"quilt" poems
Your name is the loveliest word
I've ever said. In my life
I've never known someone like you.
Your aura is a quilt
that I could spend all day in
if you'd let me.
I think the chances of me meeting
another you are absurd
and I find the whole idea
to be terrifying.
I could make so much room
for you in my heart.
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 2:41 PM UTC
Porous asphalt,
And bandaged, quilt
Homes puncture the
Neighborhood,
Which reads like a tattered
American flag; all
Coke Ads and weight loss
Billboards,
Half-burnt houses slant,
Like the hills of San Francisco—
Our own makeshift cable
Carts, limping up
And down the inclines.
We are slowly being burned
By our once golden sun—
Having been taught to
Bleach ourselves
Pale, tucked shamefully
In the shade.
Makeshift shanty towns
Which smell of mildew
And processed laundry soap,
Flimsy tin roofs
Tied with Kleenex and
Pizza Hut tarpaulins.
The fact that this neighborhood
Was christened "Freedom"
Strikes an empty pang.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 9:50 AM UTC
If I ruled the world, I would be,
Not a benevolent leader, nor,
Would I be a tyrannical leader.
I would be something much unexpected and, hopefully, humble.
You see, I would be a quilt maker. Not of fabric and thread, though.
I would stitch the different cultures together, leaving each individual one unique, yet united by a common thread.
I would sit with my diplomatic needle and peaceful stitching and lead those whom hold contempt for one another see the other's perspective.
I would show them that,
The world isn't in black and white,
It's in full, high-definition color.
So let's celebrate unity,
Equality,
Individuality,
And uniqueness.
Because in the final chapter,
We all already rule the world.
It's up to us to thread ourselves to each other,
Or pull ourselves apart by the seams.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 7:29 PM UTC
.
Snow drifts down
laying a lawn cold sheet
across the frozen ground,
creating art reliefs
like acid etching glass,
open space rolling and undulating,
in small hills and depressions,
bedecked in a veil of white.
The silence is deafening,
quiet having been enjoyed
and surpassed,
briefly punctuated by the call of a bird,
A sharp whistle that shrieks
and attacks the silence.
The fresh smell of snowfall wafts up
as it settles and glistens
in the light of silver moonbeams,
randomly peeping through clouds.
The taste of peace,
tranquility,
in the frigid air,
sends imagination soaring
from the desolation of isolation
to another time and place.
The snow falls,
falls,
in a relentless race for the ground,
all is still,
nothing stirs,
as the moor welcomes its quilt
and sleeps with a cold heart,
dreaming,
of being kissed by the Sun.
© Pagan Paul (28/05/18)
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 7:38 AM UTC
As Autumn approaches,
my mind drifts to the decaying leaves,
Halloween,
the cool, crisp breeze...
The communal understanding that eternal heaven comes only with
death—
that Summer must always go.
And that beloved Autumn must always usher in bitter Winter who lays the foundations
for an exalted Spring.
Oh hell...I hope for a long Autumn, I want to make it stay—
like a host who lectures his party guest for too long
so he won't look at his watch.
Oh how I need the frumpy sweaters and pumpkin heads on window sills!
Oh how I need the billowing steam from milky beige cocoa,
the misty light rain in the gray of the morning,
the high canopy of fleshy red flakes!
And echoes of children laughing as they eat candy on their way home from trick-or-treating—reminding me that life can be enjoyed
with sacred rituals and good company.
I need Autumn personified—
a cool-headed, crackling-fireplace-girl.
A quilt-maker, cloud-gazer, two-dogs-and-a-cat bookworm.
Someone comforting like oatmeal.
Someone surprising like the first day of school.
I need Autumn.
I need Autumn but it never seems to need me too.
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 9:23 PM UTC
Close your eyes
Your world, not extending
beyond the soft quilt under
your skin, unending
Soft ripples of cloth, and picturesque seams
Nothing here but
You, me, the sky, and soft dreams
I'll reach up and take the stars from the sky
If only to lay them at your feet
to place them in your hands
to bring light into those glazed eyes
or give a glow to a world so bland
and each one would be folded
into a beautiful origami castle
I, the lord, and you, the vassal
Or perhaps me as the king
and you as a queen, whichever
My gentle playmate.. which one is better?
I'm a majestic creature of the sky
You're an empty-faced child on a quilt
Each star shall be used as a stepping stone
so I might meet you in the place I built
Let us meet, as lovers, or
at least equals
on this starry floor
May 2, 2018
May 2, 2018 at 9:33 AM UTC
We dance in the ashes like
Literary scavengers.
In the ruins and after rages
We draw the shreds of words and pages
Around our naked bodies like Blankets,
A quilt of the quintessential struggle
Which all people suffer
Apr 10, 2018
Apr 10, 2018 at 3:25 AM UTC
~ ♢ ~
*this touch
of your hair
brings me
there~
a glimpse a
sense
the recipe
of you
this taste~
your dna
quilt~
threads of
woven
chemistry
the essence
of you~
forever to
descend
into my
deepest
pools
of memory
and dreams...*
~ ♢ ~
Copyright © 2016. Christi Michaels.
All Rights Reserved
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 3:58 PM UTC
Wrenches clanging, knuckles banging
A drop of blood
A new part here, and old part… there
A hotrod had been built!
A patchwork, mechanical, quilt
I drove past the banner that said “Welcome Race Fans”
Took a new route, behind the grandstands
And through my chipped window, I thought I could see
Some of the racers were laughing at me
I guess chalky grey primer is not to their taste
But I put my bucks mister in the right place
I chugged-popped past cars that dealers had sold
Swung into a spot, next to something old
Emerging with interest from under his hood
My neighbor said two words, he said “sounds good”
The voice on the loudspeaker tells us we’re up
Pre-staged, staged, then given the green
The line becomes blurred between man and machine
Bones become linkage
Muscle, spring
Fear, excitement
Time distorts ….
Color disappears …
Vision narrows…
Noise --- becomes music
Speed --- satisfaction
May 1, 2017
May 1, 2017 at 11:36 AM UTC
Warning:
The seagull flying over the Appalachians
could not possibly be amused by the
puzzles of an illegitimate composer
and the skyscrapers climbed.
1.
The skyscrapers were played by tall
rocks a girl climbed when she couldn't
remember if the cape she wore was
made from steel or newspaper.
11.
The newspaper they all read together
that morning (girl, boy, king, etc)
promised nothing but a fifty percent
chance of dandelions terrorizing the bus stop.
2.
The bus stop had since become a
dealer corner and the sunset behind
the mountains was blocked by the
flipping hair of a lost boy.
7.
The boy bought a toy for cheap -- it had
a built-in laser, so she stole it to blast a
whole hole in that guilt-ridden quilt hung
over the four dollar love seat.
6.
The love seat, she bought the day he went
to maple -- the soap dispenser was broken,
but she couldn't find anything new (that she
knew) to wash her hands with.
5.
The hands that handed her a hammer were covered
in promotions, so she stole the motorcycle when
they were watching the scarecrow going
through electric-shock, disco therapy.
8.
The therapy that she received from the
parrot-king and his troupe of square roots
was enough to make her not forget not regret
the boy with feathers in his ears.
10.
The ears she woke up with one morning
were different in shape than before
and the black fur she knew
was growing before her eyes.
3.
The eyes of the boy were wider than
the nightly news station promised, and
there wasn't really a difference
between caves and boxes in a town that small.
4.
The town she arrived in didn't have
a carpool lane or derby, so
she had to take her pet goldfish
to the river for his depressive state.
9.
The river wasn't as flooded after a couple
weeks of changing the tune on the jukebox
she found way before the departure
of her white gold pearls.
12.
The pearls she wore for her
coming-of-age were buried beneath
a dirt mound when she promised herself
to always insist on herself.
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 10:49 AM UTC
High Anxiety
takes another look at the sprawling quilt of life
weighed down by pounds of gear
and wonders if leaping from the plane is worth the ride
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 2:19 AM UTC
sundog—small and incomplete
half-chode rainbow.
light.
at least once a week for
the clever dreamer,
the girls with no eyes,
the men with small *******
there is
fortune in the river—it swims
away when I take you breath
down to it in a bucket. and my hands
quilt flawless wade of
nighttime water.
*where is the colored light?
nowhere, sundog.
nowhere.*
Jun 23, 2017
Jun 23, 2017 at 12:31 PM UTC
I'd love to love you
and hold
your hand.
We could
pick sunflowers and
I'd put them
in your hair
while you made faces
at the sun.
We'd crunch
through orange leaves
and rub red
noses together
to keep
warm.
I'd make you
hot chocolate
and wrap you up
in my heaviest
quilt under the stars,
and in the
morning
we'd find ourselves
wound up
tightly
and so very content.
But only if you'd
let me love you.
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 10:27 PM UTC
and
just like that
I am falling
unfolding in your eyes
layers of shadows unraveling
in polar-laced
spirals of hunger
deep freeze melting upon tongue
an icy build-up
thawed in seconds
for my very cells burn
beneath your gaze
as you take in the fullness
of my presence
despite the smoky,
glass-paned haze
My presence-
suffused with
the darkness of silk-
I want it to graze your skin
the most gentle feather
stroking emotion
coaxing out the
delicately-wrapped
firestones in you
spinning them into
a frenzied lava-slaked ocean
and then those unexplained,
flurried lattice flakes
that somehow soothe and cool
within this inferno
of just-missed proximity
My essence
is cast like a net
over you
as we dive into
the volumes
as I pull the
heated visions out of your mind
feel your heart's closest
most tiny reverberations
little beats barely heard
yet in some unlikely way
pump blood into mine
Undo me
as my wet blue pools
dissolve into yours
my trussed-up implosions
flowing out in air-spun tempest
Unwrap my defenses
a soldered-up dam breaking
a glass tubular bell
hairline fracture quaking
Strip me bare
no need to even touch me
for the vapors of
your voice
remove the layers
of debris
like the steam of earth
irons out
the blackened quilt of sky
to reveal
the altar
of our
stars
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 4:07 AM UTC
What are we doing out here
In the wild wild west
Are you showing me something
Or are we here to rest
We've traveled a long road
But I'm not ready to settle yet
Spider crawling up my arm one day
Blood on my quilt the next
Blood splot on the bathroom floor
Hair chopped off
Cut my finger
Cut that ****
Third eye minds eye know you can open it
**** nugs nudging you toward it
Chugging fluoride gotta know its blocking it
Depression crippling lazy thinking I'm not getting anywhere anymore
Dated a slick-back sexist slug of a human
He haunts me in my dreams
I'm trying to dream big dream of everything
But his face shows me where I've been
His hands done healing flex ****** veins, stop stealing!
His mom sewing his mistakes back together again, stop helping!
His dad fueling the fire again at home, stop procreating!
Its not the job of a lover to raise your significant other
Its not my job to shower you with everything I have day after ******* day when all I get in return is leftover pizza and a sore ******
-SOME PEOPLE DON'T KNOW HOW TO LOVE
IT IS NOT ON YOU TO SHOW THEM HOW
SOME WILL TRY OUT THE MOTIONS WITH OTHER MOTIVATIONS IN MIND
BUT LOVE IS NOT JUST AN ACTION IT IS TRULY A LIFESTYLE
Without love I would be dead
Fill
With intention
Else you're dead
Living isn't that easy
Same struggles every day
Being healthy isn't that easy
Definitely more expensive that way
Being human isn't that easy
Hunting my own spirit day after day
Not wanting
Feeling bad
Not supporting
But loving
I have something to say god ******
And don't dare tell me its just the drugs
We need to start questioning what love is
The lack of it is ******* stuff up
I'm high right now if you didn't know it
If I was sober would the words still come out
You say you love me but you don't support it
But how can you love if you don't understand it
Love is unconditional
Love is support
How are you loving when you try to change it
There is no fixing my humanity
You don't know what makes me happy
No one can be trusted
Love
Choice
Choosing
To be loved
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 4:27 AM UTC
Something about the woven leather
Reminds me of sandals you once wore,
In the garden enjoying the sun.
Your shorts and that old cotton vest
the one that was probably once white,
but Nanny wasn't around to do your whites anymore,
and so it grew greyer as your hair grew whiter.
The sun's rays danced through the waves of your hair
and into the garden,
Filling it with light, shining down upon plastic flowers planted among coloured stones.
Smells of stale cakes from bargain stalls and the sugar from flat lemonade in murky cups wafted out the back door and clashed with that overpowering cooking smell as you sat in your sun lounger and baked yourself in vegetable oil, cooking your Irish skin to a crisp!
The flower patterns of your walls in the garden and cast iron patio furniture,
The plastic mat that covered the carpet and always managed to trip us,
The halogen heater in the parlour and blanket on your knees,
The clumps of bullseye sweets in your locker and Quality Street tin of empty wrappers,
The damp and stale smells of the kitchen in your care,
The holy pictures and moving Jesus on the stairs,
The bath marbles we loved to play with and how they'd smash upon collision,
And the pink, silk quilt that enveloped your bed,
They're all pieces in the mosaic that illustrates your memory now and they'll never be broken.
I've glued them so tightly together it's as strong as your jaw!
Your jaw, always known to make eyes water when you'd turn during a goodbye kiss on your cheek and crush our noses! Even when we tried to approach with caution! But oh what anyone of us wouldn't give to feel that again, just to say goodbye and think we'd be over to the Bluebell to see you again.
So now I sit and look at the woven leather on my sandals and remember all the details, all the memories that are woven together to make you. Sometimes I wish I could click the heels together.
Bluebell
Bluebell
Bluebell
And be back in that garden, once more.
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 5:41 AM UTC
Surfing across the glaze of light
Multiverse into one, this universe shines bright
Condensed energy upon my sight
Mystery upon this 'life'
All is multiverse stitched into one universe
All universes stitched upon each other
Tension upon layer and layers
Heaven, Hell, reincarnation, all are bound by makers
One moves upon a series of 'matter' or vibrations after the shell is removed or gained
However rather low, high, negative, or positive energy, all is remained
Logic
A mere barrier designed and captivated by a mind
Grasping your vision, your perception, your multiverse
Either a hinder or power surge
Forming pieces of ones quilt to converge
A poisonous psychedelic
The rarity of an ancient relic
It is yours, whatever it may be
Hold close, as it is all you may have
As the 'universe' of the multiverse leans and meets according to so
Then raving within your conscious, you see a brighter glow
You pursue, you make the most
Using the now gleam to move upon the multiverse you hope to have
Doing all in reality in order to keep the spark alive
What seems to be drab
What seems to strive
All according to the beholder
We keep these lights seemingly closer
Whatever they maybe
Whomever they maybe
What has never begun to start will never be over
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 12:02 AM UTC
All she wanted her horoscope to give her
was a sock-foot cozy kind of relationship.
One that wore SPF 30 and smelled of sugar candy.
That would have been just fine.
Instead she got a surprise pancakes kind of beast.
Bear hugs, dog kisses, ***********
sumptuous battles, book aisles, 2am feast
and little silver spoon in the middle night.
We never made it to the papers,
so we built a patch-quilt nest.
The quirky loving is alright,
you dress me in my Sunday best.
Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 9:22 PM UTC
Can I weave myself into you
Like a blanket, or patchwork quilt?
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 4:36 PM UTC
The antique shop,
a cauldron where memories
from far and near boil and froth,
where chronological order
didn't matter, time stood still,
part real, as much magic,
different lives from distant lands and time
rolled in to one.
Here they met, by chance,a man
and a mysterious woman,with an eye for unusual,
among what was on display were
things a conman would seek
and also favorite stuff fit for kings,
artifacts and articles they must have used
or hankered after.
Past uses these museum pieces
as baits for us, secretly preparing us
to surrender before future,
unkind and rude in mind;
he changed roles as both con and king,
there was a constant yes,
she was the mate in each
he couldn't take eyes off her,
and she asked what he looks for,
"The famous ****** quilt,
that was to be mine twice before,
I missed making it mine,
narrowly every time"
He wondered how did he
make up that story so quick.
"I can take you to the quilt,
but it isn't here" she said
not a bit hesitant
He was flabbergasted by
the turn of events,as if
a hidden scripted move shows the way
They left by her car,
she was eloquent about
the effects of the ****** quilt.
As they stood near the ****** quilt,
in this room he thought was part
of an antique shop, the place looked deserted,
and her eyes shone when she suggestively said
"Want to test the effect? Don't be disappointed"
It wasn't. How could one imagine, that
the quilt can be so voluptuous.
That secret shook him out of his shell,
she had nothing to do with antique of any kind,
just another visitor like him, and the quilt
was an ingenious plot she hatched
in keeping with my sudden flourish,
the quilt, was a new addition in her bed
patch worked in silk, light weight,
it wasn't a blanket, but ****** in its very touch
it was them, the moment of adventure they found
had brought the rapture,who would regret?
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 1:23 PM UTC
Soft dirt surrounds me like a heavy quilt
The grass and flowers above my head wilt
Why does nobody love me or even care?
They spit on my grave with no pain to bare
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 11:14 AM UTC
Thread. Pierce. Weave.
Her leathered fingers pulling it though from one single taut line, until it forms a flowing tapestry of a quilt.
She forgets. The mail. The laundry. The casserole that burned her house down.
The threads are her memories that have been lost. Each one a moment, a place, a person.
She forgets. Their names.
These threads are the last she will weave.
Family acts as thread. The quilt that catches her as she falls farther from herself into an image as faded as the last photo of her husband.
Thread. Pierce. Weave. Thread Pierce Weave.
She forgets. The quilt.
The daughter finds it, and sees a half spelled out name.
She forgets. Her name.
The daughter brings her mother her memories.
The daughter helps guiding her mother’s hand.
Thread. Pierce. Weave. Thread. Pierce. Weave. Thread. Pierce. Weave.
Threads become patches, patches from the cloth.
Thread. Pierce. Weave. Thread. Pierce. Weave.
Mother and daughter weave together an inheritance.
The quilt is finished, a single name. She utters the name she has been trying to find.
She remembers. Her Grandson.
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 4:10 PM UTC
the urban ecosystem
breeds the urban beast;
the two-legged feral brute
they board their clockwork motorcages
the young ones in predatious packs
the old, too weathered to care
animal autonomy
born from sweatshop routines
i imagine myself
as a metropolitan jane goodall
observing and assimilating
taking note of the cacophony of
hoots and and hollers
the city-born mating calls
the high-topped courtship dances
******* civility born from enslaved mindsets
a young, dark-skinned boy
let's rhyme flow freeformed
to the rhythm of a young girls dancing feet
stomps and claps excite the celebration
of abandoned social etiquette
and of my foreign presence
i resemble some exotic missing link
a mix of this, that and the other
my skin, a rare quilt
and this draws more attention
than a gold-dusted african queen
i place myself in the back
peering through the windows of this transit jungle
feeling my heart skip beats
boom...boom...shhhh...
i must've left my rhythm in my other heritage
because i can't catch the ancient flow
but my neck leads my head in bobs
my brain rattles with old soul memories
and i see these young folks on the train
held back by centuries of black struggle
but forever rejoicing in african pulse
forever embodying our ancestoral pride
and i think, how peculiar
on the outside looking in like a fishbowl
exiled from my own brown-skinned tribe
with my oppression fitted like a glove
my blackness a mere disguise
my blackness camouflage
my blackness
not quite
black
enough
Feb 1, 2012
Feb 1, 2012 at 4:45 PM UTC
What would you miss the most
if you had to leave this life
the book asked.
I’d miss you
your big brown eyes
your comforting smile
your big heart
your laugh
the tone of your voice
and the way you say, “You know?”
when you’re on an enthusiastic roll
your lively spirit
your yummy omelets with bits of stewed tomatoes
your relationship with the divine
the deepness
of connection we have
our conversations
telling you about my ****** afternoon
and watching you really listen to me
the way you cackle when we watch our favorite comedy
watching you quilt
your touch
your luscious lips
talking to you when we’ve just awakened
and the way your voice is soft and innocent
speaking our gratitude about our lives together
sharing our pain
being able to weep with you
when I am discouraged
or get inspired by something
how your eyes sparkle when I do so
the way you love our cats
caring for you
you caring for me..
Just to list a few
Jul 1, 2019
Jul 1, 2019 at 7:23 AM UTC
A rapid flowing thought,
pampered easily into a worry.
Anxiety builds within moments - from shameful musing.
Bubbling champagne coursing through veins; hidden under ghostly white skin.
A simple life based off a well placed lie, unravels like a fraying quilt.
Could you forget as easily; as you could forgive?
Erasing a memory.
Cleaning the façade of our blood from the soaked table.
Tablets and tomb, both alike,
soaked in the redden water of my long forgotten innocence.
I am sorry for the lies I've told through our story.
I am sorry for my secrets kept, locked firmly, behind close doors.
But I am not sorry for loving you truly, body and soul.
So cast me out,
Send me away.
But know my leaving is nothing but me, showing my love for you.
All for the love of you.
Oct 19, 2012
Oct 19, 2012 at 1:50 AM UTC