Long Stitches Poems
Long Stitches Poems. Below are the most popular long Stitches by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Stitches poems by poem length and keyword.
The Mercury Tree
Between dream and ashes, the moon sheds its old skin,
Under my temples lanterns grow like blue wounds,
And time, a faceless child, calls out through the cold walls,
I walk through myself as through a strange palace of mercury.
In memory's attic, moths dig their tunnels,
And every silence searches for a name inside me,
A god with eyes of ash throws the windows wide open,
And my shadows pour onto my tongue, like sick honey.
Beneath the city's skin sleeps a violet horse, starving,
It bites into the stars, leaving stations and mirrors in our blood,
We are born seven times from the first, foreign light,
And we die back, like a mute song forgotten in water.
Then the white garden of nerves rises out of sleep,
The silent trees exchange their roots with one another,
And the hand of fate stitches us into cold light,
And every wound becomes a threshold of smoke toward us.
Morning finds us with eyes of salt and heavy sleep,
And we carry, in silence, a nameless bird,
When the extinguished light returns to us from the depths,
And the secret, like a raspberry, cracks in memory's ember.
Have you ever gotten up and not felt quite right?
It’s like everything is starting from the evening first.
You look outside and it still seems like it’s night.
Things are just beginning, and you think of the worst.
Maybe you fell back asleep, or your alarm didn’t ring.
Or you hit your head on something and passed out.
Whatever you did, you can’t remember anything.
You’re a little fuzzy on what this is all about.
You slowly remember bits and pieces from before,
And start to realize that you never set your clock.
The last thing you remember is walking into a door,
And falling down the stairs onto a very large rock.
When you opened your eyes, you were in bed,
But you don’t remember, at all, how you got there.
This is really beginning to mess with your head,
And you start to rub your hands through your hair.
You feel what seem to be stitches and quite a bump.
Who it was that fixed you up, you have no clue.
If you could just remember, you’d get over this hump,
And figure out the story of what happened to you.
You suppose it’s not important, seeing as how you’re alive.
The fact of the matter is, this happens every night.
The scene is over and it’s the end of Act Five.
The audience applauds as you step into the spotlight.
We stitched our ribbons through your heart
From end to end we threaded
We sewed right to your fingertips
– And every stitch you dreaded
We tramped along your shoulders broad
To weave our little lines –
How nimble were our fingers then
How clever our design!
We jabbed and pierced and buttoned you
We pulled the stitches tight –
For us an act of liberty
For you an act of night
We gaze now on our handiwork
As on a work of art
A wilderness of emerald
Mapped out upon a chart
But, ‘lest we think we’ve mastered you
Once every little while
You raise yourself and startle us
With lightning in your smile!
Give me all your pain dear,give me all your sorrow
let me touch and feel them to make you smile tomorrow.
Rest your head on my shoulder and let your grief be shared
I am here to talk to you,listen to you and care.
Weep you must as every teardrop will clear your mind's sky
the new Sun will rise soon and birds will again fly.
I will always with you there to share all your pain
hold my hand,start to walk like a toddler again.
Hand in hand,step by step I will make you run
your journey will start again under the smiling Sun.
Your broken heart will join sure and do all the wonder
I will be always inside you being the stitches there.
=====================000======================
Love has perfectly filled the vacancy placed in a lonely heart
wonderfully blessing with merchandise of sensuality and eros;
emotional experience characterized by new constant fresh air
and wholly accommodated by rare affection
even while stuffed in the vacuum of adulthood.
Fooled by ones hallucinating welcome
drugged by that addictive confidence
and mind-washed by such distinctive virtues;
these feelings constantly burn every evening.
When asleep, inhale goes in with such memories
the beloved presence then becomes magical and real
greasing the gears of every heartbeat
and loosening the stitches of the day’s burdens
to satisfy the active mind and resting body all through the night
as they stretch the bands of the cheek after the morning’s yawn.
At a history museum,
Main Street, Milford, in Pa.,
Is a giant flag with blood,
That may be Lincoln’s, on display.
Aside from that, ephemera
And lots of local lore
Wait for patrons who are visiting
To take time to explore.
I marveled at the hand-sewn quilts,
Their stitches small and neat,
And the menus from hotels, where lunch
Was forty cents to eat.
A woven cradle, clothes and hats,
Old irons, plus the boards,
And uniforms from soldiers
Were just some of the rewards
For visiting a building
Which preserves life in the past.
Who knows how long collections,
Like this treasure trove, may last?
I must admit, though, that what I
Liked best that I did see
Was the dog of the director,
Just as friendly as could be.
Serging through life, I whipstitch, weft, and welt,
But always, my thoughts are pick-threading.
As stippled patches of emotion rise and fall in me,
See me, feel me, touch me, heal me
Just too many scars.
The mindless mind stresses itself through mental snares,
I waste away beneath it all, piecing and pondering.
Where the struggling soul and pleating body meet,
I seek significance in life’s lucid-lined layers.
Confronting my inner fears as an owneress,
Time leaves its cursed mark in starched stitches that cut.
Each moment experienced is like a closing zipper,
My calm exterior ridges are often rough, ready, and ruffled.
A life full of scars.
While unique experiences blend like transient ombre shades
My essence feels like a needled complex knit.
Memories form patterns from life’s four-patches
Challenges scissors cut are like shredded sharp diamonds.
Yet more paths diverge along life’s shifting chevrons
I strive to fit somehow; this square is what I do.
Yet my world stands out like tri-recs blocks
Creating stars and pineapples to fight fifty-four forty.
Scars that are hidden and visible, surface and deep.
Like trapezoids, I sense those oblong obstacles loom
Worth or less by my own limited gauge, I measure.
I pray each day new chapters begin casting on
While others exhaust, reaching their bind-offs.
I do seek a pattern master, and I need to pray for one.
I contemplate constantly along selvages of thoughts.
They hang like dangling tails…
I start to visualize my purpose slowly seaming.
Look as I whipstitch, weft, and welt through life, serging.
As I graciously and sagaciously test life’s many swatches,
I devote my life to the Master Seamster the…
Healer of scars.
We each and everyone have scar tissue
laid deeply etched internal conflict hides dialogue
All battles are fought against love condemned un-fairly
hate tortures all good reasoning over trowing truth
Firstly cursing madness stands as judge
corrupted fibres removes stitches darned incorrectly
As the tree of life bears fruit from it's branches
seeds upon this earth has been planted
Like a snowflake born from the living waters of life
unique in how each of us is constructed underneath
Our souls are immortal holding a frame within time
the body is merely a temple nourished by golden light
Countdown begins under a corrupted crop sewing lies
seeing is believing where chastisement begs pardon under oath
Written: November 10, 2023, For Edward Ibeh Contest
__________________________________________
As if to atone, I gaze into the obscurity of my soul.
When I glance back, I feel vulnerable, as in a hole.
A thrilling and ticklish time tumble in the future.
Whilst sorrow stitches, a suspect sears sans suture.
I still wear knit garments, worn with time and care.
The fights I've fought are icons of moxie and dare.
With the things I've done and how stout I've come,
A potent sight of mettle is where I'm coming from.
Whilst a place where shadows gleefully dance.
Where deception is woven in tandem, a prance
Fabrics of lies, woven from threads of deceit.
Embroidered by the demon aiming to cheat
Evil One, with his dirty lies and cruel smirk.
The worst delusion arises slyly from lurk.
A Janus-faced one stays hidden in the shadows.
Mere ambition to deceive and instill harrows
Janus-faced, dicey, dodgy, deduce the scene.
Ambidextrous by a sly smile, sharp gaze, unclean.
A cynical wolf in sheep clothes tricks sans shame.
Their fraud, plotting, and spite reveal obvious tame.
We can't hide the quilt of deceit, an art of smears.
Web grows with each knot, tying souls and ears.
A key prevaricator took delight in havoc, ruin left.
Only heartbreak remains in his wake, and bereft.
With an iron tongue, they lie naively and conceal.
Their faith is brief; it is phony, as they lack ideals.
In the gloom, they thrive with guile and strive.
Twisting and scheming with no regret or drive
But worry not, for honesty will always prevail.
Deception's weave will crumble into a false quail.
Pits of deceit shall cease, and lies will never last.
Truth will heal souls, as lying is torn with a blast.
A grim warning of vile traits shows guile.
Their souls are dark, and they generate wile.
Their authentic hues and pain will never heal.
Stay true and fight deceit with candor and zeal.
Blue people around a table—
gloves, nets, gowns, everything is blue.
He was just waiting for a call,
Maybe his life was hung up too?
They removed his glorious crown,
a crown placed on his head his birth.
The cold scalpel moved its way down,
skipping everything from the dirt.
It found something full of the soul,
Almonds! they saw sorrow, cried out.
It was never your fault at all.
It's never wrong to be cowards.
A bird locked in a nested cage,
Cries, cries, cries! The veins cried out blood!
Flowers bloom from a ripped out page,
It never hurts when it's at dawn.
A glance, a touch, a cut to thrive,
All they could see were broken strings,
But they didn't know how to tie.
Maybe they should leave it as is?
Fly high, my innocent white dove.
Stitches close what we could've been,
but for now, please remove your gloves.
The time of death: 4:59.
You can have my corpse and my worms,
Oh but what did you do that for?