Poems
©
Poems
©
They do not make them any more,
For quilts are cheaper at the store
Than woman’s labor, though a wife
Men think the cheapest thing in life.
But now and then a quilt is spread
Upon quaint old walnut bed,
A crazy quilt of those days
That I am old enough to praise.
Some woman sewed these points and squares
Into a pattern like life’s cares.
Here is a velvet that was strong,
The poplin that she wore so long,
A fragment from her daughter’s dress,
Like her, a vanished loveliness;
Old patches of such things as these,
Old garments and old memories.
And what is life? A crazy quilt;
Sorrow and joy, and grace and guilt,
With here and there a square of blue
For some old happiness we knew;
And so the hand of time will take
The fragments of our lives and make,
Out of life’s remnants, as they fall,
A thing of beauty, after all.
I’ve always known that life was full of obstacles and woes.
I’ve learned to live with sickness, death, taxes, heaven knows.
I’ve taken all these things in stride, the problems and strife,
But one I didn’t count on was a Quilter for a wife.
Come home from work, the stove is cold, the dirty clothes still there, The suit I wanted cleaned today, still laying on the chair.
“Where’s Mama, son?” I asked my boy, “This house is such a mess.
Why, all the sheets are missing, we’ve been burglarized I guess.”
“No, Mama stripped down all the beds and took the sheets away.
She cut them into little strips and pieced two quilts today.
“ Why every pair of pants I own is cut in little squares.
“I’m demonstrating appliqué”, my lovely wife declares.
I show up in the office in my boxer shorts and tie.
My secretary giggles and the clerks give me the eye.
It’s freezing cold, I’m shaking and my knees are turning blue.
My boss considered firing me, but his wife’s a quilter too.
I told him what happened and he said he could believe,
I noticed that the coat he wore had only half a sleeve.
A husband needs a loving wife to help him when he’s ill, To soothe and comfort, mop his brow and help him take his pills.
Should influenza strike you, your life’s not worth a dime,
Particularly if it hits at Quilt Convention time.
You’ll lay there in an empty house in pain and deep despair While the workshops and the lectures keep your wife’s attention there.
You learn to ask no questions when she smiles and drives away
Rushing to the Fabric Shop for a big sale there today.
She’s gone for hours, then drags back home all bleary eyed and down,
Now who’d believe a lie like that? She must be running round.
But I’ll get by, I always do, some days are fine, some not.
When your wife’s a Quilter you tolerate a lot.
I know that when my life is through and I pass away
They’ll have to set my funeral so it’s not a Quilting Day.
How much like a patchwork quilt we are;
Some of us are bright and gay,
some are quieter, more delicate and subdued.
Yet how well we blend
together,
The quieter ones set off the colorful.
The brighter ones accentuate the pastels.
Often, the more fragile pieces
Hold the sturdy ones together;
Blessed are we to be varied.
ODE TO A QUILTER by Gloria E. Webster
‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house,
not a creature was stirring, except a wee little mouse.
And Mama in her kerchief still stitching away
to finish a quilt for the very next day.
“I’ve done one for Steve and one for sweet Sue.
There’s one for young Paul and my Sarah too.
If only I finish this last one tonight,
little Mary will surely cry with delight!
Then out on the lawn
there arose such a clatter,
she jumped from her chair to see what was the matter.
“Now what’s all that noise,” she thought with a frown,
“I do hope the old chimney’s not falling down!”
She peered out the window and what did appear,
but a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer.
With a little spry driver so lively and quick,
she knew it certainly was not old Saint Nick!
And in a twinkling she heard on the roof,
the prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
Then down the chimney He came dressed all in red.
She thought she was dreaming and still in her bed!
He was clad all in fur from his head to his
foot
and he called out to her, “You should clean out that soot!”
“Clean out that soot? No time to sew?
Young man, you’re crazy—now go, go, Go!
I must finish this quilt before the morning light.
I’ve been sewing all the day and most of the night.”
He danced as he worked, a right jolly old elf,
and she laughed as she watched him in spite of herself.
Then he filled all the
stockings from his patchwork sack.
It was stuffed to the brim and hung on his back.
He gave a quick nod and when he was through,
smiling at her, up the chimney he flew.
Dazed, she wondered if that really might be...
“No,” she murmured, “my eyes are playing tricks on me.”
And grimly she put needle to cloth once again.
“Next year, truly, on January First I’ll begin,
no more sewing and quilting on the very last night.
These weird dreams are too much.” Then she turned out the light.
“Yes, next year I’ll be organized. I’ll be done on time.”
(“Ho, ho, chortled Santa, “Seems I’ve heard that line.”)
Now her quilts were all wrapped and under the tree.
Of course, not all were complete—it just couldn’t be.
But tucked into two boxes were notes with this line,
“To be finished after Christmas—Mom ran out of time!”
And Santa was heard to exclaim as he drove out of sight,
“MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL—AND HAPPY QUILTING EACH NIGHT!”
She learned to quilt on Monday,
Her stitches were very fine,
She forgot to thaw out dinner,
So we went out to dine.
She quilted miniatures
on Tuesday.
She says they are a must.
They really were quite lovely,
But she forgot to dust.
On Wednesday it was a sampler,
She says the stippling’s fun.
What highlights! What shadows!
But the laundry wasn’t done.
Her patches were on
Thursday,
Green, yellow, blue and red.
I guess she really was engrossed,
She never made the bed.
It was wall hangings on
Friday,
In colours she adores.
It never bothered her at all,
The crumbs on all the floors.
I found a maid on Saturday,
My week is now complete.
My wife can quilt the hours away
The house will still be neat.
Well, it’s already
Sunday,
I think I’m about to wilt.
I cursed, I raved, I ranted,
The MAID has learned to QUILT!
Sit down and I’ll tell you a story
Wrap yourself up in my quilt.
Here’s a cup of my coffee
The wood stove is filled to the hilt.
Quilting
is more than a hobby.
To me it is a record of life,
Recording for me all the good times,
Remembering for me all the strife.
This
patch was made from a bunting.
The baby had now moved away.
And this one came from my sister,
From a dress that was yellow and grey.
Below
this one from my brother
Is one from my aunt who just died.
If you look close you can cipher
Her signature on the left side.
And
here over next to the corner
Is a piece from my mother’s old skirt.
And this one right in the middle
Was made from my father’s red shirt.
This
one came out a bit crooked.
The material was faded and worn.
No wonder it looks so dejected,
It was woven before I was born.
Beneath
this one at the bottom
Is one that is worth more than gold.
It came from my old winter jacket,
It kept me safe from the cold.
This
blue one I found in the cellar
When we moved to this house long ago.
Who knows what story it covets,
This old, faded, worn calico.
Above
the green one in the centre
Is my most favourite one of all.
It looks like the leaves by the river
Just after they drop in the fall.
And
let’s not forget this pink gingham,
I know that it’s seen better days,
But I like the way that it mingles
With the yellows and purples and greys.
Before
you finish your coffee
And you have to be on your way,
Take a look at this one near the bottom,
It came from my Great Uncle Ray.
He
travelled the world in a schooner,
He brought back such wonderful things.
The material is of the richest,
Fit only for princes and kings.
Some
store their treasures in bank vaults,
Some keep them hidden away,
But I keep mine here on my quilt top
Where I can enjoy them each day.
It’s OK if you sit on your quilt.
It’s OK if your bottle gets spilt.
If you swallow some air
and you burp, don’t despair;
It’s OK if you spit on your quilt.
There
are scraps old and new on your quilt.
Put together for you on your quilt.
If your gums feel numb
‘Cause your teeth haven’t come,
it’s OK if you chew on your quilt.
We expect you to lie on your quilt.
If you hurt, you may cry on your quilt.
On a cold rainy night,
Don’t you fret; you’re all right.
You’ll be snug, warm and dry on your quilt.
A QUILTER IS SOMEONE WHO: By Rosalyn F. Manessee
Saves ten boxes of scraps,
Has one corner of the house an eternal mess,
Buys half a yard of calico,
When on vacation, goes to the fabric store in every town,
Loves flea markets,
Is always looking for new ideas,
Spends sleepless nights thinking about colour combinations,
Has a tottering pile of books and magazines in her room,
Visits every five-and-dime,
Is always picking up pins and bits of thread from the floor,
Has a callous on her left index finger,
Is always looking for more quilt patterns,
Begs her friends for remnants,
Works for a year on a quilt, then gives it away,
Watches TV with a needle in her hand,
Is forever ironing,
Is never bored,
Knows one hundred patterns by heart,
Forgets to water the lawn,
Can get it all together,
Finds treasures at a garage sale,
Always has time to help a friend.
I have
an affliction
Or is it an addiction?
It really is hard to say.
I wake
up each morning,
Sleepy and yawning,
Not ready to face the day.
All
night I've thought of plans,
New patterns, designs and bands,
Until I have lost my way.
Each
quilt I see
Looks good to me.
I'll make it, come what may.
The
more I learn,
The more I yearn
To make a quilt that's gay.
With
swatches galore
I still want more!
But somebody's got to pay!
Yes,
it is an addiction,
Not an affliction,
And I know it is here to stay!
This quilt is made of cloth and
thread
To place upon your little bed.
It's not an heirloom-just to keep,
But to lay upon as you count sheep.
Or perhaps the floor's the perfect place
For a doll and teddy picnic space.
This quilt can be anything you can dream-
From superman's cape to the robe of a queen.
Pretend it's a raft adrift at sea,
Or just cuddle up when you watch TV.
So use it up and wear it out-
I promise I won't yell or pout.
Just tell me when its days are through,
An I'll make another, just for you.
Ten
quilters were standing in a line,
One disliked the President, and then there were nine.
Nine
ambitious quilters offered to work late,
One forgot her promise, and then there were eight.
One lost enthusiasm, and then there were seven.
Seven
loyal quilters got into a fix;
They quarreled over programs, and then there were six.
Two became indifferent, then there were four.
Four
cheerful quilters who never disagreed
'Til one got discouraged, and then there were two.
One joined a health club, and then there was one.
One
faithful quilter was feeling rather blue.
Met with a colleague and then there were two.
Two
earnest quilters, each enrolled one more
Doubling their number, and then there were four.
Four
determined quilters just could not wait
'Til each had on other, and then there were eight.
Eight
excited quilters signed up eight more;
in another six verses, there will be 1,024!
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Both the name Quiltalotamus and the image are copyrighted.