Skeins Poems | Examples

IN A GILDED INSTANT

IN A GILDED INSTANT

The monarch’s wings opened as a picture book, fluttering by. It glided, uncertain but undeterred, through a gentle haze of gold and shadow, the garden’s hush punctuated by the faint murmur of leaves. Sunlight filtered in rare skeins, dappling the monarch’s patterned wings as it hovered, hesitated, and then pressed onward—a flicker stitched between petal and air. The world, for one gilded instant, seemed spun from elegant silk.

Painted in oranges, kissed with black lace,
the monarch glides through the air and
pirouettes in a ballet of grace.

Oh, to witness her beauty, a fleeting affair
a living poem, a jeweled muse~
a moment suspended in delicate air.

(Poem written for USPS Stamp Poetry Contest, Robert James Liguori, sponsor)

Craft Market at Pyree Fields

Each month a craft fair, 
is held at Pyree Fields in the open air.
All the local crafters are there,
proudly showing off their homemade fare.

Behind each stall, a pair of eyes stares,
hoping you will buy some of their wares,
or better still, admire their works and cares,
in making things, every devoted crafter shares.

Step right up to the craft fair.
Baskets, blankets, knitted ware.
Soaps that smell like orchard rains.
Scarves crocheted from woolen skeins.
Leather belts, and rings of brass.
Goblets and bowls of colored glass.
Jams from berries, wild and tart.
Paintings brushed with love of heart.
Patchwork quilts and scarves of dreams.
Homemade fudge, sweets and ice-creams.
Pottery crockery with glazes that swirl.
Wind-chimes and vanes, ribbons that twirl.
Wooden goblets and bowls, timber-scented schmooze.
Wax candles set, in solemn rows, pining like pews.

All around, the crowds have streamed,
past stalls half-baked and well esteemed.
With every artist standing up so tall,
So sure their work outshines them all.
So let's not disappoint them! 
Join in Folks! Cheers!

Coming Back

Thoughts keep coming back
of late afternoons
with the dark wings
of currawongs weaving
pathways through the high 
branches leaving long threads 
of song draped across trees -
the drifting skeins
of woodsmoke from winter fires
burning in cozy rooms,
eyes fixed in hypnotic stares 
on dancing flames and minds 
meandering the past, some
about to fall asleep.

Thoughts keep coming back
of snow falling silently 
in feathery flakes
outside the window
and in the distance, an owl's 
plaintive call going unanswered
in the thick air.
I listen to the sound of the fire,
a ticking wall clock,
breathings from beneath
a folded quiet and the drip
of melt water from somewhere
in the dark. I would like to stay
here but the fire is dying out
and its glowing embers
are nearly spent. A chill
is seeping through the cracks
opening between the past
and the present.

Common

From beneath a veil,
A shroud itself hidden,
Anonymity It's masquerade.
Tired secrets languish,
Benighted by nature,
Emerald, to pale green and white, from jade.
A sough in the head,
Of their tepid maker,
Whispers nothing, wholly unaware.
Crafty camouflage,
For the crafter of secrets,
Who never knew they were there.
The irony aroma,
Stagnant blood without pressure,
Metallic, unmoved, unaffected.
Averse to sense,
Illusory marionette's,
Clear strings, turbid skeins undetected.
And the irony lies,
With an off thirst disguised,
By the growing pines of set minds thought unique.
And as trite as the urges,
Desperate purges,
Like mewls of the sheep seeking shade from critique.

Candyfloss

a spangled stand stood at a summer fair
the sugar shack sells at nine dollars a treat
pastel skeins of silk spun lighter than air
melt-in-mouth-goodness, so delectable and sweet

each tender bite is a firework of ecstasy
but this transient delight sure costs a pretty penny!

Moonlight Over the Hill

Written: January 23, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Regina Mcintosh

"There are twilight times when only the moon will muse on my misery." By POET.
                       ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shadowy stillness does embrace
Showing the town such a showplace
People are fully dressed for sleep
Love aching is a wound so deep

The trees that line the waterway
In morning softness, gentle sway
She has no will but pain and weep
Love aching is a wound so deep

A painter shares his scene with care
Each moment bears a love affair
Regain some bliss others keep
Love aching is a wound so deep 

The river's voice is full of pain
Gorged in tremulous skeins of rain
With love, its beauty holds a heap
As it flows onward to the sweep

Love casts a moon hush in the gloom
Seraph love time starts to assume
The moon shone down a hillock steep
Love aching is a wound so deep

Grandma Lulu the Knitting Queen

Grandma Lulu loved to knit.
She was the knitting queen.
She has been doing this for ninety years.
Click. Click. Click. Click.Click.

She lived in a house full of yarns.
Baby yarns, skinny yarns, fluffy yarns, shiny yarns.
Yarns of many colors, light yarns, dark yarns, balls and skeins.
Knit purl purl knit; knit purl, purl, knit.

For Christmas we relatives got slippers.
Blue, yellow, orange, red, green, gray slippers.
Our babies got knitted layette sets.
Click. Click. Click. Click.Click.

She also created knitted Christmas ornaments.
Penguins, socks, or ruffled candy canes.
If you visited her, she never looked up.
You heard the constant click of her knitting needles.

The first thing we noticed after her funeral
Was the sad silence of her house; no longer a home.

Enlightened By Whispering Angels

Alone, where winds had smoothed the cobblestone,
a young novice sat, solemn and austere,
brooding over mistakes made, seeds past sown.
Entering the abbey; a fate severe,
she wept with sadness when dismay had grown.

Praying, she cried, "In Your Word I abide."
Her soul ached; tears were silently falling.
"Strengthen my faith, Father. Be at my side.
Forgive my despair. This is my calling.
I know from You there's nothing I can hide."

Stark loneliness grew; hope quickly dwindled.
In solitude her days would reach their end.
Then came enlightenment. Faith rekindled
in whispers to her as angels descend.
She dropped skeins of yarn, carefully spindled.

Down on penitent knees she bent and bowed.
"Forgive my apathy. I've been a fool
to hesitate, Father, for I have vowed
my humble life to serve beneath Your rule."
With an overjoyed heart, she spoke aloud.

My Eldorado

Oh, give me a home where majestic buffalo roam,
Where antelope graze and rushing streams foam!
A place where snow-capped mountains reach for the sky,
And gentle winds waft through blue spruce with soothing sigh!
Oh, give me a home where golden eagles soar on high;
Where skeins of geese delight my senses with their clarion cry!
A home where splendid sunrises greet me each morn,
And spectacular sunsets, The Master Artist, the sky doth adorn!
Oh, give me a home where verdant fields thrive with golden grain;
Where cowpokes herd cantankerous cattle on wide-open plain!
A place where magnificent mountain goats and sheep can be viewed,
On steep and rocky tors, content with their own, seeking solitude!
Oh, give me a home where in autumn, elk vent their plaintive blare,
Seeking to charm the feminine species to provide himself an heir!
Where glorious Columbine blossoms grow in profusion,
And golden leaves of aspen create a fairy-land-like illusion!
Unlike the hapless and adventurous Conquistador,
I've found that home and so very much more!
I've found my beautiful Eldorado,
Right here in Colorful Colorado!

The Workshops of Nirvana

I’m the Seller of Rainbows
Purveyor of such Delights
Adding joy and pleasure to
So many Rituals and Rites.
Sliding through the portals 
In connected webs of space
Physically always staying
In the very same place.

Just changing perceptions 
Of the merged  multiverse
Carrying skeins of Rainbows
In states many and diverse.
Never truly certain which
Would be  the preferred form
In this current version 
Of any perceived norm.

Aurals and Orals, Tangibles, 
And the latest sensory flows
All to be added to traditional 
Seven coloured visual shows
Keeping all the Workshops  
Working at a breakneck speed
To fulfil the mass of orders that
Help to meet the constant need

For the  Rainbows of Nirvana
That bring delight and pleasure
To the many forms of beings 
To their many  forms of leisure.
The Workshops of Nirvana
In such a convenient place
At the Centre of the Universe,
Confluence of Time and Space.

Moonlight Sleigh Ride

A brilliant moon casts its mellow glow,
O'er fields covered with glistening snow!

Skeins of geese fly on high silhouetted 'gainst the moon;
The scene is all set for a sleigh ride, so very opportune!

The sleigh has been shed of a years build-up of dust,
And its runners have been waxed, a requisite must!

Dashing Dan was harnessed with jingly bells of course;
For generations he's drawn the sleigh, this gentle and faithful horse!

Mom, Dad and the kids snuggle 'neath quilts warm and snug;
"Giddy up" says Dad and Dan leaps forward with a gentle tug!

They sing 'Jingle Bells' and other Yuletide tunes with joy;
Dad reminisces about sleigh rides with his Grandpa as a boy!

They sip mugs of warm cider and coffee to ward off the chill,
Hailing others with 'Merry Christmas', wishing them goodwill!

Arriving home and after Dan was stabled and the sleigh was stowed,
They sip cocoa nigh the hearth to warm up from the cold!

Precious memories were met this night for future family lore,
As they anticipate next year's moonlight sleigh ride once more.

Entry for Constance La France's "Writing Challenge - Write A Christmas Poem" Contest
25 November 2022

Battlegrounds

Childhood crept through
those long summer days
when the smell of pine
hung in the hot air.
Deep in the shadows
of that besieged acre,
heaven and hell played
out a lethal game
in what crawled, wriggled
or took wing. Death there
was silent and cries
froze in gaping mouths.

Dragonflies patrolled
the boundary
like miniature demons
and in hollows,
mandibles gnawed
on nerves
until the last thread
snapped and let panic loose.
Gowned in finery,
other terrors waited
to welcome fleeing souls
with a fatal sting
or to paralyze the will
and render living flesh
food for offspring.

At night, screams
broke out
and blew across
battlegrounds
to tangle in the thickened
skeins of dreams.
Years on, all have
sunken deeper
and slurried
into a faceless fear.
There are times,
even now,
when you can hear
the sobs of those still
wandering the wastelands
of restless nights
whilst good people sleep.

Have You Completed Anything Yet

She had talked her uncle into being her money patron at last.
He encouraged her to purchase skeins of yarn; it was a blast!
She kept telling him that she was making something for him.
She would have one idea, then go off on another whim.

Have you finished anything? He asked her after sixteen years.
That she was only wasting his yarn money was one of his fears.
So, she came out wearing a hat with skeins of yarn on her head.
Speechless was her former patron, her annoyed Uncle Ted.

Stricken Angel

The air is clearer up here
can almost taste it,
heaven knows..
just above the stair
where skeins of rope-like hair
lie still
festering..
all in neat rows.  

Why was it to be? cast down, why?
Here where they don't dream
of flying or understand 
the simple rites..
the good in dying.

Years now I wallow among them,
though the forest still knows me.
Trying a smile on, first in eons  
the rivers too..
they remember 'fore the dark modesty  
the arches in light and artistry..

There'll come a time Lazarus..,
Aye,
when they won't heed 
or recognize
nor longer find need 
in us.

And all the clocks unchimed
will turn back to begin
again...

Oak Trees Are Crying In Kansas

It is one of those windy Kansas days
Felled oak trees roll along the country roads
Their roots are scraped and torn like hopscotch knees
They are as gnarled now as skeins of worn-out yarn
Do you hear them crying as they are being uprooted and blown?
I do.

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