Long Patchwork Poems
Long Patchwork Poems. Below are the most popular long Patchwork by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Patchwork poems by poem length and keyword.
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
LITTERED LIFE
Does every life have a twist in the tail
One follows the trail wherever it leads
At higher speeds, life flashes by so fast
And at last, so little detail one can recall
The bitter gall mixed with pleasantness
But the rest has gone, into the void
Perhaps destroyed by the superficiality
Yet in actuality, it was the usual stuff
And good enough, but not for all time
A paradigm of sorts, a patchy history
A solved mystery, but there’s no prize
I’d surmise that most might not care
Never aware of what richness was lost
Nor count the cost of merely skimming
With the light dimming, it’s only the past
At last, a patchwork life one remembers
Like dying embers, preserving the glow
[- with 2-4-6-8-2 syllables in a stanza]
Calm sea
curves in white frill,
as gentle, lazy waves
dash against each other, playing
catch me.
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Scrawny
cats gather close.
A bevy of them meet
on the gravel sand discussing
conquests.
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I learned
to watch the sands
of shifting friendships sink
like tides that ebb and flow with wind
pushing
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Her voice
a cruel thrust
plunged deep into his mind.
cold shivers made a ladder of
his spine
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Light spills
breaking shadows
weaves a patchwork of hues
painter’s dreamscape etched into his
palette
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Mountains
with crests of snow
look somber and sleepy
as distant mists of dawn start to
creep slow
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Are we but dancers on an unlit stage
Disclosing secrets hidden in the angst of now
Revealing the ups and downs of then.
Singing in the choir of the off key
Whistling past punctuations grave yard.
Our words a chant to taunt the demons
Remind them that we are still here
That we have words and are not afraid to use them.
Do we not hide behind, and within
Each metaphoric medley of madness
Bare the essence of an eager soul
In the nakedness of our ramblings?
Children clamoring for attention
Making mud pies, walking through puddles,
Bravely turning off the night light
Yet still afraid of the dark.
But for myself, I warn you, I am here
Within the words I blend together
A guileless garment maker
Obsessed by the texture of the threads
Stitching errant words together
Into this patchwork that is me.
For I am here, peeking from within the fabric,
Modeling each moment on an unlit stage.
I woke up one June, and I was ill.
The treatment was long and hard until
I saw the sun through my window sill.
This morning, now, in May, I'm grateful for today.
A crash while I was cruising,
and I took a beating and a bruising.
It's in the past now, and I'm musing,
my pain has gone away, and I'm grateful for today.
Regrets sown into a patchwork quilt,
so many years to be plagued by guilt,
but I see water under the bridge, not silt.
I watch it float away. I'm grateful for today.
My happiness, a grey cloud grifted,
'til, finally, my mood has shifted.
I see bright colors, my depression lifted,
time to run and play. I'm grateful for today.
Now, I can make another start.
I'm free. It's OK that we're apart.
Time has healed it, my broken heart.
I can truly say, I'm grateful for today.
It took more than interdiction.
It took more than my conviction.
I hope I kicked it, my addiction.
Dear God, I pray. I'm grateful for today.
there was a day
when I did fly
over patchwork fields
in cloudless sky
and I did marvel
and wonder then
what I did seek
Within the sky
on open road
I did race
with roaring engine
to someplace
past farmers’ fields
over mountain’s high
stopping not
just traveling by
and now I sit
in dark of night
in the endless thoughts
and I wonder why
so many things
and places a far
endeavoring have I
yet but why
as I reflect
and within my thoughts
seek to un-pick
the tapestry
what did I seek
or simply flee
what was the meanings
was there a reason why
as dawn breaks
as through window I gaze
and people race by
into another day
what purpose have they
unto what do they go
do their lives have meaning
or just simply be
is just today
just another day
where I do wonder
and wonder why
where would I go
and what would I seek
will I find meaning
or simply be
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?
A scrapbook of soil
knits the land.
Earthworms patchwork
hidden birthing-chambers,
grit and gist abrades
into the leached sap
of leaf and grass.
Rain storms push up
an upholstery of luster,
mossy threads.
above tufted beds.
Frail daisy heads nod,
yet their roots grip and twist
as fibrous as hemp.
The turning lathe of a tireless wind
crumbles iron cities,
towers and arcades
stand emerald cast,
walls chained to creepers,
and a choking ivy.
Topsoil sinks to be
the undercroft of graveyards.
All is begun, all is lost
in the long gestations
of death and recovery.
Tempering's spun
beneath a settling moonlight.
Who is he? Sally whispered to her best friend Mack.
Which one? He asked, not knowing she meant his other pal Jack.
That creep? He said, shaking his head with fascination.
They would make quite the couple, a real celebration.
Then he admitted the truth, that his friend Jack was a find.
He took her over to introduce her, knowing he was out of his mind.
Good bye my sweet almost girlfriend, thought sensitive Mack.
As Sally reached for the arm of his crypt mate, Jack.
Jack was dapper, debonair, and a dazzlingly delectable guy.
Once the girls met him, Mack was always a big fat why?
Sally turned her eyes on Jack, and the beginning of the end was over.
Jack smiled that smooth skeletal smile he had, that shone past Dover.
It was the beautiful woman with the light blue skin.
Her touch was warm, and her patchwork dress was thin.
Jack knew he’d never get enough time with this darling gal.
What is your name? He asked, barely breathing, appreciative of Mack, his pal.
It is Sally, she said, with long lashes that made her eyes seem more green.
The most breathtaking creature outside a crypt that Jack had ever seen.
They were inseparable from that moment, until the day they faded away,
Living in a cemetery, beneath oak where Luna watched them every single day.
A river threads a patchwork of activity,
Uniting man to nature, his desire,
To commune, make his mark, despite the brevity,
Of each man’s passage from flame to ebbing fire.
Clouds, with silent dabs, caress the land,
Forge maps for mind and eye,
Suddenly, a ray illuminates a narrow band,
A field where puffy dots graze or lie,
A stone among them, its meaning lost in time,
Once told that men fought there;
Their dying cries, now absent, echo in the whine
Of wind among the trees, lays bare
To me, the mental spaces which I breathe,
The intricate patterns which, with words, I weave.