Long Rug Poems
Long Rug Poems. Below are the most popular long Rug by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rug poems by poem length and keyword.
(Turkish DOBAG rug)
Degrees of Soul
Awhile ago I got a Turkish rug that opened my eyes
To what real joy looks like
Transferred to one’s work.
In this rug I could see the soul of a weaver
Proud to be part of a tradition
She added to with each delicate knot.
And with my eyes so opened
I could clearly see by extension
The degree of soul of each work of art in my home.
And the range was startling
From nonexistent to brilliant glimpses
Into the creative Mind of the universe.
After a few days my vision grew foggy again
And the soul of all these pieces
Became once more hidden beneath the surface.
The window onto the essence of the Mind
Had closed taking with it the lucid vision
And sense of connection.
I was left apart but never separate
From the knowledge that soul truly exists
It’s mark on everything we do.
The degrees of soul are everywhere like this
Subtle and informing
Flavoring what it is we call quality of Life.
And so we live and breathe
Taking and giving an essence beyond words
Even when unconscious clearly manifest.
(11/14/24)
(My Persian rug, 2024)
A Painful Journey
I live a quiet and isolated life
But it’s been one of great adventure
That leaves me now a bit worn out
Although satisfied and fulfilled
Is probably how I should describe it,
For I’m happy with its twists and turns
Even though I know deep down
Before I can even remember
There is a loss that has flavored everything since
Leaving it’s triggers below the surface
Like an old thorn or splinter
Now part of me, unable to extract.
Today I received an old Persian rug
Remarkable in so many ways
From design and execution
To quality of wool and dyes
And it’s even more subtle and poignant story.
Taken from Vienna during the 30’s
As a valued possession small enough
To make the passage to America,
At a time when so much was left behind
And at least something needed to remain
To connect an uncertain future
With a past that could never be again,
It spoke to me
Through my eyes and fingers
Unconsciously taking in the markers of value
Of all those delicate knots, tied so long before
So far away
Each holding their own story
A million fibers
Absorbing all the years between
To make it to my doorstep
A long adventurous and painful journey
Like a handful of gems
Sewn into the hem of an old man’s coat
Across the seas, out of one context
Into another and then another
Sustaining something unmentionable
Yet not forgotten.
To land at last in my hands
And touch me like a shadow
Of a journey I have also known
Touched and changed
Broken and made whole again
Over and over
Life after life
Name after name
A story, the same old story,
We all know
In the secret private space of our hearts.
The beauty of Life
Is how it connects
And how even when we feel it isn’t
It can never ever disconnect.
Rugs in all their useful beauty
Show us this
Inviting us to lay and feel
Something that needs no words
To complete.
(11/21/24)
Where the sea merges with the deep blue sky
Trivial, ordinary moments touch an angelic glory
To enter the recognition of eternity.
I wanted to gift you an armor , there
Never thought of a need for “Kafan.”
I saw you crying,
An awkward moment,
Though eyes do shed tears in pairs,
And life goes on with pain and loss.
Nevertheless,
I wanted to keep my presence hidden.
Because,
Tears of joy
And
Tears of pain
Are never the same,
Although, the same eyelashes
get wet with both.
I would rather wait for a long...long time
To see you
Smiling.
I am writing a letter to you
With a softer light , still, in the eastern sky.
I do not want to see you again.
You do not need to feel that
I am scared too.
Old Rumple Stein sat in the
rocking chair, his eyes
gleaming like hot coals. The
children huddled beneath
their blankets as his raspy
voice filled the dark bedroom.
"Listen close, little ones,"
Rumple Stein whispered,
leaning forward with a
crooked smile. "Do you hear
that strange, hollow scraping
sound downstairs?
It is the Rug-Crawler, a flat,
bony thing with long, spindly
fingers.
It slides silently across the
floor, looking for children who
refuse to eat their vegetables.
Its skin is cold like winter
mud, and it breathes with a
sickening, wet wheeze.
Right now, it is creeping up
the creaking wooden stairs,
inch by terrible inch.
It stretches its rubbery neck,
sniffing the air for the scent of
wide- awake children who
hadn't ate their veggies for
dinner.
If it finds you staring into the
dark, it will slide under your
bed.
Then, a chilly, numbing wind
will blow through the cracks
in your floorboards.
You will feel a sudden, icy tug
at the edge of your heavy
blankets.
Its yellow teeth will flash in
the moonlight as it opens its
wide, mouth of vegetables.
It does not want your toys,
and it does not want your
tasty snacks.
The Rug- Crawler only wants
to steal the bright, warm
sunlight right out of you
for refusing to eat your
vegetables.
Once it takes your cheer, you
will stay trapped in a slimy
cloy gloomy vegetable stick
for all twilight forever.
Your eyes will turn to green
stone, and you will never see
the morning sun again.
So pull the covers tightly over
your chin and block out the
terrible noise.
Do not look at the door, and
do not dare to peek through
your fingers.
Close your eyes tightly this
very second, or the Rug-Crawler
will know you hadn't eat your
vegetables for dinner."
On the Rug with Death,
two beers in hand
(though no one here drinks)
we laugh, his lifespan
a joke still fizzed. My breath
ignites wars, lulls drivers
to sleep and builds bridges
for his guests. What idle past-
-times you worship, he pitches,
eye wand’ring to traverse
the awkward silence as I
know what comes next. My
gauge on Man’s power dwindles.
Perhaps, he drawls, you might taste
something ever so slightly
more enlight’ning. His heavy
accent traces over the words, like
sugar on a sticky thumb post-binge.
Tongue in cheek, his fingers surpass
my laugh in wishing to be broken.
Mama pulled out the old pine loom she said her grandfather crafted, next she opened the lid to the hinge-creaking time-worn garment trunk filled with vintage gingham dresses of cotton & wool clinging to colorful memories that shaped us today. "Grandma worked hard as a young mother in these dresses she made" Mama said, "now we're going to make kitchen rugs on the same pine-loom my grandfather built to honor their memory " pieces of each dress will stich the passage of time, but we'll hang them on the wall for future generations to admire and remind. Some pieces bore stains from a life well-lived, vegetable dyes, colorful store-bought yarns of wool and cotton all created with toil of her nimble fingers, "if they could talk, the stories they'd tell!" mama said. Generations have passed indeed, a few rugs remain, some were given as gifts to family members through the years , I'm a grandma now, with memories to share.
September
2025
Too large to avoid everyone knows it's here
not wishing to collide they won't stand too near
nor broach the subject they keep it under wraps
Mum's the word keep it under your hat
they all walk 'round it talk around it
they're not blind so what gives
it's unkind to animals and who wants to live
with an elephant in the room
too large to evade it's something they ignore
not wanting to impede but can't close the door
a line they won't cross they'll avoid it at all costs
just sit there and stare
even sweep it under the rug with a broom
but with lumps and bumps that big
how long can they keep on pretending it's not there
the elephant in the room
Sometimes we take a turn with others in the dance club.
It’s fun and friendly but when it’s over - you know it.
He stepped on my foot
and I winced in pain
he’d stepped on my foot
and then he did it again
That's the danger in dancing
a slow dance - being too snug
his hands on your back
and you're pinned like a bug
I should wear combat boots
when cutting a rug
with guys I'm not sure of
I’d finally had enough
The last guy ended our dance
by adding a hug - I don’t know,
a bit extra, but I went with the flow
Why am I sweating in strange men’s arms?
Then again, what exactly is the harm?
The social oddity of public touching,
of course, is that if we weren’t dancing,
would I even stand close to them?
p.s.
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.
.
A song for this:
I'll Call You Mine by girl in red
August by No Vacation
Taking on an odd challenge - committed
Ideal forms, fired in keenest kiln
Trespass pages torn out, inmate omitted
Anguish arms, firm steely shield
Tigers eye eclipse rolls out a rosy moon
Rising icy on closed encyclopaedia
Thick black book unlocks fabled fortune
Weighty trust instilled immediately
Figure of founding, supportive substance
Dad proud serves duty’s obligation
Blind mice sheltered held to his sentence
Prickly wife handed down probation
Gifted a ginger ring fingers, grand future
Lady Luck spun an oily halo roulette
Leather bound night bite slim smile Luna
New moon on red her high fate met
17th December
Sentence ended
Frenzied anguish precipitated Matt chew
Scott Harris, with
unrelenting, unescapable,
and unbearable despair, grew
wing by leaps and bounds,
which fraught gloom didst hew
mindset equalled nought
(Gordian knot) i.e.
zero ambition tubby
alive, and concomitantly
brought if only you knew,
wrought unbearable toxic brew
to pinpoint the exact clue
how being penniless I do
attest, this compounded zilch money
agonized by quite
a stack - more'n a few
monthly bills past due,
thus aye rue
min hated, the least loo
pee, and most painless
final solution of this Jew
wish atheist, (these
utterances absolutely true),
no "FAKE king," trump
petting, yawping foam
minted psychosomatic ague,
whereat mine mental state hue
mon gust lee off kilter,
with hum moo
zing thoughts of
palm lee strangling myself,
(or hiring sum
handsome fist responder to slew),
me the way - no
cho king) till I go
totally tubularly blue
in the face, em
barking on undo
wobble decision, said permanent
exodus from life,
this scribe dost view
as last saving grace,
this self woo
man eye zing,
(nada so amazing),
ye might poo poo
such drastic desperation,
non heroic measures stew
pa head and er ration
hubble grim foray
exacerbated predisposition
to panic/ anxiety attacks,
the alluring temptation
hi with Andy Lee drew
to bid bid adieu
to hard scrabble existence,
and in summer re: goo
winter becoming cremated powder,
(with urn nest to dog -
un woof hoot
table Sirius ness), wharf few
if any tsuris -
(Yiddish for aggravation),
NO ash lee zero distress,
would upend resting
in a bajillion pieces.