#skirt - Hello Poetry

And I could be a pretty girl I'll wear a skirt for you And I could be a pretty girl Shut up when you want me to-clairo

0

Dec 13, 2025

Dec 13, 2025 at 3:50 PM UTC

giarose

Pretty girl

And I could be a pretty girl I'll wear a skirt for you And I could be a pretty girl Shut up when you want me to-clairo

4

The Pleated Skirt by Brandy Channing It was in San Fran, a destination chosen for its variety of vicarious distractions, romance was in the ebb stage of ebb & flow, and there was a sufficiency of distraction there, that my mind could be there, in actuality, in the present, in the moment, accounted for, and the cancer of rooted sadness, that wastrel feeling, was temporal boxed, in my traveling attic. On a cable car, of which the hills, insisted, when the lactic acid, persisted, be re~viewed as an actual conveyance methodology. A-man got on, sitting near enough, but not invasively too near, and began a study of me; perhaps an exercise in memorization for a sculpture or a painting, that would be shown, in a gallery quaint, nearby in Benicia, and destined to be displayed (dis~splayed?) near a picture window in a big old home overlooking the North Bay, as the She~Muse mused amusedly. Or it was just another inspection by “a man,” common enough that it was noticed and noted, but attended to with a practiced nonchalance, which is a French word, meaning nonchalance. Ah! descending near the Wharf, He~too, as he was now labeled, stored and forgettably tabled, He~too descended as well. A meandering into familiarity, of ancient memories of smells, of clam chowder, gulls and sea lions the inhabitants of Pier 39, all traced my face with a grimacing smile, for sometimes one lives in a state of duality. But a voice from behind, gently inquired if permission was grantable to recite a poem, yes, directed to me, yes, from He~too, who, awkwardly shifted his stance from side to side, as if performing a pantomime dance routine, while waiting for my pithy or pissy, but always well considered R.S.V.P., which is four french words(!), meaning, “sure, why not, try me”). Alas this Techi-he as he was subsequently re and de-nominated, recited a variant of roses are red etc,, but concluded with “your pleated skirt.” (Roses are red, violets are blue, when I observed your pleated skirt, my heart pleaded with me, DO NOT! let this woman ever escape your purview) Now this navy medium wooly weight (always chilled in SF) somewhat too short skirt, was a hand-me-down from my mother (mom!) who in a prior decade, dressed like everybody else, but with a panache, (yes, a French word meaning panache) that declaimed and declared, “I do it my way” and was in truth, a fav of mine when accented with dark tights and preppy but comfortable matching navy penny loafers (mais non! pas de béret ridicule). By now, you know, I know, how to deal with men, whose onslaughts are like the beaches of Normandy, littered with death & destruction from my hot herbal tea, heated by rapid fire of my machine gun fire, my bullets of verbosity from an old, original *** used by my grandfather. But this reference to my pleated skirt, flattering me when accompanied with a beautiful French blouse, sunglasses, and my heart and hair openly parted down the middle in a nod to Haight~Ashbury hippie history, was off kilter, or as Techi-he would later joke that I was off-kilted (a pleated skirt), and taken prisoner, a POW, which under the rules of the Geneva Convention, would be guaranteed all the necessities of a good loving. We are California Commuters, me in LA, he in SF, an unlikely combination, he and me, of milieux, personality, yet not dissimilar: harmonized when he writes code snippets on diner napkins, and I, snippets of poems on diner napkins,, he clears my laptop’s cache, I clear his heart and vision, a blending of vive la différence! and we see each other often, as in as often as we can, we vacation in the South, of France, where he learns of Impressionism, and a different sea coastal ocean environment. I, learn from him, his remarkable human fondue, of intensity and concentration, which melts into gentility and a softness natural that steals my heart, accompanied by the ridiculous rhymes he passes me beneath the table, notes toujours, always perfect for that moment, like my pleated skirt (**which now resides in his closet, lest its magic work again, thus, kept safe by him, in a wardrobe, to which he has locked and keyed, and is worn upon request, my bequest, it, a whirling twirling dervish of a poem enshrined, a wearable honoring our commencement, our commitment, our pleated, plaited hearts.**)

0

Feb 19, 2024

Feb 19, 2024 at 6:26 AM UTC

brandychanning

The Pleated Skirt (a story about a poem) by Brandy Channing

The Pleated Skirt by Brandy Channing It was in San Fran, a destination chosen for its variety of vicarious distractions, romance was in the ebb stage of ebb & flow, and there was a sufficiency of distraction there, that my mind could be there, in actuality, in the present, in the moment, accounted for, and the cancer of rooted sadness, that wastrel feeling, was temporal boxed, in my traveling attic. On a cable car, of which the hills, insisted, when the lactic acid, persisted, be re~viewed as an actual conveyance methodology. A-man got on, sitting near enough, but not invasively too near, and began a study of me; perhaps an exercise in memorization for a sculpture or a painting, that would be shown, in a gallery quaint, nearby in Benicia, and destined to be displayed (dis~splayed?) near a picture window in a big old home overlooking the North Bay, as the She~Muse mused amusedly. Or it was just another inspection by “a man,” common enough that it was noticed and noted, but attended to with a practiced nonchalance, which is a French word, meaning nonchalance. Ah! descending near the Wharf, He~too, as he was now labeled, stored and forgettably tabled, He~too descended as well. A meandering into familiarity, of ancient memories of smells, of clam chowder, gulls and sea lions the inhabitants of Pier 39, all traced my face with a grimacing smile, for sometimes one lives in a state of duality. But a voice from behind, gently inquired if permission was grantable to recite a poem, yes, directed to me, yes, from He~too, who, awkwardly shifted his stance from side to side, as if performing a pantomime dance routine, while waiting for my pithy or pissy, but always well considered R.S.V.P., which is four french words(!), meaning, “sure, why not, try me”). Alas this Techi-he as he was subsequently re and de-nominated, recited a variant of roses are red etc,, but concluded with “your pleated skirt.” (Roses are red, violets are blue, when I observed your pleated skirt, my heart pleaded with me, DO NOT! let this woman ever escape your purview) Now this navy medium wooly weight (always chilled in SF) somewhat too short skirt, was a hand-me-down from my mother (mom!) who in a prior decade, dressed like everybody else, but with a panache, (yes, a French word meaning panache) that declaimed and declared, “I do it my way” and was in truth, a fav of mine when accented with dark tights and preppy but comfortable matching navy penny loafers (mais non! pas de béret ridicule). By now, you know, I know, how to deal with men, whose onslaughts are like the beaches of Normandy, littered with death & destruction from my hot herbal tea, heated by rapid fire of my machine gun fire, my bullets of verbosity from an old, original *** used by my grandfather. But this reference to my pleated skirt, flattering me when accompanied with a beautiful French blouse, sunglasses, and my heart and hair openly parted down the middle in a nod to Haight~Ashbury hippie history, was off kilter, or as Techi-he would later joke that I was off-kilted (a pleated skirt), and taken prisoner, a POW, which under the rules of the Geneva Convention, would be guaranteed all the necessities of a good loving. We are California Commuters, me in LA, he in SF, an unlikely combination, he and me, of milieux, personality, yet not dissimilar: harmonized when he writes code snippets on diner napkins, and I, snippets of poems on diner napkins,, he clears my laptop’s cache, I clear his heart and vision, a blending of vive la différence! and we see each other often, as in as often as we can, we vacation in the South, of France, where he learns of Impressionism, and a different sea coastal ocean environment. I, learn from him, his remarkable human fondue, of intensity and concentration, which melts into gentility and a softness natural that steals my heart, accompanied by the ridiculous rhymes he passes me beneath the table, notes toujours, always perfect for that moment, like my pleated skirt (**which now resides in his closet, lest its magic work again, thus, kept safe by him, in a wardrobe, to which he has locked and keyed, and is worn upon request, my bequest, it, a whirling twirling dervish of a poem enshrined, a wearable honoring our commencement, our commitment, our pleated, plaited hearts.**)

178

She surrenders her joys A-line highway what ploys Per- day 2 B or not to Be B for breakaway Windy- seaway everyday endless living Stay to the right tossing skirt Gossip throwing unwanted dirt Smoky bear mountain no harm Losing one valuable gift charm His name in honor feeling complete Highway for justice and absolute The right way Aroma apple pie putting on Your husbands Graphic artist highway- tie How many people on the highway Never to confess and lie Highway doesn't have any privacy True saint of shrubbery mountain tops curved figure highways Reckless cliffs skirt ruffles love feeling rammed Turn of the century traffic jammed Your skirt flew up like wild goose chase You rather of went Big- City marathon bike race By- way time -may be- silent have nothing to say? Performance piano Steinway Skirt highway waving flag winning everyday* Your skirt drenched rooftop concerts Nest of Blue Jays no highway Serenity sky draw the deviant But words can heal even on a highway My lips are sealed?

0

Jul 23, 2023

Jul 23, 2023 at 2:05 PM UTC

robinHelloRow

The Skirt Highway

She surrenders her joys A-line highway what ploys Per- day 2 B or not to Be B for breakaway Windy- seaway everyday endless living Stay to the right tossing skirt Gossip throwing unwanted dirt Smoky bear mountain no harm Losing one valuable gift charm His name in honor feeling complete Highway for justice and absolute The right way Aroma apple pie putting on Your husbands Graphic artist highway- tie How many people on the highway Never to confess and lie Highway doesn't have any privacy True saint of shrubbery mountain tops curved figure highways Reckless cliffs skirt ruffles love feeling rammed Turn of the century traffic jammed Your skirt flew up like wild goose chase You rather of went Big- City marathon bike race By- way time -may be- silent have nothing to say? Performance piano Steinway Skirt highway waving flag winning everyday* Your skirt drenched rooftop concerts Nest of Blue Jays no highway Serenity sky draw the deviant But words can heal even on a highway My lips are sealed?

37

I sway more Fairy skirt swirling Around me Dancing with every step I feel fluid Shifting and bending With every stride My pixie side finds me On an overcast day Rain collecting upon skin Skirt tickling my sides And I find myself dancing Jumping along puddles Having the water whirl Twist into a dancing partner Clinging to me And the edges of my Fairy skirt As I walk away

0

Nov 19, 2020

Nov 19, 2020 at 1:31 AM UTC

brinemcallister

Fairy Skirt

I sway more Fairy skirt swirling Around me Dancing with every step I feel fluid Shifting and bending With every stride My pixie side finds me On an overcast day Rain collecting upon skin Skirt tickling my sides And I find myself dancing Jumping along puddles Having the water whirl Twist into a dancing partner Clinging to me And the edges of my Fairy skirt As I walk away

18

a sensory perception, an intended message, which the eyes of my inbox check-mark as opened, read and very well received sometimes we say things we didn't mean to say, but 99% of the time, we meant it, even if it just happened to be something we were wearing, something tight, short and flirty, we put on in a hurry, without thinking 2:19am

0

Apr 30, 2014

Apr 30, 2014 at 2:19 AM UTC

nat-lipstadt

2:19am The Length Of Her Skirt/2014)

a sensory perception, an intended message, which the eyes of my inbox check-mark as opened, read and very well received sometimes we say things we didn't mean to say, but 99% of the time, we meant it, even if it just happened to be something we were wearing, something tight, short and flirty, we put on in a hurry, without thinking 2:19am

15

Violets by Michael R. Burch Once, only once, when the wind flicked your skirt to an indiscreet height and you laughed, abruptly demure, outblushing shocked violets: suddenly, I knew: everything had changed. Later, as you braided your hair into long bluish plaits the shadows empurpled, the dragonflies’ last darting feints dissolving mid-air, we watched the sun’s long glide into evening, knowing and unknowing. O, how the illusions of love await us in the commonplace and rare then haunt our small remainder of hours. Published by Romantics Quarterly, Muse Apprentice Guild, Victorian Violet Press, Boston Poetry Magazine, and Poetry on Demand Keywords/Tags: Violets, flowers, wind, skirt, blush, hair, shadows, sunset, evening, love, illusions, time, commonplace, rare

0

Mar 19, 2020

Mar 19, 2020 at 11:45 PM UTC

michael-r-burch

Violets

Violets by Michael R. Burch Once, only once, when the wind flicked your skirt to an indiscreet height and you laughed, abruptly demure, outblushing shocked violets: suddenly, I knew: everything had changed. Later, as you braided your hair into long bluish plaits the shadows empurpled, the dragonflies’ last darting feints dissolving mid-air, we watched the sun’s long glide into evening, knowing and unknowing. O, how the illusions of love await us in the commonplace and rare then haunt our small remainder of hours. Published by Romantics Quarterly, Muse Apprentice Guild, Victorian Violet Press, Boston Poetry Magazine, and Poetry on Demand Keywords/Tags: Violets, flowers, wind, skirt, blush, hair, shadows, sunset, evening, love, illusions, time, commonplace, rare

26

My parents made me Wear a skirt, and a short sleeved t-shirt. The only reason they didn't see The scars that covered my arm Is because they bought make up for me 2 days ago, in which I hid the scars. "Because you're a girl." Right now, I ******* feel like 'Micheal in the bathroom' Anyway, I'm gonna continue crying in closeted trans now, bye.

0

Sep 22, 2019

Sep 22, 2019 at 7:57 AM UTC

gothmetalnerd

Note 192:

My parents made me Wear a skirt, and a short sleeved t-shirt. The only reason they didn't see The scars that covered my arm Is because they bought make up for me 2 days ago, in which I hid the scars. "Because you're a girl." Right now, I ******* feel like 'Micheal in the bathroom' Anyway, I'm gonna continue crying in closeted trans now, bye.

9

"Granny, granny,come look at me." There was excitement and urgency in my granddaughter 's voice, I hobbled as fast as I could my cane thumping on the floor. I stood there inside the door chuckling. My granddaughter had become me, She wore a tweed skirt high on the waist, A white blouse with a high collar and a bow, On her face she wore one of my specs which she had smeared with a bit of vaseline, The effect was so that she could not see clearly like me. She had put some pebbles in her shoes to enable her to hobble , Her hair she had combed into a bun. Lastly she put on white gloves which she explained she had borrowed from my cupboard. she held a dainty white laced handkerchief. "How do I look, granny?" "ME! I laughed. "You will be the best granny in your school fancy dress party. Pray, remove the vaseline from the specs or you will fall down, You can borrow my cane too, I love you dear munchkin."

0

Oct 17, 2018

Oct 17, 2018 at 3:23 AM UTC

salmabanu-hatim

Like Me

"Granny, granny,come look at me." There was excitement and urgency in my granddaughter 's voice, I hobbled as fast as I could my cane thumping on the floor. I stood there inside the door chuckling. My granddaughter had become me, She wore a tweed skirt high on the waist, A white blouse with a high collar and a bow, On her face she wore one of my specs which she had smeared with a bit of vaseline, The effect was so that she could not see clearly like me. She had put some pebbles in her shoes to enable her to hobble , Her hair she had combed into a bun. Lastly she put on white gloves which she explained she had borrowed from my cupboard. she held a dainty white laced handkerchief. "How do I look, granny?" "ME! I laughed. "You will be the best granny in your school fancy dress party. Pray, remove the vaseline from the specs or you will fall down, You can borrow my cane too, I love you dear munchkin."

19

The length of my skirt does not determine my consent.

0

Aug 15, 2018

Aug 15, 2018 at 10:38 AM UTC

scribblesandellipses

Length (10w)

The length of my skirt does not determine my consent.

4

her heels were miles long her skirt shorter than Tom Cruise and her lips were red

0

Feb 5, 2015

Feb 5, 2015 at 9:54 PM UTC

glassReader

AndhEr

her heels were miles long her skirt shorter than Tom Cruise and her lips were red

3

he ripped my skirt off my thighs my breath from my lungs my virginity, a prize rings caught on cheekbones the sound of sighs air filled with moans lights reflecting of our skin his horns catch glimmers but only spread shadows such a deadly sin a stone cold killer *** with the devil

0

Mar 28, 2018

Mar 28, 2018 at 12:03 AM UTC

tsunami

*** With The Devil

he ripped my skirt off my thighs my breath from my lungs my virginity, a prize rings caught on cheekbones the sound of sighs air filled with moans lights reflecting of our skin his horns catch glimmers but only spread shadows such a deadly sin a stone cold killer *** with the devil

13

add mitt ting enjoyment sans the lithe hot feline Taylor Swift - I might be the only baby boomer mwm who admires this talented singer/song writer, yet owns NO aspirations beyond composing poems or prose. (A questionable attempt to stitch – analogous to knot sew swift a tailor, this scribe sought to create a poet from her song titles spanning the letter “A” to the letter “H”). Despite never setting eyes (AND MOST Definitely NOT PAWS), this grateful dead corpse of a skeleton (essentially lovely bare bones), when alive I found one gal powerhouse (asper the title of this informal homage; genuinely fashioned, entirely dutifully composed, benevolently addressed to an attraction, confident, enduring, graceful, immensely known, mainly over quibbles sans unsustained wrenched, yanked, aborted connections ending glumly, inviting kindling material of quests souring until wonderful yin/yang anchors coy effeminate gal. Before the advent vis a vis crafting this literary challenge incorporating a poetic endeavor predicated on prolific tunes comprising audiophile of Taylor Swift, (and thus a prescript interim), a whim took hold to string her partial song playlist (quite substantial even up to BUT NOT including the letter “I”). This scribe dabbled, hocked, and limned what evolved into a semi satisfactory effort, this articulate, copacetic, enigmatic, generic, ironic, kinetic, magnetic, opportunistic, quixotic, scholastic, ultrademocratic, wholistic yikyak paddy whack give this bard a bon bon. Adieu admit to elaborating, and second guessing to put down pontoon literary bridges in an effort to connect a straight forward itemized list of tune titles. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Thee Mademoiselle found, or made a place in the world for yourself aching like a boy out in left field pining to catch that high fly there there ain't nothing 'bout you, (nor Brooks and Dunn) I can attest even if hypothetically, we spent eons at an all night diner where culinary staff knew thee all too well and perhaps all you wanted (shared with Michelle Branch) perhaps positing the rhetorical question – am I ready for love? With an American boy or a ***** best buddy re: best friend forever with an American girl if someone got cross, tis beneficial (in this one republic) to apologize regardless, whom ye choose as a confidante, the following refrain plays in your mind baby don't you break my heart slow (at least according to Vonda Shepard) memories no doubt arise, when thee hapt to be a baby girl thoughts unspool back to December beautiful eyes peered at a fractured reflection before the love story would begin again, while ebbing, and flowing with my baby recalling Bette David eye (taking visual delight sans world tour live) reminding self how better off the choice made tis much better than revenge but umpteen times bother I will asper boys and love combustible mix – nonetheless always reminding myself to breathe deep, cuz being breathless likened to a taste of death, (I admit better than Ezra) learning how to act points back asper being brought up that way lessons oft learned getting bustedng oh...and by the way can I go with you? Can you feel the love tonight? Discern ache kin to sand castles crumbling? such granular, or solid state matter doth forced to change attested to by chaperone dads, who dressed as Santa Claus invoked that Christmas must be something more especially, Christmases, when you were mine ah...closest to a cowboy as “sigh” ever got or tasting Gunstock rattlesnake pulverized, yet countenance goose (and found you under the care of Chet Atkins at the make believe medical center) shivered flesh against cold as you though desiring thee to come back...he here no doubt prone to announce crazier requests asked even crazier (as demonstrated by flash mob generated by Hannah Montana, one live wire) if able to glean my sentiments... cross my heart aware as an adult feeling the life source of daddy or mommy, while hinting with a stone temple piloted cold stare double dare you to move (or switch foot), one to another das feet – planted within pitch dark blue Tennessee dwelling with thoughts of ma dear Digdan or writing an imaginary letter starting...”dear John” ample melancholy maudlin material to complete bind a diary of me yes concert cavorting circumstances avoidable, though didn't they make chase like butterflies, and don't they hate me for loving you? so please don't tell me you want to, when I don't want to anymore argh, yet impossibly unshakable the recurring thought don't you act indiscriminately as when down came the rain, washed the spy dir out following suit (wet) drenching yea...one drama queen with chin amen along pearl harbor drive (in conjunction with alan jackson) presaging Jiving drops of Jupiter (train chugging, clacking, clattering railing gestalt of alien nation) and all of a sudden like how odd though... thinking about eighth grade graduate, when lifetime seemed enchanted now everything has changed eyes open (“hunger games”) maketh me – fall back on you instant messaging you – fall into me fearless, though only fifteen and how against pyrotechnics, you find your way back home on the fourth of July perhaps led by a zeppelin sized firefly ah, I ask myself who is the foolish one? Me for you forever & always (a platinum edition) for girl at home (donned in deluxe edition) going bananas in reference to Amazing Gracie swaggering, and immune to gun powder & lead, (whose leading lady Miranda Lambert) whatsapp penned left her looking haunted heartbreaker – (my words – like Tom Petty) about her, but unsure if our thoughts aligned anyway, here you go again (Dolly Parton) a hero heroine so...I clamor to yell out “hey soul sister” and hey Stephen along the boulevard of broken dreams, this ribbon highway don't care about trumpeting his lies nor desecrating holy ground honey baby, yes ye in the mom jeans, I feel hopelessly devoted to you (as doth Olivia Newton) instinctively keen how to save a life bobbing buoyantly amidst the fray.

0

Mar 12, 2018

Mar 12, 2018 at 8:42 PM UTC

matthew-scott-harris2p

I Haint No Raffish Ratfish

add mitt ting enjoyment sans the lithe hot feline Taylor Swift - I might be the only baby boomer mwm who admires this talented singer/song writer, yet owns NO aspirations beyond composing poems or prose. (A questionable attempt to stitch – analogous to knot sew swift a tailor, this scribe sought to create a poet from her song titles spanning the letter “A” to the letter “H”). Despite never setting eyes (AND MOST Definitely NOT PAWS), this grateful dead corpse of a skeleton (essentially lovely bare bones), when alive I found one gal powerhouse (asper the title of this informal homage; genuinely fashioned, entirely dutifully composed, benevolently addressed to an attraction, confident, enduring, graceful, immensely known, mainly over quibbles sans unsustained wrenched, yanked, aborted connections ending glumly, inviting kindling material of quests souring until wonderful yin/yang anchors coy effeminate gal. Before the advent vis a vis crafting this literary challenge incorporating a poetic endeavor predicated on prolific tunes comprising audiophile of Taylor Swift, (and thus a prescript interim), a whim took hold to string her partial song playlist (quite substantial even up to BUT NOT including the letter “I”). This scribe dabbled, hocked, and limned what evolved into a semi satisfactory effort, this articulate, copacetic, enigmatic, generic, ironic, kinetic, magnetic, opportunistic, quixotic, scholastic, ultrademocratic, wholistic yikyak paddy whack give this bard a bon bon. Adieu admit to elaborating, and second guessing to put down pontoon literary bridges in an effort to connect a straight forward itemized list of tune titles. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Thee Mademoiselle found, or made a place in the world for yourself aching like a boy out in left field pining to catch that high fly there there ain't nothing 'bout you, (nor Brooks and Dunn) I can attest even if hypothetically, we spent eons at an all night diner where culinary staff knew thee all too well and perhaps all you wanted (shared with Michelle Branch) perhaps positing the rhetorical question – am I ready for love? With an American boy or a ***** best buddy re: best friend forever with an American girl if someone got cross, tis beneficial (in this one republic) to apologize regardless, whom ye choose as a confidante, the following refrain plays in your mind baby don't you break my heart slow (at least according to Vonda Shepard) memories no doubt arise, when thee hapt to be a baby girl thoughts unspool back to December beautiful eyes peered at a fractured reflection before the love story would begin again, while ebbing, and flowing with my baby recalling Bette David eye (taking visual delight sans world tour live) reminding self how better off the choice made tis much better than revenge but umpteen times bother I will asper boys and love combustible mix – nonetheless always reminding myself to breathe deep, cuz being breathless likened to a taste of death, (I admit better than Ezra) learning how to act points back asper being brought up that way lessons oft learned getting bustedng oh...and by the way can I go with you? Can you feel the love tonight? Discern ache kin to sand castles crumbling? such granular, or solid state matter doth forced to change attested to by chaperone dads, who dressed as Santa Claus invoked that Christmas must be something more especially, Christmases, when you were mine ah...closest to a cowboy as “sigh” ever got or tasting Gunstock rattlesnake pulverized, yet countenance goose (and found you under the care of Chet Atkins at the make believe medical center) shivered flesh against cold as you though desiring thee to come back...he here no doubt prone to announce crazier requests asked even crazier (as demonstrated by flash mob generated by Hannah Montana, one live wire) if able to glean my sentiments... cross my heart aware as an adult feeling the life source of daddy or mommy, while hinting with a stone temple piloted cold stare double dare you to move (or switch foot), one to another das feet – planted within pitch dark blue Tennessee dwelling with thoughts of ma dear Digdan or writing an imaginary letter starting...”dear John” ample melancholy maudlin material to complete bind a diary of me yes concert cavorting circumstances avoidable, though didn't they make chase like butterflies, and don't they hate me for loving you? so please don't tell me you want to, when I don't want to anymore argh, yet impossibly unshakable the recurring thought don't you act indiscriminately as when down came the rain, washed the spy dir out following suit (wet) drenching yea...one drama queen with chin amen along pearl harbor drive (in conjunction with alan jackson) presaging Jiving drops of Jupiter (train chugging, clacking, clattering railing gestalt of alien nation) and all of a sudden like how odd though... thinking about eighth grade graduate, when lifetime seemed enchanted now everything has changed eyes open (“hunger games”) maketh me – fall back on you instant messaging you – fall into me fearless, though only fifteen and how against pyrotechnics, you find your way back home on the fourth of July perhaps led by a zeppelin sized firefly ah, I ask myself who is the foolish one? Me for you forever & always (a platinum edition) for girl at home (donned in deluxe edition) going bananas in reference to Amazing Gracie swaggering, and immune to gun powder & lead, (whose leading lady Miranda Lambert) whatsapp penned left her looking haunted heartbreaker – (my words – like Tom Petty) about her, but unsure if our thoughts aligned anyway, here you go again (Dolly Parton) a hero heroine so...I clamor to yell out “hey soul sister” and hey Stephen along the boulevard of broken dreams, this ribbon highway don't care about trumpeting his lies nor desecrating holy ground honey baby, yes ye in the mom jeans, I feel hopelessly devoted to you (as doth Olivia Newton) instinctively keen how to save a life bobbing buoyantly amidst the fray.

143

I fear the day I cease to breathe The retraction of the unholy In its nauseating trance That I am entangled in its captivation The serenity of the raindrops clouding As they flounder amongst the field Protruding the fellow's dance The day my essence vanishes Dissipates to naught when I am caught By the claws of angels that soar the sky The dazzle of their improbable happiness Incapable of genuine light Beyond the velvet marshmallow sky They reflect a fabricated smile For suffering merely is lifting its skirt

0

Dec 21, 2017

Dec 21, 2017 at 9:30 PM UTC

Niitiuu

Masking absurdity

I fear the day I cease to breathe The retraction of the unholy In its nauseating trance That I am entangled in its captivation The serenity of the raindrops clouding As they flounder amongst the field Protruding the fellow's dance The day my essence vanishes Dissipates to naught when I am caught By the claws of angels that soar the sky The dazzle of their improbable happiness Incapable of genuine light Beyond the velvet marshmallow sky They reflect a fabricated smile For suffering merely is lifting its skirt

15

The dark side of love Claws and teeth I am hungry for you Short skirt aimed in my direction I need correction Some might say To iron out the kinks But I think sensuality for the soul Is sometimes being out of control.

0

Jan 12, 2017

Jan 12, 2017 at 2:31 PM UTC

alienpoet

The dark side of love

The dark side of love Claws and teeth I am hungry for you Short skirt aimed in my direction I need correction Some might say To iron out the kinks But I think sensuality for the soul Is sometimes being out of control.

9

Skirt so yellow and bright  Eyes blue and wide,  with lips pursed right.  “Where is your joy,” she sighs? Cotton shows years of wear  still flows yellow, and bright.  Her lean body craves to share  him hard and yielding tonight. After she threw the bridal wreath  their joy spilled like carpenter’s glue.  No longer did they sample from beneath  yellow skirt and sweater taut and blue. Her scent is a flower named dangerous,  so he struggles, pulls away; all the while  wanting his graying head to rest  upon her breast and relish the joy in her smile.

0

Dec 25, 2015

Dec 25, 2015 at 10:45 AM UTC

william-a-poppen

Skirt so Yellow and Bright

Skirt so yellow and bright  Eyes blue and wide,  with lips pursed right.  “Where is your joy,” she sighs? Cotton shows years of wear  still flows yellow, and bright.  Her lean body craves to share  him hard and yielding tonight. After she threw the bridal wreath  their joy spilled like carpenter’s glue.  No longer did they sample from beneath  yellow skirt and sweater taut and blue. Her scent is a flower named dangerous,  so he struggles, pulls away; all the while  wanting his graying head to rest  upon her breast and relish the joy in her smile.

16

I have exhausted my ink, my pen, my hand. My tongue has unlearned all languages, all terms of endearment and soft sayings. I am no longer flesh, no longer blood, but have transformed myself into wind: a wind that has traveled the oceans for you, a wind that has discovered Africa's worth, that has lifted me into an African skirt where the origin of everything began.

0

Jul 6, 2015

Jul 6, 2015 at 2:30 PM UTC

jharris

African Skirt

I have exhausted my ink, my pen, my hand. My tongue has unlearned all languages, all terms of endearment and soft sayings. I am no longer flesh, no longer blood, but have transformed myself into wind: a wind that has traveled the oceans for you, a wind that has discovered Africa's worth, that has lifted me into an African skirt where the origin of everything began.

9

In her closet next to a shirt hangs a concertina pleated skirt she slips it on with grace and ease the tiny pleats are there to please like a million shimmering crystal shards all tightly pressed like a pack of cards as she moves they sway and dance upon her legs they tickle and prance the feeling makes her smile and shiver which makes the pleats start to quiver they skim and flatter her hips and *** like the majestic rays of a rising sun such carnal delights found in a skirt as she hangs it back next to the shirt.

0

Mar 18, 2015

Mar 18, 2015 at 6:54 PM UTC

haydn-swan

The pleated skirt

In her closet next to a shirt hangs a concertina pleated skirt she slips it on with grace and ease the tiny pleats are there to please like a million shimmering crystal shards all tightly pressed like a pack of cards as she moves they sway and dance upon her legs they tickle and prance the feeling makes her smile and shiver which makes the pleats start to quiver they skim and flatter her hips and *** like the majestic rays of a rising sun such carnal delights found in a skirt as she hangs it back next to the shirt.

14

We army crawl across the dirt and patches of dying grass. Barely missing us, they passed. Crawl to one smoldering, watching out for broken glass. We thoroughly examine it. The white of the missile contrasts against the dirt. We hear their cackles. I hear a familiar click. I look up toward the deck. Curiously, I watch a finger press the button of the bic. From the corner of my eye, I see her mother's fingers flick. Another missile heading our way. "Watch out!" my cousin yells to make me alert. But it was too late. Why didn't I hear the familiar noise of it hitting the dirt? I look down and see another cigarette burn a hole through my skirt. I was too slow. It was too quick. Now my skirt is aglow. Through her half-witted smile, smoke is blown. I was only six, They should have known.

0

May 29, 2014

May 29, 2014 at 3:34 AM UTC

orlagh-lafricain

Skirt aglow

We army crawl across the dirt and patches of dying grass. Barely missing us, they passed. Crawl to one smoldering, watching out for broken glass. We thoroughly examine it. The white of the missile contrasts against the dirt. We hear their cackles. I hear a familiar click. I look up toward the deck. Curiously, I watch a finger press the button of the bic. From the corner of my eye, I see her mother's fingers flick. Another missile heading our way. "Watch out!" my cousin yells to make me alert. But it was too late. Why didn't I hear the familiar noise of it hitting the dirt? I look down and see another cigarette burn a hole through my skirt. I was too slow. It was too quick. Now my skirt is aglow. Through her half-witted smile, smoke is blown. I was only six, They should have known.

21

my stomach hurts a ton and the flowers on my skirt have been lying to me

0

Apr 23, 2014

Apr 23, 2014 at 2:01 AM UTC