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midnight blues bled into dawn pinks
beneath her needle's patient rhythm.
scraps of my outgrown dresses,
Grandad's flannel shirt, threadbare at the elbows –
resurrected geometry.
her hands traced constellations
of mismatched calico and gingham.
thimble’s silver moon rose and fell
binding frayed edges
into something whole,
something warm against the dark.
Now, her hands rest
but what remains is a
cedar chest in which
her life’s work
is contained.
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soft threads weave the night—
pieces of mom’s patchwork quilt
stitched with morning light
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One
midnight stitches join.
Mother's thimble gently clinks
her thread a silver lunar path.
cold wind rattles panes—
warmth blooms in patchwork suns.
Two
faded denim sky,
scraps of childhood's yellow dress—
geese fly south forever
in cotton-battened clouds.
snow drifts deep against the windowsill.
Three
Fingers trace the tear
where his army shirt once lived.
needle bites the dusk—
new cloth bleeds indigo stars
over mended emptiness.
Made by gentle hands of yesteryear
The quality of the yarns has faded
Colors clash, knotted memories
Woven together, re-stitched,
Worn fibers straining for recognition
Seek the truth of each knot
The wisdom of each choice
The tint and taint of time.
Has it always been “My” quilt?
Was it “gifted to me”
Already bearing pieces
Of other’s stories?
Has memory fused feelings
Tempered the truth
Of the weavers
Allowed us all to claim
So many “oh so similar” stitches.
I doubt it covers “everything”
Some squares must have been left out
Some trimmed away, chewed by the dog
Lost in a sibling tug-o-war.
Don’t get me wrong
I still cherish “my” quilt
I just have trouble believing
That it is “all” mine.
John G. Lawless
7/10/2023
There's something special about Morgan's quilts
the fabrics blend like a romantic rendezvous
colors race like a comet in some
or stand like still water in others
like a gypsy patterns dance or
sing of lullaby in a windy whisper
It's hard to pick a favorite
I like them all because they fit my moods
Each quilt has a story...a life
and feverishly pulls it's own history
methodically before your eyes
thread by thread united in oneness by love
and a gift of warmth and reminiscent charm
Bits of cloth join as if born into family
never judging...but giving
disregarding color, caste, nationality
only concerned with a common creed
To be shaped by Morgan's hands in to art
that God wills because much is required
of those that much is given
and Morgan is a giver
Yes, there's something special about Morgan's quilts
and only he can tell their stories
She sat for hours
Needle in hand
Stitching in silence
Inviting medleys
She stitched together
Hues happy and glad
Brilliant and vibrant
Inviting medleys
She threaded her needle
Gently with patience
Taking time to create
Inviting medleys
She laced each stitch
Careful, a caress
Against soft fabric
Inviting medleys
She pieced each square
Rectangle or triangle
Together with care
Inviting medleys
She gave her heart
To the pieces she sewed
Weaving hope with her thoughts
Inviting medleys
She held out the quilt
Sensational dreams
Blowing on souls
Inviting medleys
She gave them away
Pieces of her love
Graceful praise
Inviting medleys
She was always laughing
Alive with compassion
Filling her stitches with light
Inviting medleys
She wove love and hope
Into her quilts
Delighting spirits
Inviting medleys
''T'' Contest, New or Old Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
November 7, 2021
TAPESTRY THEME WORD
My sister was particular, she had a definite color scheme; my father was tickled that I asked for all the colors Mom could get into one quilt. He always bragged that I got "the pretty one". It is phenomenal, a keepsake that I dare not put on a bed, because I have a dog who is not careful with anything and the stitches are minute, and perfect, done by my mother's hands. She developed arthritis in her older moments, and yet, she quilted, one teensy tiny stitch at a time, a labor of love. A legacy to be handed down to future generations. I feel her love when I take it out and hold it to myself.
soft cotton batting
puffing up those fat quarters
fluffing up mom’s quilts
By Robert J (Bob) Moore © 2016
Making quilts is difficult, you might think you’re clever too
but there’s all the thought and preparation, that you have to do,
choose the colours and choose the thread, will that one go with this
patterns which you think they’d like, and scenes all filled with bliss
Then add them all, and study it, till you think it looks just right
you cut and stitch and ponder, well into the night
paper pieces, bits of cloth, and sewing things together
flowers here, and there a bird, and stitch, light as a feather
As well as Quilt’s, there’s Cushions, and runners for the table too
wall hangings, cross stitch samplers, to mention just a few
to cut and stitch and applique, the pattern she will choose
to make exactly what she sees, her talent she will use
But more than colour, more than thread, there’s part of you in there
with every stitch and every thought, filled with love and care
for quilts are made for family, and friends that you hold dear
so they can keep, and cherish them, year after year after year
I take in a sunny day is like a tiny season, reading a bedtime story, while tucking the sky, lifting holy cover out of the heaven sky, angels sowed throughout the quilts, a scorch warming beams down, a blazing substantial temperature over the earth's ground.
- Loverboi
Seasonal harvests,
show glorious scenery
Below azure blues
her response, golden spreads grace
Patchwork quilts abound in awe
I met a woman with body so firm and fresh
Tasted without shame the love’s powers
Amazed and gazed upon the mound Venus
In the velvet cavity between her thighs.
To be ravished on the linen dearly paid
Let her ache for thrust of male firmness
Let her loins hunger to have me inside
Feel her two points of two love globes.
Loosen the manhood beneath her clothes
Drew it into her entrails with a mighty thrust
Evaded her body voluptuous and sensuous
Made love causing dislodge her bones so cute.
In the clench of his fist man’s power lies
But the power of woman elsewhere lies
*****This is quite a fictional write*****
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Contest: Fanning the Embers of Catie Lindsey
Your hands all weathered and lined
From tales of the past
With quilted squares and patches
Sewn from the hundred memories
The rainbow of colors
Strips, rectangles, stars and fan designs
Making each piece an orginal
With beauty of its own
From great-grandma African wedding dress
To great-grandpa's field pants
Your Sunday dress and papa's Army pants
Form a warm and loving blanket
Keeping you warm and tightly snug
On the coldest winter night
Seeking peace and comfort
In the quiet of the night
Until the early morning sun
Passing a gift from generations down
Peace and love to you
For starting the history of my family tree
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