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.
Angelica dedicated her life to sewing,
and with needle, tread and amazing speed
she created stylish, beautiful dresses for any doll..
a spindle was used for spinning cotton,
and an hour glass to tell time;
why did she work so hard at seventy three...
when other women of her age took strolls and chatted?
Angelica was a widow and lived
three doors down and often she told me
about her husband John who fought
in the Vietnam War and was awarded many medals;
her son Tod was drafted and was sent to Iraq...
she was too lonely and I was her other friend...
besides her spindle, doll and hour glass.
Angelica thought much of death,
and staring at me she tenderly whispered,
" Son, these three items I entrust to you,
when I can no longer use them...take good care of them. "
I nodded as she kept on sewing another dress
for a pretty doll...steadily watching the spindle spin
until the hour glass ran out of sand.
It still hangs there,
there on the back of my door.
“Wa d’y lev ut thur?” I can hear you say
in that Chatterley-esque accent of yours,
rippling through me.
“It’s so I can smell you”
I’d reply if I could:
a waft and scent of your neck,
hair… whenever I’d leave the
room. When I’d enter it.
If I just pass by.
I’d tell you that, at night, my arms
loosen their flesh and peel on the cotton,
a needle sews blood afresh into my seams.
At night, the zipper puts my chest back
together and holds my knocking heart in
place…. my ribcage ivory buttons, poached.
My beard grows longer to the left, matching the
lopsided drawstring I pulled in a prank. At night,
the frayed knitting weaves its way into my arm hair.
The smattering of chest hair that made you laugh is now
indistinguishable from where a sewing machine once clamped
shut. At night my fingers become the tips of each sleeve – just out
of reach of your hand
but forever trying.
“It still hangs there” I’d tell you, if I could,
“there on the back of our door.”
It hangs there, it hangs there
still
At the end of the night,
you walked her up to the door in the light.
What you expected next would be a delight.
You did not get that goodnight kiss.
Your girl discovered there was something amiss.
While you waited for a hug and a squeeze,
she told you she could not find her keys.
Standing there alone was certainly a drag
as she searched frantically through her bag.
She pulled out:
Lipstick
Eyebrow pencil.
Nail clippers
Chewing gum.
Peppermint candy.
Emory boards
Hand lotion
Nail polish
Mouthwash
Aspirin
Cotton balls
Paper clips
Pens
Pencils
Notepads
Earrings
Pennies
Nickels
Dimes
Razor blades
Shoelaces
Mirrors
Sewing needles
Spools of thread
Combs
Brushes
Cell phones
But she could not find her keys!
This evening turned out to be a fright.
There was nothing to do except say good night!
Based on the hit song of yesteryear "She Can't Find Her Keys" by Paul Petersen
When is it time to finally grow up
Does it occur like a stranger that suddenly shows up
With the hands of a bomb that explodes and blows up
As the smoke burns the atmosphere as the heat goes up
When is it that you begin to see clearer
When you cast aside all doubts that makes you inferior
Grabbing hold of the present so the future comes nearer
As you begin to see more than just a reflection in the mirror
When do you begin to hear past sound
When the steps you take stride further than ground
Your actions emulate the knowledge you have found
Treating yourself equal to others around
When you grow up is it never too tough
Or is there a time to know what's enough
As if your emotions were calling your bluff
To remind you that reality is neither smooth nor rough
What does it mean to become an adult
The significance of adolescent hormonal assault
As bustling playtime screeches to a halt
While the wrong in your world becomes your fault
Yet the change is subtle you feel each day
Until the amusement has faded from the games you play
As your gestures of courtship you put on display
As affection is given with the attention you pay
As you learn more you feel closer to life's solution
Until growing starts to go up causing imbalance and confusion
You blame yourself for embracing your dreams living an illusion
And convince yourself that hope is mental pollution
But where the body stops the mind keeps growing
Until the knowledge of life starts overflowing
The illusion of hope is the only thing showing
As the fabric of our own reality we continue sewing
What does your fairy dragon do? I asked my grandma Murr.
“I cannot share this until after I am gone, Little Dizzy.
This made no sense to me, but it surely did to her.
She wanted to teach quilting to me, but I was busy.
After her death the only one who could see the fairy dragon was me.
He came into Gram’s sewing room, holding fat quarters of cloth.
I have chosen the swatches that she wanted you to see,
He was a great teacher. He has been diligent, certainly no sloth.
He taught me to quilt and gave me enthusiastic praise daily
Grandma always wanted to teach you to quilt, he said.
I was astounded and delighted by this helper, Mr. Dragg-gayly.
Who helped me create quilts until I was also the one to be dead.
Loving is to through a pebble into the sea
and the ripple become a wave
to plant a seed
and it become a tree
to cook a meal
and it become a feast
to build a house
and it become a home
to shine a light
and it become a beacon
to speak a name
and it impart trust
to see what lies benieth
what is seen on the surface
to hear the secrets
of the heart being told
to touch and give
comfort to a human being
to feel empathy instead
of sympathy in time of need
to let love be measured
by decades and deeds
where words are the least
of expressions of these
but summerize the tears, fears
and tongue of our God
a relationship with both
mate and Diety we laud
with works and prayers
love is more than words
it is the path we trod
love is a blanket
covered to keep warm
love is a needle
sewing socks while a fire burns
love is waking
before the break of dawn
love is baking and taking out
before it burns
love is a love note
found
during the day
love is thought
finding words to say
love is sometimes saying
"You can have it your way"
and love is duality in saying
"Lord give US this day"
where hell and high water
have no say
a sacred trust
in giving time away
love is forgiving all that
is abroad
love is not giving
that which belongs
to God
the only place to find this love
it is the place we call heaven
up high above
A Stitch in Time
My jeans are beautiful; patterned with grace.
They are signed by the stars, in every place.
The drawings embroidered for one and all to see,
Are entered in a craft contest, but is there only me?
Each stitch is placed-exactly so,
The colours fantastic, some seem to glow.
The contest was for originality,
With craft-work so beautiful I prayed it was me.
Twenty years they had taken from being a girl,
I embroidered every French knot split-stitch and curl.
With plain stitches and chain stitches, each exactly the right size,
I entered them hoping I would win the big prize.
I picked up the phone it was the judging day
“Hello you have won” is what they did say.
Your jeans are fantastic we want to keep and display
The work you have put in for this contest today.
My jeans took pride of place on the wall in the room.
My heat beat so loudly; I thought I would swoon.
My twenty years of sewing to keep myself sane,
Through surgery and physio, to help with the pain.
They had won me an accolade I’ll never forget,
My jeans hung and photographed, and it was just for a bet.
Sewing machine, long idle, gathered dust
Old, as mama told, worn, left here to rust
I slowly examined the antique piece
Candle flame flickered, anxiety increased
Nothing odd on top or with pedal gears
Was mama bat crazy all these years?
Story after story and death bed request
I wanted to put an end to this mess
The war years seemed like yesterday
To granddad who hid most things away
Mama willed house, sew table to me
Fingers fumbled. "What could this be?"
At last, with a smile, I held up a key
Now a deposit box deepened mystery
Key in purse, blew candle out, happy as lark
The candle sputtered, spent, and all was dark
April 16, 2018
One Nine Sixteen Contest* By Viv Wigley
Sixth Place
*Lines one, nine and sixteen are -
1 - ' Sewing machine, long idle, gathered dust'
9 - 'The war years seemed like only yesterday'
16 - 'The candle sputtered, spent, and all was dark’
I never knew what to fill the spaces with
Sometimes I didn't even see them
They were disguised under many coats
With hidden pockets of shallowness
And oversized buttons to mismatched holes.
It didn't matter most of the time
Because the tailor never stopped sewing more
And I was content to let them lie
Beneath the growing pile of tweed
And gaberdine and wrinkled linen
Kind fabrics who wrapped them up
And kept them warm and unprepared
But as time went on and more people
Left the party, the pile of coats
Gradually disappeared and the tailor
couldn't keep up the pace of making
The spaces could be easily filled at first
With dreams, with passion, with sorrow,
With the wrap of a Cherub's leg in bed,
With the carefree knowing there'd be time
To butter them with tears or laughter
Or use their emptiness for meditation
But in the spaces that are left
A greater contemplation is required
It is necessary for them to be filled
With greater aspiration which in itself
Brings further sorrow for deep within them
Is the simple indication
That I will not have enough time
To fill them all.
© Allen Ansell 2025
Sixty two fat cats hold tight on their riches .
The poorest of people have to make do with scraps from the table .
Yet in a slum of a work place, The seamstresses eyes strain
Sewing in labels of companies to famous to name as it would cause them so much shame.
If only the bosses would stop dodging taxes
And pay decent wages to the lads and the lasses.
Schools can't teach children who are working in kitchens
If only our Governments would show some conviction
To banish the world of injustice and victimisation.!
You need to know why the 62 richest people in the world hold the same wealth as the rest of us .