There once was a man from Nantucket
Who'd pick out a flower and pluck it:
   He'd pluck it and pin it
   And wear it a minute,
Then, finding another, would huck it.

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You rip me at the seams,
And make me more tattered than before.
How dare you wear me down,
And not be punished.
And how dare you not give me a second chance,
And just toss me out.

Some people keep things, and renew them.
You kept me but only until i was no longer what you wanted.
You cut and tore, you bleached and stretched me.

You toss me out

But i sit here hoping someone picks me up
And makes me beautiful.
I hope someday someone will patch up my tears,
And dye all my stains my very favorite color.
I hope someday i keep somebody warm.

Rose Nao Apr 1

I can't wait for the moment I can take my clothes off,
I pray this don't have to cut my time short.
I would rather be asleep
and not be bothered by all of this disheveled
clothing on the floor.
With wrinkles and pink polka dots,
I kick it underneath the bed and then pause.

I'm riding the waves of your waterfall.

The concrete slab of our front porch
Became a runway for me to strut new
Summer hand-me-down fashions.

A black garbage bag was my wardrobe,
Providing a bigger bounty of outfits
Than the clearance rack at K-Mart.

This was the largest collection of clothes
Destined for my body, bigger than the selection
My mother stashed on layaway for my birthday.

I cycled through constant costume changes,
Parading across the gray stage like a model,
Displaying new designs by brand names.

This was my New York Fashion Week,
An opportunity to embody new identities
By incarnating them for the public.

My neighbors clapped from their garages
As I rocked the retro sun-bleached Phillies
Championship t-shit for the first time.

July sunshine glinted off car windshields
Like a collection of flashing camera bulbs.

Every piece of fabric became new
When I debuted it for the world
On the catwalk in my front yard.

I celebrated my success with friends
By wearing a Power Rangers t-shirt
And running through sprinklers,

As our parents became backyard paparazzi,
Immortalizing the moment on disposable cameras.

Brent Kincaid Mar 18

I got off the bus
At Eighteenth and Vine
Everything in the window
I wanted to be mine
Beautiful shirts there,
Suits, shoes and hats.
But I couldn’t buy them
No, I couldn’t do that.

I was the wrong color
For Matlaw’s, He said.
That place was for coloreds
And rich pimps instead
Not a tow-headed white boy
What hasn’t got much sense.
I went there that one time
And, I haven’t been since.

But, oh I wanted that suit,
With cranberry hat and shoes.
Even though I had no place
To ever wear it, I knew.
But, I love that store there
On eighteenth and Vine
Even though I knew nothing
In that store could be mine.

The bus went by there
Every day I passed it by.
To this day, I grieve
And never understood why
A Caucasian market
Like I represented
Might go there inside there
And be soundly resented.

It wasn’t a good thing
It’s just how it was then
Before the civil rights thing
Would finally begin.
Yes, I never knew colors
They way others did.
But, what did I know?
I was just a young kid.

But, oh I wanted that suit,
With cranberry hat and shoes.
Even though I had no place
To ever wear it, I knew.
But, I love that store there
On eighteenth and Vine
Even though I knew nothing
In that store could be mine.

As he'd flip his hat
his ties have shone
though quaint in fact
just belied and bade
his call of freedom yet
his mapping afield where
he'd belay topography
and his harmony too
with hint of something new
even enticed quite averse
that hastened to implore
he cherished that linen
more refined in his attire
as he must wear it again.

Fall of Leaves
Spring in Rain
Winter as Mood
Summer the Day

athena baluyot Sep 2016

the words you said were sewed
into a beautiful piece of clothing
i wore for protection
protecting the cuts and bruises
that you made deeper and deeper

the clothing were in different hues
and worn on different occasions
the warmth it gives was far out
but soon enough, it was burning
and felt like walking on a combustible rock
but every time you make another piece of clothing
i always believed it was beautiful

- but i still believed
Sara Fielder Sep 2016

These flowered hours slither over my bare breast
and granite bottom lying me flat against
the washing machine waves
chopping my rhyme and riddle in half
with butterfly laughter alongside
the sage scented shoreline
This is my happy hippy hollow heart
where I can hear the wind without sin
and am not underfoot of your ethical authorization
This is the place where fear goes into hiding
and souls are turned into spheres of jade

Written by Sara Fielder © July 2015

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