Long Yarn Poems
Long Yarn Poems. Below are the most popular long Yarn by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Yarn poems by poem length and keyword.
Tina learnt to knit her own sweater
Instructions followed to the letter
Many stitch she did drop
Gave too many a strop
When made looked like been through a shredder
Next she wanted to learn to crochet
Make flowers tied into a bouquet
Got her yarn in a twist
Knots and ties would not shift
But did look like a crochet toupee
Decided to learn how to hand sew
With pretty ribbon make a hairbow
Kept pricking her finger
Soreness pain did linger
Her fingers now size of her elbow
Not to give up, tried live art drawing
Felt that was her natural calling
Excited and nervous
Felt hot as a furnace
Of male model on all fours posing
No dangly bits was shown to be drawn
Disappointed felt little bit conned
She drew him very well
All her friends she did tell
As an artist was were she belonged.
18.12.20
Homemade Hero
A length of fabric,
a skein of yarn,
a piece of lace,
a zipper,
a button,
a trace…
Two eyes, a nose,
a simple happy face…
Here goes!
A kitten, a kat, a dog a bear?
(cat is better-spelled kat in the BBF- big book of fun)
Oh, what a surprise inside.
Stuff, stuff, stuff… into your belly,
a giant velvet heart. (Love)
a pair of hidden wings, (Faith)
a tiny cross. (Jesus)
Grandma prays while she works...
“Keep them safe, keep them near, never-never let them fear!””.
Angels go with this sewn up soldier, and help him in his need.
Protect his charge and care for those…,
“He” will bless the deed.
When auld friends meet,
To chaw and waste,
And barmaid brings,
The Lad's the taste.
The more the taste,
The more the waste,
And under breath, the wives will curse when call for grace.
But wives agreed. They took the vows.
And grace can wait on hearth and stone,
Til' Lads' be done and oot and home.
Lad's cause no harm,
And some say charm.
And barmaids' heard,
Much worse the yarn.
Bring more ale!
The Lad's will call.
But barmaid says "No more to all",
She knows for where,
And Lad's know too,
That home is where their hearts are true.
And home come Lad's,
Til' next is time,
When taste is calling,
And waste is fine.
For Lad's work hard,
Complete the week,
But only once for they can meet,
Again to taste and chaw and waste.
Graham Alexander Devenish
If I could be a cat, I wouldn't chase a mouse,
but if you put me out,
perhaps I'd choose to go and search about
for flowers I could snip with small white teeth
to carry home to you inside my mouth.
My mission then complete,
adoringly I'd greet you with a mew
and blooms strewn at your feet.
I think I might like that.
If I could be a cat, I wouldn't want to eat
kitty stews in cans or livered meat.
I think instead I'd use my feline eyes to plead-
entreating you to feed me from your plate,
and then when you had your fill,
perhaps you'd leave me ice cream
melted and unfinished from your bowl.
I wouldn't hesitate
to lick your fingers clean appreciatively.
Yes, I think I might like that.
If I could be a cat, I wouldn't want to sleep
alone and curled around some ball of yarn.
I'd leap onto your bed instead (I wouldn't make a peep)
and nestle in the cradle of your arm.
And if you reached to stroke my fur,
I'd place my paws upon your chest charmingly
and warmly start to purr.
If I could be a cat, I think I might like that.
(an oldie that I wanted to show again, and I add this little
Valentine Haiku on the bottom just for you, PD):
the trinity of
Linda, Irma, and PD. . . .
get BIG hugs from ME
As she sat on the old rickety chair by the fireplace
With an orange cat by her feet and a knitting yarn in her hands,
An old music box played a rhythmic pattern on repeat.
As the notes flew into the ears of the listener,
Memories of the past started gushing out;
Those days in the past where she had to hide in an old cart till her lover called out a tune
Those days where she had to steal some of the freshly baked cookies from her mother's oven which was meant for afternoon tea
Those times where she had to steal her father's freshly brewed beer which was meant for Thanksgiving
Just to have a little picnic on the shores of the river
with her lover
The shore where he played their favourite tunes with his little guitar
The shore where she nestled in her lover's arms while they watched the setting sun, a little music box playing his favourite tunes while he sung them aloud
All these moments were reopened by the music box he gave to her as his parting gift.
Even though he was no more, she knew in her heart that his soul comforted her by his favourite tunes.
The last time we met I noticed
the bright red flowers in your hair,
Milk soft skin radiating through
heaven’s gate I wanted to kiss
your tender hand.
Knees buckling from the sweet scent
of your perfume, our bodies locked like
falling birds, We kissed and ran as fast
as we could like two kittens playing with
a ball of yarn.
Landing on our feet, we walked along the
crimson cobblestone streets, At our favorite
sidewalk café we talked and shared this
wonderful moment.
We celebrated life with French bread and good
wine. It was nice to see your lovely smile remain,
on an empty glass of wine and a bite of bread.
In the small fishing town of Tunafishlips
The competitors lined up all of their ships
The race for the biggest catch had begun
As they listened to how the last winner had won
With all eyes upon him, he began his tale…
“It was thiiiis big”, he announced with such pride
His arms stretching out impossibly wide
“I was first out of the dock and I threw out my line
The water was calm and the weather was fine
I felt the first tug of the catch like the wind in a sail”
His arm span grew wider, the length of a car
“Imagine reeling that in! I ain’t spinnin’ no yarn!
More giant than the biggest angler you’ve seen,
Barely got er’ in the boat, and I ain’t no string bean!”
He told us it nearly pulled him over the rail!
Now his arms were extended the size of a barge
As he thought of how to explain just how large,
This humongous, cold blooded monstrosity was
“So big you could drive a van through her jaws,
Swear on my life, Bigger than a whale!”
“I know you’re all skeptics but make no mistake”,
He stretched his arms longer to either side of the lake
“She was at least this enormous”, he started to shout
“I bet equal to the weight of one million trout!
I couldn’t say for sure, she broke the scale!”
Really riled up now, his arms wrapping the earth
“And she wasn’t just long boys, oh no, the girth!
Thick as a planet and as long as three more,
More angry than my wife when there’s socks on the floor!
But there wasn’t a moment I thought I would fail”
The competitors sat there with open jaw
Some in disbelief, some in great awe
Still wanting to prove to those who would scoff
He stretched his hands out so wide, both arms fell right off!
You wouldn’t believe it! Both loose arms a flail!
They fell into the water, and started to sink
But the damndest thing happened, quicker than a blink
The biggest fish I’ve seen with my own eyes
Swallowed em' whole and swam away in great size,
That’s the last we ever saw, of that very tall tail.
April 28th 2022
Tall Tales 2 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Jeff Kyser |
Contrition for the recorded events of frugalities.
So abstemious have I been, thriving largely in
Defenceless glares of the four-eyed.
Now I have learned to creep alone and weep alone,
Closing tacitly the chapters written in mundane ink,
Reluming the smouldering logs of long slumber.
I have told every truth in loud moments
Now I have only but few lies in my saliva
And I intend puking the remaining few . . .
The pulp and the reed among the wayside waters
Must have tilted in the direction of their winds.
Bloated and deflated, this ego of worth, crimson
With the bath of birth.
Rebirth, woven in colourful Renaissance yarn, has awoken
The drunken somnambulist
The pipers come piping hot, and the stolen trumpet,
Hidden in the soft crests of wisteria,
Alerts the souls of the roosts.
I crave the creation formula of the Sixth Day.
The sage among us have broken many books
And licked many paintings —surrealism —in the
Image of the contorted face, writhing in the throes of
Elevated glances shelved in the mirror-images of Knowledge.
Could there be comeuppance for inquiring into the deep?
Another day, another ghostly glitch
The catholic church stained glass
shouldn’t be as grey as it was today.
More and more the molding frays
I can hear the coffins softy coughing
There are more and more mourning days
Whether or not there was better days,
“Back when there was no such a glitch”
there were still plagues, there was still coughing,
common enough, blood from esophagus glass
Our flesh still frays, it decays over time,
especially today.
I forgot to take my Lamictal today,
It is my second time forgetting, third day
without taking it. A ball of yarn beginning to fray,
my brain begins to glare and glitch.
Is there a hemorrhage born of broken glass?
Maybe I inhaled it in mass? I did a lot of coughing.
The psalms usually calming, all I heard was coughing
this morning. Something seems off today…
I stared at my reflection for too long, the looking glass
has sassed me back for many mourning days.
It’s not a glitch,
the flesh is flayed, the noose is frayed.
Always unsuccessful, its stressful, hair is frayed
into my hands. The same hands that caught me coughing
blood in the hospital in Philadelphia. It can’t be a glitch,
this has always been my reality, suffering is my software today.
It's a countdown, it's a matter of days
Until I am immortalized in pink and yellow glass.
It will say, “Here lies the Saint of Smoking Glass”,
I have tried to recover, but my brain stem was frayed,
and it snapped under pressure. No more mourning days!
No more pre funeral cigarettes! Interrupting eulogies
coughing like it was some sort of
awkward option! It’s not your time today!
You will feel it when you can feel the glitch.
Eye twitch, there's the glitch! I smoked too much glass…
It’s my last day today and I lived partially flayed
I can finally stop coughing.
I’ll see you on my mourning day.
There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so
William Shakespeare
It is all about perspective and that is key to heart
Shiny blade of cutting edge, do you kill or butter
pray tell, OH, Sitting knife !
Shall I use my quill and write about you as you are
or spin a yarn regarding you, telling tales to see how far ?
Should I stretch my wenden shades of rose for you,
or strive to see thy point of view !
Interpret me with candor and honesty dear mate,
and please remember this ...
If you hold me to the sun, I will reflect thy shine
if you hold me to the dark, all ignorance be thine !
Perception is key for all of truth's reveal
so may thine eyes be set in truth and see the good in me.
Make haste, adjust thy lens, ... take me to a place of love.