Long Thimbles Poems
Long Thimbles Poems. Below are the most popular long Thimbles by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Thimbles poems by poem length and keyword.
Grandma’s craft cottage was a magical place.
A room with thimbles, embroidery, beads, bits of lace.
Multifarious fat quarters were folded into neat little squares
There was always a hot iron close at hand.
We cousins loved stopping in to listen to a story.
Or tell one of our own, watching Granny’s nimble fingers create magic.
This was our haven, our heart, the epitome of our safe place.
Even though Grandma was gone now, her legacy remained.
Each one of us came by to tell Grandma how much we loved her.
For we felt her presence in this craft cottage
More than any other place we had been that day.
The church had given us no such comfort.
The leather tethers kept loosening.
I had to pull at them until
they dug into your body
binding you to a rocking cross.
It was all for nothing
you died snapping at unseen knives,
arching up, bending time into
frozen waves.
You once said you were Irish/Scots,
Appalachian.
You called yourself: Applachan.
Sinewy girl --- wiry poppy stems
in you, and engine oil
to soften tenacious roots.
The fever racked you up.
It shook your bones loose.
It blossomed,
pouring you out
in thimbles of awareness.
In those intervals,
blue hills filled your eyes
with summer rain.
I would talk to you of Ireland.
We went there on that last night.
We made a hasty camp
in the dream felled woods,
the deep raw stumps
were already greening.
Then I watched,
and kept watching
as feeble death broke its teeth
on your blood.
The Construct of an Essence Forming
Collaborative custodians of remuneration for the poor
Commemorative symposiums on humans need for wanting more
Symbols of ancient mystery drawn upon cave walls
Thimbles of fragrant misery born from what a man recalls
A nieche in the marketplace, an advertisement that lies
A piece of someone’s face falling plastic from their eyes
The grief of the replaced calling out for compromise
Attitudes of servitude that call for investigation
Gratitude for the interludes that fall for the relief of compensation
Exactitude that can only conclude to stall the consternation
Platitudes that are borderline rude based on weak configurations
Instantaneous satisfaction born from greed and lust
Sub-cutaneous mathematical fractions that only scientists trust
Spontaneous interactions that are based on sense and must
Contemporaneous fine contractions that are born from the modes of break and bust
An ethical integrity that cannot be mistaken
Umbilical propensity that will not be mis-shapen
Ventriloquist alarmists miming political ideals
Soliloquies, pharmacists, timing hypocritical appeals
Contrite sensibility coming from a place of inherent goodness
Finite possibilities running the race of concurrent couldness
Hematite magnifications of ions colliding for war
Israelite pontifications of lions at the gates of Daniels door
Cocophonies of entropy expanding out through space
Topographies and symphonies sounding with an air of grace
Corroborrees and ancient trees expressing wisdom from a race
Soliloquies and poetry forming from a lifetime of disgrace
The basic convalescence of a soul pure as white
The corrupt adolescence as the whole begins to fight
The abrupt incandescence of a goal reaching the light
The construct of the essence of a mould in pure delight
Copywrite 2023 Elizabeth Morozl
'Umbrella Jim' was the sneakiest scoundrel west of the Missisip'!
Usin' the shell game and sleight of hand, of yer purse he'd gyp.
He'd set up shop 'neath an umbrella whether inside or under an oak.
Usin' three thimbles and a ball he cleaned the jeans of many a bloke!
'Umbrella Jim' was a renown huckster as well as bein' quite witty.
He'd warm up his potential victims by singin' this delightful ditty:
"A little bit of fun now and then,
Is relished by the best of men!
Select yer shell! The one you choose,
If right you win, if not, you lose!
But I'll warn ye, yer chances are mighty slim,
Of winnin' a prize from Umbrella Jim!"
'Twas his regular trade to deceive the eye with sleight of hand.
He was very adept at what he did and his every move was planned.
The fate of 'Umbrella Jim' as far as I can tell is unknown,
But I'd bet some sucker saw him hung from an oak, if truth be known!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
Red shingled roofs rise and sink,
slickly buoyant with new showers.
Cars drive behind cloud-skyscrapers.
The park is soggy with small dogs,
colorful umbrellas are set aside
beside paddling pigeons.
Dewdrops slide over hanging buds,
while lush leaves
breathe their own green aroma.
By evenings tide, an amber shine,
has walked us through a dripping sky,
we are both empty and full,
beneath the warm spill of moist thimbles.
Above us, the washed-out mural of a rainbow,
remains to fish in low ponds of mist.
Wispy showers spray a disappearing horizon.
A soft falling rain lingers between us and tomorrow,
weeping’s that by the early light are rinsed away
by fresh tree-dancing winds,
and the bright beams of children at play.
Jesus Torment - The Villanelle Of The Bible--
Jesus couldn't stop thinking about the bible
It was just so dear and energetic
Never had he known anything so royal
That morning, Jesus was shocked by the thimbles
He found himself feeling rather synthetic
Jesus couldn't stop thinking about the bible
Later, he realized that the bible was antibacterial
He thought the situation had become rather theistic
Never had he known anything so royal
Paul tried to distract him with a libel
Said his mind had become too peripatetic
Jesus couldn't stop thinking about the bible
Jesus took action like a scheible
The bible was becoming too genetic
Never had he known anything so royal
Jesus nosedived like a imperfect human
His mind became dangerously arithmetic
Jesus couldn't stop thinking about the bible
Never had he known anything so non royal
Written by James Edward Lee Sr.2019©
The time was 1969, the place- Home-Economics class in junior high. While guys got sent
to “shop,” those of us of the softer sex learned culinary skills. I loved those days when the
room was filled with the sounds of our chatting, laughing and clanging pots and pans, as we
busied ourselves preparing meals before sitting down at our group tables to enjoy the fruits
of our labors. That was my first semester. In the next semester came. . . .SEWing.
Gone were the room’s former tantalizing odors. And the tables once used for sampling
our experiments in cooking had been ominously transformed. Now there were patterns
we’d been asked to buy in fabric stores pinned onto pieces of material and laid out
across the center of each table. Those forms for clothing-yet-to-be, strange maps imprinted
with vertical and horizontal lines and codes along their edges, confused and overwhelmed
me. The implements of baking - mixing bowls, pans, and the cups and spoons for
measuring - had been replaced by a much less comforting display of thread and thimbles,
sewing machines, binding tape and scissors.
With zero scintillation and after the befuddling explanations from my teacher,
I somehow ended up with a hot pink mini dress(actually wearable!) with white trim
amateurishly attached, and. . .for all my effort, the stunning grade of C.
Thankfully, in high school I discovered among a broader choice of electives, Creative Writing
Class, my time to sparkle!
For Carol Brown's "Story Time" (just one story of many that would comprise my bio)
Poem submitted to "Those We Love Poetry Contest," Mystic Rose, sponsor
ECHOES
I open the sewing basket, letting my eyes and hands run over the tools she had used—the scissors, the darning egg, the pinking shears, the pins, the tattered, tomato-shaped pincushion, and spools of thread. I gaze at the metal spool-shaped bobbins remembering how, as a small child, I flushed them down the toilet creating quite a ruckus. I finger her antique thimbles recalling her numb fingers and hands. Despite her diminishing eyesight, she quilts until her last day, painstakingly feeling the fabric, cutting the shapes, and hand stitching the pieces together silently suffering from the pricks and misery her needle sometimes inflicted. When tiny drops of cerise colored blood dripped from her fingers nary a tear emerges from her eyes.
I close the basket and walk through her sewing room, white silence enveloping it. The faceless dress form patiently waits for her return, an unfinished garment draped over its shoulders. The sewing machine sits idle, its motor no longer whirring and the needle no longer punching through the fabric with its steady, rhythmic chuka, chuka, chuka sound.
echoes pierce silence
sound of mother’s spirit
I know in my heart
*I published this poem in Poetry Soup in June 2025, then deleted it. This is my original poem, and I'm reposting because this poem is a special one for me.
The leather tethers kept loosening.
I had to pull at them until
they dug into your body
binding you to a rocking cross.
It was all for nothing
you died snapping at unseen knives,
arching up, bending time into
frozen waves.
You once said you were Irish/Scots,
Appalachian.
You called yourself: Applachan.
Sinewy girl --- wiry poppy stems
in you, and engine oil
to soften tenacious roots.
The fever racked you up.
It shook your bones loose.
It blossomed,
pouring you out
in thimbles of awareness.
In those intervals,
blue hills filled your eyes
with summer rain.
I would talk to you of Ireland.
We went there on that last night.
We made a hasty camp
in the felled woods,
the deep raw stumps
were already greening.
Then I watched,
and kept watching
as feeble death broke its teeth
on your blood.
Samara: "Opening the thimbles under the waxing moon, you'll wish it was waning in clock town's too soon."
Samael: "Over the mountain and through the woods to grandmother's house we go, with hand grenades and razor blades high-ho, high-ho, high-ho."
Uraeal: "To be so uncomely by the waxing moon is retarded at best, she picks too many daisies to be wolfish at a fest."
Helel: "Helel, or so I've heard, let's make this short and sour, for the dithery young girl."
Aurora: "Time passes like Time was incarnate let's ask the others here, if folly is so comely."
Gladius: "Moving the orchard like agrarian gregorian fools?" "Who made the large ice-bath beside the stilled moon?"
The Pro: "I came I saw I thwart not, sold out shows are not my conifers."
(Anonymized character) "I still build palaces on the moon, where stairway to heaven crosses the dark side of the moon."
---End of act IV---