Long Quilt Poems
Long Quilt Poems. Below are the most popular long Quilt by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Quilt poems by poem length and keyword.
its a kilt and not a quilt we are free dangling souls
not out of kilter for we value balance and freedom
there is no hidden agenda as we battle opposition
with harmony and steadfast equilibrium let loose
left right left right we march on belligerent fields
careful not to have the kilt pin pierce our pride
in case of too much passion we hide any sense
of arousal although war is an emotional business
dressed in sporran and fastening strapping we fight
for our women children and fierce independence
we tread through mountains valleys and thistles
prick resistance and domination right where it hurts
swords lances and crossbows spill justice’s seeds
maces and tribuchets defend rightful possessions
caltrop and quick lime disperse our enemy’s lines
cull sculls and bones of our foes and burn with desire
today it is the ballot box and rugby pitches on which
we stake our claim where we score tries and convert
stand up to history’s decline and conquer intolerance
and the Tartan Armies march on in elevated disguise
02nd March 2021
Forget riffs of regrets
But
To the hilt
We tilt to
Inbuilt lilt
A guilt quilt
Can jilt & wilt
But
No tiffs with what ifs
Won’t let you fret
Circumspect.. I find
Older you get
Bet..more honest…more kind
Care more..know more
Late bloomer rumour
Embraces candour...humour
Respect velvety vagaries
Traces of reflect
Suspect future’s the tutor
Detect serendipity the suitor
Evolution..glints of revolution
Pip that convoluted New Year’s tip
Genuinely don’t genuflect
No sorrow...deflect hints
Of mooted rebooted resolution
Suspect Tomorrow might
Be your best day yet!
EASTER BUNNY OF FLORIDA
God sends gifts to sensitive hearts.
My grandson left his pets behind
as we travelled from familiar parts
of Georgia to Florida. God is kind.
Muffin, given the first name of Stud
by my grand’s dad. A small bunny
in the tiny yard, was the color of mud.
God’s gifts, better than money.
The cottontail posed under the palm.
My grand wanted to take Muffin home.
The rabbit was his after Easter balm.
Then away he hopped as we drove home.
Grandson returns to his bunny, Buck,
and to his feral cat, Lily, who oft’ hides
under his parents quilt, surely awestruck
at the return of their family. Love abides.
Midwife eyes see so many lives
Slip through fingers despite try’s
To give good care and medication
Health care isn’t shared by the nation
Some who have means will live long
While the poor it seems are done wrong
Then there’s the class that full of bloomers
Doesn’t add up math for the baby boomer
Generation that built and retired at home
See penalties just because they own
And worked to make American dream strong
Don’t tax them at all leave them alone
But big business like hospitals
Will take their homes is so dismal
We must find a better way
To help our elderly with bills to pay
If health care isn’t a right
Like taxes take let’s give them rights
When you get past a certain age
No one should take your house away
We pay the athletes but we can’t feed
The poor or pay the teachers to teach
We build new townhomes on raggedy streets
If the city is strong we must meet all needs
Each time a new arena is built
I wonder if money was like a quilt
Would it warm and stitched with care
Or only if born in it will you share
My muse tonight is a midwife
She’s blue and sighs within her strife
She knows that she will never give up
Trying to solve the societal puzzle for us
could not sleep at night
thrilled to wake and play around
in and out of rooms
as though gems hidden and found
nights merriment resurrected
smiles laughs howls screams shouts and yells
star gaze in summer
recounting and accounting
quilt nights of winter
licking fresh dew drops of spring
butterfly watching catching
picnics to stations
filled with hills and mountain range
playing on meadows
plucking all barred flowers strange
when caught hid behind mother
gathering sea shells
banking them as though gold coins
counting them daily
adding them into bead-joins
wearing like a clown
playing police-thief
arresting little culprits
acting like jailing
taking them to hill summits
to shoot them there from
cries to go to school
coming back happy and thrilled
hating to read books
running out to play joy-filled
coming back ready to sleep
countless memories
how much I could go on with?
I should now cut short
I express only herewith
longing to re-live them all
18 August 2022
Childhood Nostalgia Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: JCB Brul
A week passed, yet no words drifted in my mind
I feared I'd become numb and poetically blind
so, I gave up, went to bed and turned off the light
but in the very next moment I screamed in fright!
"Procrastinator!" My Muse yelled, in a huff.
"You are made of much stronger stuff!"
I slid beneath the covers; she threw back the quilt.
"Oh no," she fumed, "you'll not fill me with guilt!"
I pleaded and cajoled, but she bought none of it.
She pulled out my desk chair and said, "NOW SIT!"
I obeyed and sat but nothing worthy came to mind.
I felt her staring at my back, 'twas of the evil kind.'
Desperately, I tried to conjure rhymes that would do.
She sighed then she asked, "What's wrong with you?"
I turned my head to look at her so we could confer,
but she shimmered away in a wavy transparent blur.
I called to her, and reached out trying to pull her near
My arms grasped only air, for she had disappeared.
"Come back, please. I'm sorry I've not been writing,
but thoughts you've offered lately are all about fighting."
She reappeared smiling, and before she took flight,
whispered in my ear, "Just pick up your pen and write."
This year-a loom of unspoken grace
Chaos and calm intertwined
Peaks stood like cathedrals in the distance
While valleys whispered prayers in the quiet wind
The fabric of my days unraveled
A quilt of lessons stitched in celestial hands
The pits taught me the language of resilience
Each tear feeding the rivers of my becoming
For even in the wreckage, I found seeds of my purpose scattered
It was there I saw his artistry
A design far beyond the blueprint of my desires.
Standing on the threshold of what is to come
The future singing a sacred melody
I am the clay, He is the artisan
Molding me into the likeness of His vision
So as the year unfolds like a scroll
Written with His promises, inscribed in gold
I walk boldly with open palms
More of who he has called me to be
In the chaos and calm, peaks and pits
Sweetly and gently woven into the masterpiece of His hands.
Life sat before me, a weathered cup of rain,
its crystal ribs catching the pale afternoon,
while shadows gathered like crows on a fence,
counting the losses before the harvest came.
I called the glass half empty,
a moon with a missing face,
a garden where autumn had stolen its roses,
a violin whose saddest strings remembered only winter.
Each disappointment became a pebble in my pocket,
dragging my footsteps through rivers of doubt.
The years were gray ships leaving the harbor,
their lanterns swallowed by fog before farewell.
Yet the old glass never argued.
It held what remained like a faithful well,
keeping fragments of dawn beneath its surface,
where forgotten stars floated like silver minnows.
I learned that life is not a banquet table,
but a patchwork quilt sewn with joy and sorrow,
a lighthouse standing against the salt-toothed sea,
its lamp refusing surrender to the night.
Even barren branches cradle spring in secret,
and snow-covered fields dream of wildflowers.
The heart itself is a cracked lantern,
its broken panes letting compassion escape.
Now when I raise that humble vessel,
I see neither emptiness nor abundance alone.
It is a mirror of mortal day,
half memory, half promise,
and every remaining drop
is a small sun,
still burning,
against the gathering dusk.
random thought
about bought
lesee i let a i o u
tune my poems
& it's so true
entomb my tomes
now for guilt
wrapping quilt
or satisfaction or both
placate faction doth
i don't write know more
blank white boar
less than not
in ending this
game of rot
composting fbook
if you care to look
just don't kiss
any dyslexic
mix or be sic
sans which rye
on rub in put in pi
know where going
less point more thumb
all ready now showing
orange ain't knew dumb
can't get past
third weak
sans rubbing cash
praytell pay less
peter's pall
merrikka stall
must get this sin
don't kill venezuelan
since rus needs busy be
now that you crane
has no see
but blown apart brain
an wouldn't want sia
defend with weapon i ran
brics expect expand
wooden wont bee ya
all drunk
aslib progressive punk
hanging hard
on mccarthy card
ptsd owns petard
On a silent and mellow snowy evening,
When stillness embraced the world,
The sky appeared ethereal and endearing,
When Winter’s last flakes of snow swirled.
The last piece of ember remained red,
Yet warm and cozy around the hearth,
Reminding me of the spring days ahead,
That brings fragrance and color to the earth.
Looking outside the fancy window-pane,
Where the ground faded under a snowy quilt,
There stood a fluffy single achene,
Surviving the Winter’s last snow without any wilt.
Swaying with the breeze and dancing a little,
The achene still held tight to the puff,
Singing a melody while unveiling its giggle,
Narrating its journey amidst the tough.
Waiting for frosty winter to fade away soon,
It longed for a warm and bright spring day,
With renewed enthusiasm coming in tune,
Hoping for a new journey of life on its way.
When the achene, blown by the breeze,
Envisions seeing the hills and greens,
Amidst the bright flowers and trees,
Etching an elegant image in its life’s dreams.
Yearning to be nestled in a lively milieu,
After its tenacious and delightful flight,
It dreams to bloom into a rosette anew,
Enriched by the soft and radiant light.
The rosette of leaves would spring up a bud,
That hides luminous yellow petals inside,
When the sun shines brighter upon the mud,
The blossom unfurls its petals with pride.
The vibrant yellow blossom sparking some delight,
Swinging along with the movement of the sun,
More cheerful and lively moments in the light,
Opening and closing, while enjoying the fun.
On a pleasant and sunny spring morning,
The blossom yearns to open again,
This time with a soft hairy bunch dawning,
Reborn as a fully fresh cluster of achene.
The new white dandelion ready to be blown,
Desires to find a new place once more,
For all the might and strength, it has shown,
To continue its journey to another shore.
Now the sky, more blue and clear,
Marking the end of frosty winter,
The achene cherishes its dreams all dear,
Waiting to be blown for a new adventure.