Long Sewing Poems
Long Sewing Poems. Below are the most popular long Sewing by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sewing poems by poem length and keyword.
By Robert J (Bob) Moore © 2016
Making quilts is difficult, you might think you’re clever too
but there’s all the thought and preparation, that you have to do,
choose the colours and choose the thread, will that one go with this
patterns which you think they’d like, and scenes all filled with bliss
Then add them all, and study it, till you think it looks just right
you cut and stitch and ponder, well into the night
paper pieces, bits of cloth, and sewing things together
flowers here, and there a bird, and stitch, light as a feather
As well as Quilt’s, there’s Cushions, and runners for the table too
wall hangings, cross stitch samplers, to mention just a few
to cut and stitch and applique, the pattern she will choose
to make exactly what she sees, her talent she will use
But more than colour, more than thread, there’s part of you in there
with every stitch and every thought, filled with love and care
for quilts are made for family, and friends that you hold dear
so they can keep, and cherish them, year after year after year
Hey you!
Yeah, you.
Know what I plan to do?
I’ll spread Vaseline all over your windshield
And Krazy Glue your wipers in place.
I’ll insert sewing needles, point up,
Into your driver’s seat cushion.
I’ll put dog poop in your air vents
And a dead fish in the bottom of your glove box.
I'll write your cell phone number and email address
On restroom walls at truck stops and sleazy taverns.
I’ll scatter thumbtacks on the shag carpet
On your side of the bed and spit curses into your pillow case.
I’ll fill your shoes with menthol shaving gel.
I’ll smear anchovy paste on the crotch of all of your panties
and put them neatly back in your drawer.
I’ll mix pubic hairs in with your tuna salad,
Dissolve laxatives and sleeping pills in your split pea soup,
Replace your mouthwash with Windex,
Scratch my anus with your toothbrush,
Piss in your bottle of scotch and then...
And then I’ll start to get nasty.
Trust me.
I’m just getting warmed up.
Have another scotch.
A castle full of mouths that talk about you
They tell me your vices that aren't true
But all my ears listen are the words my heart speak of you
So I dedicate this piece of cloth to crochet something I always knew
As the ball of the yarn unravels
Our moments flow like a film
So I pass a warp through a pearl
A pearl I sew in your name
For every tear that rolled down my face
You became the tearsmith of this game
The warp looks for a Ruby
A Ruby I sew in your name
For every Rage that hammered the nails on my fence
Yet I built a home for us in my defence
As a Warp of tricot is sewn
The green Emerald shines
For every bright smile that u brought me by
You became the star in my sky
Emerged from the garden, a beautiful Lily
Just the way the loom yearns for this beauty
My amethyst appears subtly
How you bring the tint of blush on my cheek, gently
A kiss on the kneedle as I pass it through
The moonstone who is as passionate as you
For every touch you carved on my skin
For the first ever glance that let our story begin
Staying true to all my desires
I knit in this rare sapphire
With all these dreams you bring me of our empire
You unleash this heart to be set on fire
The strong clear diamond stands alone
As I weave in this last gemstone
It reflects our bond bright
Together we become infinite
Stone by stone, stitch by stitch
The gemstones all align
Now my life hangs by a thread
The mouths in the castle are silenced
And they slowly transform into eyes
Eyes that witness my emotions
Emotions weaved into Stories
Call me Penelope
As I weave an irreversible Tale
A Tale of You and Me
All seems peaceful on a normal day, cheerfulness is no disarray;
friendly neighbors greet us with a warm good morning,
we wave and smile back, wishing them well and speed away:
slow was the life of yesterday, many happy tunes to sing!
The only person in the house is Emma sewing a dress for Jenny,
she had promised it for her birthday, two locked lips on her part....
secrets are kept to oneself, it's surprises that excite and delight;
a Colbert dress that matches her eyes can make her look pretty!
Why is the house quite, the hushing wind brushes her silver hair;
granny is crocheting a blanket for her couch, the other her chair,
" Everything gets old including me, " It's her resounding lament,
" Winter comes for all, it's a sad season so ghostly and so silent! "
A long-standing landmark that I often visited as a tyke,
Was Bert's Country Store just a ways up Dalton Pike.
Dalton could be missed if your eyes you'd briefly close.
The population at that crossroads "town" was thirty or so, I suppose.
The inviting porch had some benches where loafers hung around.
To enter the store you stepped over Bert's snoozing hound.
Winter days you'd find the rabble huddled 'round the stove,
Where discussions of crops, good whiskey and women throve!
An old cowbell jingled upon opening the sagging screen door.
Once inside you trod upon a squeaky, bare, wooden floor.
'Twas a wonder that Bert could find anything 'midst all the clutter,
But in a trice he'd find anything for which you would utter!
Bert had no tolerance for frills or the latest fancy decor.
You'd risk tripping over barrels and rope coiled upon the floor.
The sagging shelves were stocked with canned goods and lanterns,
Wheels of cheese, muskrat traps and the latest sewing patterns.
He sometimes sold hot dogs and sodas under the counter,
As long as the county health officials he didn't encounter!
The Hoosier "town" of Dalton ain't listed on the maps as heretofore,
And, alas, Bert nor his old country store exist there anymore.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
One little sidestep off the beaten track,
Is a colorful garden of dazzling shades,
With blood red geraniums of scintillating hue
Interspersed by those of white and baby pink,
Where beauty sings mysteriously,
Reigning in every theme, a place of bliss
Where silence speaks for itself,
Where bees are the only intruders, I suppose.
A place to feast the eyes and relax,
Reminding one of the Garden of Eden!
At its center is someone, in blossoming beauty.
Not sure if she is sitting on the edge of a boulder,
Or simply crouching on the carpet of grass,
Or is it a statue set up amid the array of flowers?
An angelic form so intent on what she does,
Lost to the world, her face bent,
But eyes moving up and down,
In tandem with the sewing needle in hand.
Is she stitching a frock for her little girl,
Sitting close to her mother’s feet?
A starlet fallen from the night sky,
Or a cherubim dropped down from heaven’s height,
In flowing azure blue frock with golden hair.
She too, like her mother, is so absorbed,
Pouring her soul in to the open book in her lap.
May be a ploy employed by the mother,
Not to disturb her in her work.
Oh, vagrant winds, come not close,
To disturb the tranquility of the two
Wholly sinking into what they are doing.
Kindly veer in another direction
And don’t interrupt their solitude!
April.22. 2023
A Brian Strand Premiere . No1210 Poetry Contest
This is based on Claude Monet's famous painting- Madame- Monet-and-child, where he has pictured his wife Camille and child in his garden.
I called her my baby doll, because I knew she would like it.
She smiled at me, but did not say a word.
Giving me no nickname, which made me sad.
You are my darling, I told her. I love everything about you.
Even my tattered and torn nightie? She asked me.
Hinting that she wanted another one.
Her head was so big, the dress had to be custom made.
My mother was sewing it with Velcro snaps
Because how else could we get it over her enormous head?
I kept this a secret, because her birthday was a week away.
We went to the river and she said “Drown me please”.
I thought this was weird, but I did what she wanted.
She came up all full of water but she did not die.
Baby dolls do not die, I told her. They have birthday parties.
We were together almost forever until a dog ate her head.
She called me up quite distressed, asked if I could please help
her grand daughter was afraid to sleep in her room because of a ghost
I told her I did mostly readings, that clearings were not my thing
but she insisted I was the one to remove it, so I packed a bag and went...
The night before I was to go there, I dreamed of a sewing room
as I arrived at the house I was ushered upstairs, indeed I was right
I felt the spirit of a young boy and I heard sniffling sounds from Audela
Telling him gently, this is not your home anymore, I waited for his reply
That is when the banging and the knocking started. The wood door
shook from the pummeling and we took a few steps back. I used my
manifesting crystal to pierce the fear he was experiencing.
He had never been asked to leave before and the idea of being set free
scared him. I realized that his mom used to lock him up in that room
every time he was bad. So he kept going back to his bedroom but it was
no longer his. I explained that this was no longer his room and he needed
to leave the sewing room and house. When he finally did leave a strong
wind blew in and ruffled our hair. I gasped when he went right through me,
Then all was quite once again. The house was cleared and the child slept
safely in her bed again.
The sewing machine, long idle, gathered dust
Held my attention to make it work against rust
Reminding me “I am whom your mother did trust…
To clothe you well from harm of sun, wind and gust.”
Oh, I’m sorry to forget Mom’s tool so great
In crafting masterpiece of excellent rate
That showed her love, care and nurture – never late
While testifying about God midst bad fate.
“The war years seemed like only yesterday…
Great is the Lord* for prevailing in His way
He’s in control and in Him, there’s no delay
Let’s believe Him always.” Good words she would say.
From that wondrous memory emerged hope’s mark
To wake up with faith’s light and courage-spark
So I lay joyous in the Lord’s peace-bulwark
While candle sputtered, spent, and all was dark.
*Psalm 145:3 Great is the LORD, and greatly to be praised; and his greatness is unsearchable.
April 14, 2018
6th place, "One Nine and Sixteen" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Viv Wigley; judged on 5/2/2018.
Featured among Poems of the Week from March 19-25, 2023.
I arrived as a blank canvas, pristine, unblemished white,
Before I drank the bitter ink of judgment, drowning out the light.
The moment I whispered, "This is holy; that is profane,"
I snapped the spine of my psyche, carving geographical pain.
The ego became a meticulous tailor, measuring every stitch,
Sewing myself into a straitjacket, frantic to hide the twitch.
I tailored my identity, a gilded sarcophagus of grace,
A porcelain mask glued to the bone to cover my unaccepted face.
I starved dark impulses, chaining them in the cellar of my mind,
But a beast left in the dark is only learning to hunt the blind.
For every virtue I gild with a blinding, public sheen,
A rot spreads in the cellar, a black-veined weed grown from the unseen.
My shadow is the hungry ghost, the discarded, serrated shard,
The raw, bleeding truth that my own cultivated gardens have barred.
I faced the monster—not in the thicket, but inside the glass,
Where my hidden self waited for the facade to pass.
It was not a beast with fangs, but a mirror reflecting a fracture,
The cold, clinical anatomy of my own internal architecture.
It wore my logic like a shroud; it spoke with my own tongue—
A wet, guttural rasp of dissonant anthems left unsung.
It tore through my identity, a fragile, woven lace,
To drag the hidden, wretched engine of my spirit into vacated space.
I did not kill the monster; I reached into the hollowed, heaving chest,
And felt the searing, molten coal of sins I had once suppressed.
The skin parted like wet clay under my desperate, shaking grip,
As the iron taste of ancient shame began to salt my lip.
To be whole is to be a ruin; to be light is to be the stain,
To harvest the entire field of the pleasure as well as the grain.
The battle was a violent alchemy—a desperate, inward weld
Of all the terrified, banished debris that my psyche had withheld.
The monster does not flee the illumination of my mind;
It hungers to be reclaimed, the disjointed truth I left behind.