Poems For Quilters

Have you ever included a poem with a gift quilt? Here's are two fun poems to include with a quilt for a baby or toddler:

Your Quilt

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.
                            by Nancy Riddell

JUST FOR YOU

This quilt is made of cloth and thread

To place upon your little bed.

It's not an heirloom just to keep,

But to lie upon as you count sheep.

Or perhaps the floor's the perfect space

For a  teddy picnic place.

This quilt can be anything you dream,

From Superman's cape to the robe of a queen.

Pretend it's a raft adrift at sea,

Or a magic carpet on which you flee.

And when you’re tired as can be,

Just cuddle up while 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,

And I'll make another one just for you.

Below is a poem by Francia Stephens, a quilter friend of mine. She was in the first quilt group I attended in San Jose, California, in 1980-81. It appeared in Quilter's Newsletter Magazine in 1994. (Double-click on the image to read the words.)

The Quilting Bee
by Mary M. Harris, Ensign, 1998, 61

The women of our ward
welcome each new bride
with a quilt. Elbow to elbow
they sit around the frame
imprinting the cloth with stitches.
They bandy news items back and forth
like tennis players across a court--
new babies, illnesses, budgets,
schedules, clothes, and menus--
stretching the fabric of their lives.
Yet they dream and laugh and love.
The pristine coverlet spans their laps
like an unblemished prairie,
a wilderness to be conquered.
The women know it will be years
before the quilt is really finished;
they have witnessed the process before:
the residue of bitter tears;
oil from hands pressed in evening prayer;
milk and dampness from nursing babies;
colors faded from washings and sunlight
conspiring against the fresh, unflawed
coverlet and couple.
The women bleed a little with every quilt,
their hearts pricked by memories.
Still they dream and laugh and love
and quilt.