Long Swatches Poems
Long Swatches Poems. Below are the most popular long Swatches by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Swatches poems by poem length and keyword.
flowing swirling
swatches
swarm&wind
bloom blush brilliant
thru my mind
fervent fervid feelings
flow show
as expression outward flow
flaxen yellow
jostle joust
my mind's eye
view
brash brazen blue
in
distant hue
stirring sensations
hid below
ribald red racy rude
cluster crowd
contemplations crude
upon
vivid verdant green
imprinting
inner attitude
impression subtle & unseen
contending colours clash
with poignant passion splashed
'til
emotions manifest
displayed
arrayed
essayed
on
canvas unabashed
The long shadows
are growing cooler.
Soon there will be places
where the light will no longer reach
and the river will wear
its autumn coat of leaves.
My walks are getting shorter,
contracting within a circle,
tightening in an ever diminishing
circumference around
my home. I feel a hurry
in my mind, the need
to gather and stash
what I can before being
confined to a room.
I grab swatches of sky,
reflections, the shapes
of trees, anything and everything
to stock memory
with a store of stuff
a poem can nibble on
when locked away
in a dark that seems
to have a no beyond.
It starts with a quivering lip
threads a touch from patches
to little swatches of fabric from
various phases various places of us
the first shirt you gave me
off your very back
was gray with a cartoon face
the hat from your kinky head black
and I use a piece of that
the jeans that romanticized everything
on that patch you asked
me to be your destiny
and on this very cloth
relic of the day we lost emotional innocence
the day we became familiar
it is peculiar we made love but never had sex
without emancipating clothing
we made love like a quilt
and it was my first strawberry passion.
O what heavy price for independence
Valiant men dying in fierce triathlon
Battling to their last breath for its defense
As they protect the walls of Babylon
Laying down their lives with no shade of guilt
While powerless the great sun god watches
Its ravaged empire pillaged and rebuilt
Over layered bodies, bones and swatches
My tears taste bitter as you sail away
Cross daunting distant shores of Babylon
Wishing there were a way you could delay
And somehow all our troubles would be gone
My heavy heart on the wing of a swan
Amid hanging gardens of Babylon
AP: 1st place 2021
Submitted on June 18, 2018 for contest DISTANT SHORES sponsored by ROBERT HAIGH - RANKED 6TH
It was a strange light,
perhaps not light at all;
eerily gray tinged hues,
somewhere between black and white,
pale wisps of deep dark etchy purples
and charcoal swatches display
tips in silver and platinum.
A rich nickel plated flow of clouds
painting the sky in a primer
of puce and clear white quartz
floating and filling the sky.
Smoky white linens dressing
what once was the blinding bright white ball of sun
long disappeared into the misty haze of fog
like old lace creamed in eggshell gravies.
Vanilla seared trees stood skeletons along the horizon
sweet and savory in the mix of clear cold rain
blended into flakes of snow de-boned by wind
and chilled with champagne memories.
As they day progressed, all faded
discolored leaves and browning grass
slept quiet and undisturbed
in the winter interlude of black and white time.
The tide and heavy seas
had washed up a wealth
of treasures to lay at my feet
spread out in a long line
just like the way wares
are displayed on the street
of an outdoor market.
Shells, some polished
to a sheen others just broken
shards of a puzzle never
to be put back together again.
Tresses of weed, float bladders,
a cuttlefish bone and globs
of jellyfish shaped like petrified
tears as if once welled
out of the eyes of a whale.
Then there was a hoard
of man made stuff, plastic cups
and brightly coloured beads
of who knows what, spoons
and bottle tops, matted balls
of red and green twine
and fishing line knitted into
swatches of transparent twill,
a smorgasbord of human
endeavor all laid out in wonder
and ready to kill.
The only reason for time
is so that everything
doesn’t happen at once
Albert Einstein
TIME IS ELEMENTARY
swatches of bands, smart
time is elementary;
strapped snug, cosseted
on a small-pale wrist.
coffee fumes and coal
chugging on life’s track.
cuckoo bird on half
and every hour —
oh, why’d it have to stop?!
(salvation in Grandma’s coffee cake)
polaroid portions collecting dust;
ink-streaked down
memory’s bust.
ironic how i can’t remember
the ding-dong digital or sundial
in our own home —
clocks have a mind of their own
busy with keeping its children,
well swept, wound
and educated.
6/29/2019
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.
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.