Long Sewn Poems
Long Sewn Poems. Below are the most popular long Sewn by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sewn poems by poem length and keyword.
Beloved, a clot of old youth, through her living death and breathing,
eternal repeater, she looked at the center of the edge of fate, her life
revived... the school of death, of destiny, professors with futures,
subjects of ignoring, postlude, her pleasures serious and joking,
disobedient then, from him and her, dressed, men of stones, sedentary,
joys and divorces, abstract stains, carefully sewn, all
cheered up, night upon lighting, if you don't want, you don't feel and curse,
be silent, to enter your mind, for it's December, it's... autumn
of Monday, cry of a peasant woman, young, who ignores her
angel, her soul present and real, of a man, a drought,
beautiful lack of influence, a healthy disease of wisdom.
Filled with my young, useless, clumsy thoughts, I am
the passer-by, the darkness, the rejected joy, easily lost,
attracted by a virtue, found even by my first smile...
In me grows an oldness so young it births old children,
I am a presence so absent I fill my voids with fullness.
You, my ugly beloved,
you are my sweetest torture without pain,
my coldest love, hot as the ice that burns,
the metal flower that blooms through withering,
your present absence makes me exist through disappearance,
you are the nothing from everything that becomes everything from nothing without something,
a birth so dead it kills lives born in you,
the bitter sweet honey that poisons me through healing...
you are my harshest caress with gentleness and cruelty,
my first last separation from the meeting that separates us,
my warmest love, cold as the fire frozen in flames...
I am the most from the little I have ever been in absence,
your dark light illuminates me with its white and deep darkness.
I look in the mirror
There I see the prettiest girl in the world
For all her curves and edges
She sure is a sight for sore eyes
She knows her beauty is a weapon
The sharpest she could ever wield
Certainly mightier than the pen
Sharpened only by her brains
She is a force
Defeat a distant acquaintance
Nothing that stands in her way
Ever lives to see another day
Brick by brick
This girl built herself up
With help from passers-by
Who didn't know it was an empire they helped build
The girl in the mirror
Is content
In a shoebox in the street
Or in her mansion up on Wilbery Street
Cause she got that inner peace
Rosè on the roof
Designer handbags year-round
The newest wheels in her driveway
Is the only way she rolls
Prayer sewn to her side
Jesus tattooed on her heart
The Holy Spirit her only confidant
Her faith her foundation
The girl in the mirror
Thinks of her faults
Like brush strokes of an artist
Perfect in their imperfection
She is a masterpiece
No need of change
Rich in health and in wealth
Gorgeous on the inside and the outside
The girl in the mirror
Is the best part of me
I feel lucky to know her
Maybe one day I'll get to be her
Form:
* One of the first poems I ever wrote, a Couplet in lilting Iambic Tetrameter, (I posted a previous version a short time ago), and I t is the favorite poem of a dear friend of mine in Florida. She’s putting some of the lines on her memorial someday, slightly altered to be first-person - I am truly honored, but I’ve “tweaked” it now four times, and this time most of all. “Her” lines are still intact, and I pray she still finds the poem … her favorite. ?? *
~
one night I stood and breathless, swooned
‘neath hems soft-sewn of twilight's wound
to dream and brood through what might be
should man dare skirr that sun-cloaked sea
and cast sweet hopes 'midst midnight’s sky
strung pearls on heav’n's bright bosom, ply
plunge, brave, that ocean's depths, serene
through star-vaults whirled and serpentine
heave-to, the boundless breadths of night
then plumb the maelstroms bathed in light
bring morning’s cheeks to warm and blush
then soothe the gloaming’s breath to hush
with angels, ‘pon those sands, we’ll dance
our prints placed deep, that great expanse
thus claimed, the shores, that sapphire fold
‘til hearts and stars, themselves ... are cold.
Copyright © 2017 / 2026 Gregory Richard Barden
~ POETRY AGAINST POVERTY ~
( photographic art created copyright-free by the author with Gemini AI / Meta AI software )
Psychologically speaking, women are snakes and men are mice,
In the ancient theater of the world, where masks fall and rise in dance,
She, the slithery queen of untold stories, an endless paradox,
With a glance that untethers ships from their moors, in a sea without driftwood, without sails.
Beneath the suave murmur of her hypnotic violin, almost inaudible amongst the buzz of the scene,
Masterfully crafted undulations, through a curtain of deep, unfathomable mysteries,
Alluring in her eternal enticement, with whispers spreading divine inner deceptions,
Threaded along the fine string of the night, playing on the sensitive chord of a forever starving heart.
He, prey to an instinct too often defeated by endless scrutiny,
The mouse, a twitching silhouette amongst shadows, a knight of frailty,
Carving a path through crevices of reality, in search of his shooting star of cheese,
Towards which he sails, enchanted by the siren's song, on an ocean of uncertainties.
They are the timekeepers of our destinies, ticking away in contradictory symphonies,
Each with their solitude, each with their threads of fate and dreaming,
Setting the trap and becoming our own prey, in a game of divinity,
From ages to ages, one lending the other venom and antidote in the same cup.
Until the stars shall wipe away from the sky, and the Moon shall mute with fear,
The duel continues, between the secret magic and the unexpected murmur,
She, breathing her spells of love into night garments sewn with silver,
He, finding his way through the crevices of the day, with hopes like a spider's thread clinging.
And yet, is not love the greatest enigma in this strange tableau?
The woman-snake and the man-mouse, opposites and yet complements,
Catching in-flight the reversal of roles, where the snake is the one who forgives and the mouse protects,
In the jungle of emotion, where instinct becomes the guide and the fearful conquer, merely with the power of the heart to love.
“deus ex machina”
When LOVE came knocking at our door
we stood there opposite sides
like torn pages
from the chapters of a banned book
with no spine
awaiting
collaboration
A common thread
our folded signatures are stitched together
and then joined with other signatures
to create the complete book
Enter the wings of fortune
Fortune that favours the brave
The Smyth Sewer smiled a whisper,
“deus ex machina, The Plot, so not a grave”
(Lovejoy-Burton/August, 2018)
"Baby" , Helena Deland
https://youtu.be/gcse4_5zALI
1. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Deus_ex_machina
2. smyth sewer
"Smyth sewing is a method of book binding where groups of folded pages (referred to as signatures) are stitched together using binder thread. Each folded signature is sewn together individually with multiple stiches and then joined with other signatures to create the complete book block. If you page through a Smyth-sewn book, you can see the thread stitches in the center fold of each signature."
I want to live
Not to focus on the end
Or on ENDING it
Not to see what’s wrong but right
Try to see beyond darkness to light
I want to try to dry my tears
To think of the coming years
To make a mark
To be strong
Not give up the fight
I want to live
And even when
I wish for death
There is that voice
That whispers to go on
To survive
To leave something behind
Death will come
Soon enough
In his own time
He will come and call
And take my hand
But till that time
I don’t want to flirt with him
Or be consumed with thoughts
Of joining him too soon
In a bonding embrace
No….I want to live!
I want to laugh
I want to dance
To sing
To write my little heart out
I want to love
I want to make love
With a deluge of passion
That bathes the universe in light
A glowing, pulsating star of the night,
I want to display...every hue of desire
Matching…NO…outdoing the kaleidoscope light show
Of the Aurora Borealis
YES….I want to FEEL
EVERY SENSATION
I want to experience
Ecstasy
Exhilaration
Elation
Ebullience supreme
Excitement galore
What’s more
I want to taste
On my lips
The saltiness of my own tears
Tears of joy
Of sated desire, but also
Tears of pain
Yes, even pain needs to visit
The home of my heart
For she makes JOY more precious
Happiness more REAL
For joy and pain are siblings
In the family of feelings
They visit at different times
I accept each call
Each visit
Though unexpected
I will act the host
And try my best
To focus on each visitor
And converse with my heart
And understand with my mind
The reason why
And THEN… I’ll determine
To go on….
I NEED to go on……
To give and not expect a return
To lavish and ravish
With all I have
With every minute particle of me
TO LOVE….
To love…
Myself
For I need my own acceptance
I crave my own praise
I desire my own kindness
I must train myself to see
My own beauty to believe
I have something to share
I have words to gift
Thoughts that could light up the world
And if not the world
To light up a face
Oh, what grace!!!
I want to live
This moment
NOW
For the fabric of this garment
Is sewn with the thread
Of
E T E R N I T Y
Yes, I want to live...
And I will...
I WILL
Eileen Manassian Ghali
Everyone has a story to share,
No matter if others may seem to care.
When asked, “What memory brings you the light?”
I think of the day when all felt just right.
A rainy day cast a somber gray hue,
With Vincent and Michael, my brothers, so true.
At Grandma’s we sat, with unease on our hearts,
“Why are we here? Why did we part?”
“Your parents had troubles, a great misunderstanding,
They thought it best to let time do the handing.”
“But five years is long; don’t you think that’s strange?”
I pondered aloud, feeling lost in this change.
Grandma looked troubled, then picked up the phone,
“John, it’s about time you face what you’ve sown.
These kids are asking, and they need to see,
You must end this mess; come home to your family.”
My mother was gone, with another man near,
Five years had flown, where once was mere fear.
“Time to move on,” I thought, feeling torn,
Yet hope filled my heart like a bright, shining dawn.
My father then called with a voice full of care,
“I’ve been blind to the truth; I should’ve been fair.
I miss you, my love, and the kids miss you too,
Please come home to us; let’s start life anew.”
“What’s happening?” Mom asked, with a heart open wide,
“I’m longing for home; it’s time to decide.”
A miracle happened, she let her man go,
And came straight back home, where love’s warm glow.
Dad quit his job, putting family first,
For the love he had lost, the pain and the thirst.
That night we celebrated, joy filled our tone,
We called it a reunion, a true happy home.
From that day forward, our laughter was free,
In this happy home where we all longed to be.
Now I sit back, wishing for playful strife,
Just a hint of the fire that sparks up our life.
For we are united, our love deeply sewn,
In this happy home that we now call our own.
Everyone has a story, and this one is mine—
Of reunion and joy, where the stars brightly shine.
My pen is always near at hand, waiting
for my gentle grasp to give it the chance
to fulfill its purpose. It seems to be anticipating
being held as if we tango together in a ritual dance.
When I'm fueled with the fire to write
ink flows from my mind to my fingers—
from pen to paper as if I were a draper of words
and in each line of poetry my passion lingers
in the form and fashion I chose to write each day.
There is an elegance to the artistry of poetry,
using fabrics as soft and diaphanous as chiffon.
Romantic sonnets are sewn with silken threads
that weave together, both love and desire.
Haiku verses describe golden skies of dawn
as if the sun awakens each morning
as a phoenix rising amid orange flames of fire.
There are times when I'm driven to capture and extol
the glory I see when a fragile fern frond unfurls,
or the tremulous steps taken by a foal, only hours old,
the shapes of clouds as they billow and sweep
across the expanse of blue canvas as if they are pearls.
I have need to breathe life into the visions I keep
ready for words I'll leave behind some may never see—
as a legacy of my thoughts on life's joys and derision.
Oddly, I always feel some could use editing and revision.
My pen finds a way to blend my emotions,
where its ink can be droplets of shed blood or tears,
but never will it be choked off, replaced by AI.
I'm sure it would rather be thrown into an ocean's depth
before forgiving me and would rather its ink run dry.
I cannot fathom attaching my name to falsify
a poem I've not written on my own accord.
That's an accusation I will never have need to deny.
In shame, I would hang my head and ask my pen
to become a sword and in reprimand, cut off my hand—
a loss I could neither tolerate nor afford.
I want to tell you about three little girls
who rarely wear their hair in curls.
They see each other but a few times a year,
but when they do, non-stop chatter is all you'll hear.
They are eleven or twelve or fourteen by now
I was never good at dates, but anyhow...
These three little girls have stolen my heart
It could be outside my body, alone and apart.
They are bright eyed and beautiful, too
Telling each other secrets, as little girls often do.
I don't know how they've gotten so tall
It seems they were babies just last Fall.
A wonder and splendor they possess you see,
From their grandma's love, if you ask me.
I try to tell them of things that matter
Sometimes I think they believe I'm The Mad Hatter.
As girls do they laugh and giggle
Trying to discover why jello can jiggle.
Yes, they are growing up you see
Even the little one who used to hide from me.
Too soon they will be young women at last,
has the time really gone all that fast?
I can see them with children of their own
Their seeds of life within them sewn.
But before they get to be too big to be my fans,
I just want to say, "I love you and thanks", from Uncle Dan.
we're all
super human
the first true immortal, (each)
a limitless sea, those who seek to cheat death
peruse back to the dark abyssal mass that was ... before
the slow crawl into awareness, from nothing
those sketchy memories wax-and-wane like white noise-to-blank
sewn together by threads of memory and sense
gone in the gasp of present realities
yeah, it's coming ... inevitable
it won't creep like it came, though
it will explode in agony, confusion and terror
instant oblivion
and all this
gone
(that, the monster under the bed ... never left)