work, lace work, metal casting,
Needlework, sculptures, and sea shell crafts go everlasting;
Coral grass mats, palm leaf designs, cane, and bamboo caudex,
Jute-based handicrafts and we have so fine fiber products...!
A dialect of Tamil-mix Malayalam we chant,
Though our mother tongue is classical Tamil known so grand;
Kalial, Bow Song, Karagam Dance, and Kathakali,
We carry on our cultural heritage zealously...!
Rice, tapioca, coconut, seafood, legumes, lentils,
Mangos, bananas, and jacks are our food fundamentals;
Fishing flourishes; and farming into the inner land,
Toddy-tapping and rubber rearing too go hand in hand...!
Though our innate quality is love mixed with purity,
Modernity, no doubt, has brought in insecurity...!
Trust in the divine and love for nature, yet, make us grow,
Inspiring us beyond the oceans, and the skies to go...!!!
22 May 2023
If Your Birthplace-country was a poem Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anoucheka Gangabissoon
Rhymes Checked At: Rhyme Zone
To the one who sat here so very long ago
Rooted, I daresay, with so many things to sow
Your needlework is etched upon the faded fabric
Where the story you convey, is interwoven magic
Between the struts and arched divide
Your back you laid, with a family by your side
Each picture on this chair depicts a child you had
And a smiling husband that made you feel so glad
As years move on and life succumbs to change
No longer babes, they're all grown up and in the adult stage
When ceased your work and time you have
To craft upon the chair, those pictures sewn with love
Baby's boots upon the pins, a granny you'll be soon
A time to dress those tiny feet, count toes and really croon
But happiness and loss will at times go hand in hand
Those tears of joy are certain to make the grief disband
You sit and stitch upon this chair, your work so fair and neat
Now the story on this fabric is ended and complete
I wonder at this chair I bought, to see myself sit there
Content with thread and needle, affixed to this old chair
Children, pancakes, needlework
An initial draft, a first book
It’s no surprise they came out weird
No matter what pains you took
The first one is the practice one
You need it, to make a start
It’s okay, it won’t be perfect;
We weren’t expecting a work of art
It’ll be squiggly around the edges
Details not well defined
Awkward, clunky, unpolished
Scruffy and unrefined
If you haven’t got the knack yet
It’s understandable, you’re new
You’re learning how to unlock your skills;
What you should and shouldn’t do
You have to make the cringey first one
So your deftness can grow wild
The next attempt will be infinitely better
By B Philippe (a second child)
It was the late 18th century and Abegail was twenty-one years old,
She was about to be married soon to an older man of thirty-four;
Her family was considered middle-class yet they owned a lovely home,
A gothic residence and nestled within was an large dusty library.
Abegail had a deep love for books and she found a secret way,
A passage was hidden by bookshelves to a labyrinth of books;
Women were discouraged from reading, it would damage their mind,
She should concern herself with needlework, marriage and music.
The library was full of books of all descriptions, some just old,
Some were rare and some just interesting with fiction stories;
The books took her to far off places and to tales so romantically sad,
Abegail loved the aged and yellowed volumes with tattered pages.
Sometimes she would just walk around touching the volumes,
It was an impressive collection with books in wooden shelves;
A place of acquirable knowledge, of deep discussions with her mind,
She loved to snuggle up with some books and just fill her brain.
Oh the library was utterly gorgeous to Abegail with its collections,
And not just with books but musical manuscripts and photographs;
She found old diaries of her ancestors and was full of book enlightenment.
But, tomorrow was her wedding day and motherhood and wife her fate.
______________________________
August 1, 2015
Poetry/Narrative/Abegail In The Library
Copyright Protected, ID 15-696-539-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Inspired by the painting by Auguste Toumauche
Dans la Bibliotheque or In the Library
For the contest, In The Library, sponsor,
sponsor, Isaiah Zerbst
Second Place
Sewing machine, long idle, gathered dust
Polished now in the hallway, my fond antique
Recalling Grandaunt’s delicate craftwork--
Each pattern of fabric threaded with zest,
As her hands would bounce around pinpoint needles,
Weaving an array of doilies rugs garments
Intently absorbed in a foot pedal’s rhythm
That her hums trailed beyond Nam’s bombings :
The war years seemed like only yesterday,
Calming her through spindles of moon’s quick cycle .
Along each evening’s gloss, we rollicked laughed
Exchanging banters like friends… till she crossed over :
Tonight, I gently pat her own quilt laying on my bedside,
Lining our decades of sweet remembrances…
For a moment, my eyes gazed at stars’ fading wicker,
The candle sputtered, spent, and all was dark.
Viv Wigley’s Contest: One nine and sixteen
Written 5/1/2018
Poets Escape
by Odin Roark
How willing
This heart and mind
Absorbing pain's daily prose
Global flagellation becoming
Best sellers
Top Box-office
Google's lifeblood
Whether Syria's dismemberment
Washington's absurdity
Or Hollywood's Grand Guignol Follies
Exhausted passions and intelligence
Clutter synaptic duty
Excused as collateral damage
Everyday wars of fear
Slowly accelerate
This self-destructive countdown
Repeating Time's insidious cycle
Ashes to ashes
Dust to dust
While few escape
Some find refuge
In the manifestos of metaphor
Using echoes of cranial madness
Illusion's manic voice
Mumbling through the night
Arranging similes
This is like that
That is this
Until...
Dream's phosphoreal mirage
Becomes imagination's reality
Layered tapestry hanging firm
Mind's needlework in progress
Becoming woven experience
To shroud forever
Weakness's acquiescence
For what?
For whom?
Poets know not
They just are