"buttonholes" poems - Hello Poetry

<Sun May 14 5:00 AM PST> Let us be smart about this departure, time unscheduled, yet leaving inevitable, the sound of fabric torn, a rent performed, a ripping, a release of the gripping, connecting tissue of weft and weave tying parent and child *(All of us poets, all of us comprehend, there are two points, two buttonholes that offer escape or farewell, when we commence on something new, when we pen our chest’s demands to exhale, cease the hammering* *Perhaps, here, just after the third stanza, the brick enormity of our selected task, on chest, weighs heavy, boulder difficulties ahead, now fastened and faster and faster realized, begs us, quit this essay, return to placid, from an arrhythmia of imploding loss)* So many fabrics, so many tears, wet and dried, but upon commencement, the only finish line, is another commencement, when the (mine-own) rendering is finalized, beyond repair, when guilt gulfs overflows, flooding plains of forever pain officiated by signed scar, “here was” So many separations, varied and variegated, surficial shallow surgical or plunges, widths of trickle, depths of deadly plunges, records of inches, dates, names, new heights inscribed, measured on a door jamb, lost, erased, when child’s door closes permanently Came today to the West, to Pacific Ocean entrance, to celebrate a good boy’s ritualized threshold crossing over into manhood, both symbolic and and realized, but tear-up seeing the small child-man leaning in and on his father’s larger frame, a coinciding giving & taking no bonds are eternal, for such is life, the weft must be warped, sundered and separated, so many reasons, experience speaks, scars are like bandages,protecting but deceiving, what they cover can never be excised, a space created, that only oxygen can touch both sides but never, ever be reperfected, mended,…or finalized 2023 San Francisco

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May 14, 2023

May 14, 2023 at 10:07 AM UTC

nat-lipstadt

The Weft and the Warp of Pain and Loss

<Sun May 14 5:00 AM PST> Let us be smart about this departure, time unscheduled, yet leaving inevitable, the sound of fabric torn, a rent performed, a ripping, a release of the gripping, connecting tissue of weft and weave tying parent and child *(All of us poets, all of us comprehend, there are two points, two buttonholes that offer escape or farewell, when we commence on something new, when we pen our chest’s demands to exhale, cease the hammering* *Perhaps, here, just after the third stanza, the brick enormity of our selected task, on chest, weighs heavy, boulder difficulties ahead, now fastened and faster and faster realized, begs us, quit this essay, return to placid, from an arrhythmia of imploding loss)* So many fabrics, so many tears, wet and dried, but upon commencement, the only finish line, is another commencement, when the (mine-own) rendering is finalized, beyond repair, when guilt gulfs overflows, flooding plains of forever pain officiated by signed scar, “here was” So many separations, varied and variegated, surficial shallow surgical or plunges, widths of trickle, depths of deadly plunges, records of inches, dates, names, new heights inscribed, measured on a door jamb, lost, erased, when child’s door closes permanently Came today to the West, to Pacific Ocean entrance, to celebrate a good boy’s ritualized threshold crossing over into manhood, both symbolic and and realized, but tear-up seeing the small child-man leaning in and on his father’s larger frame, a coinciding giving & taking no bonds are eternal, for such is life, the weft must be warped, sundered and separated, so many reasons, experience speaks, scars are like bandages,protecting but deceiving, what they cover can never be excised, a space created, that only oxygen can touch both sides but never, ever be reperfected, mended,…or finalized 2023 San Francisco

39

The weathervane slept high above with a lolling head. Clouds were holidaying excessively in Spain. Sun was lost in a haze after chain smoking cooling towers. A lethargic wind, moseying low with cat-like whiskers, I hear it complain “I’m tired” in child-like whispers. My hands are sweat-sore with callouses And salty enough to summon the call of gulls in numbers; I find shade, imagining myself as a cartoon Huck Finn. When I put dry grass between cracked lips and think of dustbowls In a zoetrope of sun-stroke, I vanish through my buttonholes. This is now where one would rise, wake or come to. Nothing I recognise, else the world is enveloped in storms. I strain my sight, blink repeatedly to force myself awake, The angels are listening, I hear wheezing, see fingers in my dreams Gripping tightly to milk thistle stars, bursting at the seams. Amongst the angels, whispering too! Did the stars imprison you? Free-spirit like mother, but I slept our childhood through Sustained by knowledge gleaned from canteen floors— My eyes feel somehow sharp, heavy, like spears more than eyes; I thought I saw the weathervane spinning madly, unraveling the skies! Nobody talks about the weather. There is a good chance of wrought nerves. This is a time of stillness and dwelling on doorsteps, In doorways where death sits among us, resting his eyes, An end to the ration that was harmless reminiscence As memories go up in the heat like celluloid; Now the stars are a steely prison Heaven’s lustre is lost, missing. Through the angels I have seen that this is a time of living - Through our dreams I have seen that this is a time of living - Outside the confinement of the Holocene. —I have dreamt of drowning...often. I always seem to wake up out and breath and feel I can taste the salt in my mouth but fear does not play any part in these dreams.

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May 1, 2016

May 1, 2016 at 7:20 AM UTC

james-gable

Don't Wake the Weathervane

The weathervane slept high above with a lolling head. Clouds were holidaying excessively in Spain. Sun was lost in a haze after chain smoking cooling towers. A lethargic wind, moseying low with cat-like whiskers, I hear it complain “I’m tired” in child-like whispers. My hands are sweat-sore with callouses And salty enough to summon the call of gulls in numbers; I find shade, imagining myself as a cartoon Huck Finn. When I put dry grass between cracked lips and think of dustbowls In a zoetrope of sun-stroke, I vanish through my buttonholes. This is now where one would rise, wake or come to. Nothing I recognise, else the world is enveloped in storms. I strain my sight, blink repeatedly to force myself awake, The angels are listening, I hear wheezing, see fingers in my dreams Gripping tightly to milk thistle stars, bursting at the seams. Amongst the angels, whispering too! Did the stars imprison you? Free-spirit like mother, but I slept our childhood through Sustained by knowledge gleaned from canteen floors— My eyes feel somehow sharp, heavy, like spears more than eyes; I thought I saw the weathervane spinning madly, unraveling the skies! Nobody talks about the weather. There is a good chance of wrought nerves. This is a time of stillness and dwelling on doorsteps, In doorways where death sits among us, resting his eyes, An end to the ration that was harmless reminiscence As memories go up in the heat like celluloid; Now the stars are a steely prison Heaven’s lustre is lost, missing. Through the angels I have seen that this is a time of living - Through our dreams I have seen that this is a time of living - Outside the confinement of the Holocene. —I have dreamt of drowning...often. I always seem to wake up out and breath and feel I can taste the salt in my mouth but fear does not play any part in these dreams.

32

Are you the ***** with the golden crown? Drinking gillyflowers through grubby buttonholes Or a purple dusted poet riding a trail of shooting stars? Writing of sweet Persephone’s tears filling up Zeu’s little cup The springtime blue knight bidding his Lady not forget him? Whilst being swept away to his bier of waterlilys Come now Johnny jump up and trade in your pretty pansies for pennys

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Jul 18, 2014

Jul 18, 2014 at 4:44 AM UTC

felix-sladal

Calochortus Elegans

Are you the ***** with the golden crown? Drinking gillyflowers through grubby buttonholes Or a purple dusted poet riding a trail of shooting stars? Writing of sweet Persephone’s tears filling up Zeu’s little cup The springtime blue knight bidding his Lady not forget him? Whilst being swept away to his bier of waterlilys Come now Johnny jump up and trade in your pretty pansies for pennys

7

Call it stupid But feeling not at all Light-hearted and romantic On St Valentine's day I pedal off Without thinking And follow my front wheel To arrive among brides and grooms Bouquets and buttonholes Limousines and vintage Rollers And even a flippin’ horse-drawn carriage As I cycle into Gretna Marriage-Ville, UK On St Valentine's day

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Feb 13, 2011

Feb 13, 2011 at 12:51 AM UTC

david-tollick

Torn-Face in Gretna

Call it stupid But feeling not at all Light-hearted and romantic On St Valentine's day I pedal off Without thinking And follow my front wheel To arrive among brides and grooms Bouquets and buttonholes Limousines and vintage Rollers And even a flippin’ horse-drawn carriage As I cycle into Gretna Marriage-Ville, UK On St Valentine's day

14

if the world were to turn upside down i'd climb to the bottoms of the trees and let myself fall fall fall fall until i reached you, galaxies away i'd land upon your bootsoles to see where you had been and hope to find thoughts of me wedged between the treads then i'd dive into your skin through buttonholes of your shirt and nestled above your buried heart, i dig but cannot find a beat

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Mar 2, 2013

Mar 2, 2013 at 9:57 AM UTC

jessica-belle

Untitled

if the world were to turn upside down i'd climb to the bottoms of the trees and let myself fall fall fall fall until i reached you, galaxies away i'd land upon your bootsoles to see where you had been and hope to find thoughts of me wedged between the treads then i'd dive into your skin through buttonholes of your shirt and nestled above your buried heart, i dig but cannot find a beat

16