"chenille" poems
My chenille duvet covers me
Consumes me
It has swallowed me up again and let me escape
To a world where the bills don’t exist
My homework is finished
The dishes don’t need to be done
The cats are fed and fast asleep
My son obeys to go to school and listen to his teachers
My chenille duvet hides my reality
The reality that
The bills still aren’t paid
The dishes are still there
The homework keeps piling up
The cats are at the foot of my bed, begging to be fed...again
My son has yet again skipped school and tried to come home, not knowing that i am under my duvet
My chenille duvet allows me to feel no pain
It allows me to forget
Even if for a little while
Under my chenille duvet, the world is silent
My feet are warm
My mind stops racing
My heart stops beating as if ravaged through my chest
I can breathe
Every day gets a little bit harder to leave my duvet
My old ragged gray soft duvet
I long for you during the day
On the days when i am in class and don’t have my homework to hand in, because i am so tired
On the days i get a call from my sons school asking where he is, when i know i dropped him off
On the days i get home, and the dishes are still there
On the days i get home from a 12 hour day, and realize i forgot to buy cat food again
On the days i come home and cringe going up the stairs as i pray they didn’t turn my electric off again.
My gray soft fuzzy duvet, I miss you
Why can’t you console me all the time?
I don’t want you to leave me
I need you to stay and make it all go away
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 9:17 PM UTC
The black silk of spiders web,
Intricate as fallen dreams,
Where petals cling to sweetened breath,
And whispers tickle sleep,
Spilling amber into the chenille of my shadow...
A midnight sun melts horizons,
Veiled in colour rush
Clouds peel, silver edges,
Where...
Yesterday's half light fingers reach out,
Touching me;
Intoxicating my restless need...
I unfold
Sepals bending beneath folds of memory,
A sirocco wind twirled in hazy lace,
Brushes my breast,
A sigh upon the dip of my throat;
Like sutras, mouthed upon bare skin...
"Yours", he whispered.....
The peak and flow of timelessness never touched me;
Touched US; just
Syllables laying soft on skin, brushing silk,
Sliding into softened togetherness;
Blush rising the caress, of
Flesh against flesh, searing the stain
Of crimson sighs....
Brazen,
I yearned his breath,
An ivory utterance,
Mellow,
Kissing the back of my throat,
Teasing the primitive chant;
Wild, I was;
I am... flaunting the lascivious
Scorching nature of Woman...
Lathering love, scintillating a sugar melt,
Lapping 'The love pulse';
Each pause, a flame licking my skin;
I have become,
A fascination of steel in lace,
Blossoming
As passion's bite pierces...
Darkened eyes roam my face,
Painting me with lust's stain,
Moons glow, whispers, slowly across male sinew,
A whisper of breath, dances my arching neck;
A lovers kiss rests in my throats hollow;
My heart rages to
Free the fury pounding...yet still I whisper.......
Dark heat blooms;
A waltz of wildness, that strains at each whimper,
And moisture, slides to quiver,
A pulsing ache, echoing,
Throbbing to the beat of a lustful song;
Sighs etching upon peach satin essence
As dew drops fuse,
Layered on air...
The raw drum beat of two pulses;
My body, curved for his blessing,
Skin glistening on this wheel of rhythms;
I am...slave to his craving mouth;
Nails bite palms in clenched fists,
"Don't stop,
Don't"...
Shuddering, trembling,
Remembering
The keening cry of euphoric bliss.........
Aug 15, 2012
Aug 15, 2012 at 4:26 PM UTC
I remember the slamming screen doors,
the rattle of the stained glass monster,
and the drafty shadowed nights beneath chenille bedspreads.
I remember the sun soaked cloak room with its reek of wet woolen mittens,
the un-impeded flight down stairs in tomato basket bobsleds,
and the bouncing at the bottom in a frenzy of strawberry carpet burns.
I remember church bingo basements smoky on Friday nights,
Saturday morning sounds from her kitchen,
and a mile of sulfur dusted sidewalk in between.
I remember the damp musty smell of the low lit basement,
the passing of Black Label beer through semi-circle windows,
and the nauseating hangover from Mogen David wine kept in the cellar.
I remember hearing how they kicked in the door while she slept and beat her
and took her things, her rings, the gifts from my grandfather,
and how she stubbornly refused to leave the home my mother was born in.
A half century book ended on one end by the great depression,
which she survived,
on the other end the kicked in door
which she did not.
I remember my mother’s wavering voice when she told me she was dead,
how Uncle Ed found her sitting in her chair, rosary beads wrapped
around arthritic hands.
I remember hot on the left and cold on the right,
the smell of her sweat,
the breeze off the lake,
the creak of the old steam radiator,
and the way she slept in her chair with her mouth wide-open.
The way Uncle Ed found her.
Aug 23, 2011
Aug 23, 2011 at 12:57 AM UTC
I love that very first glance of her
The sudden ordeal of despair
That follows the white-hot radiance
Of her slender smile and sun-washed hair
And of her form, I love the slip
Of her exquisite thigh and waist
Her creamy breast 'neath wrought chenille
God's masterwork of grace
And these things last I love the most
Above her every other charm
The gentle laughter of her heart
And her weight upon my arm
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 7:36 PM UTC
Fable IV, Livre IV.
À mes enfants.
Du printemps la fille vermeille,
La rose ne vit qu'un moment,
Dont le papillon et l'abeille
Profitent bien différemment.
Gaspillant, comme un fou, les biens qu'on lui prodigue
Tandis que l'insecte léger,
Chenille un jour avant, funeste au potager,
En stériles baisers sur la fleur se fatigue,
L'abeille y puise l'or qu'attendent ses rayons,
L'or qui doit la nourrir dans sa maison bien close,
Longtemps après le jour fatal aux papillons,
Où l'on voit se faner la rose.
Au travail, mes enfants, accordez une part
Dans les jours de votre jeunesse :
Tout donner au plaisir n'est pas de la sagesse ;
Tel qui pense autrement, même avant la vieillesse,
S'en repentira, mais trop ****
1.2k
I could dream a million dreams
Cuddled under expensive sheets
I could wrap myself in satin gowns
Trimmed in lace ruffled in grace
I could wear a matching mask
Pink silk soothing tired eyes
I could dream a million dreams
Bundled in a Frette luxurious set
I could float in a mound of pillows
Hand stitched with delicate patterns
I could drape a neutral chenille throw
Warm and calm over my soul
I could dream a million dreams
None of which
Would ever come back to me
Feb 11, 2018
Feb 11, 2018 at 4:34 AM UTC
I’ve got five minutes
Then I must leave my verdant patch
On the skirt of a wind-rustled lake
hidden behind Logan's Roadhouse
Five minutes
to mentally finger with the fetal position
In which I awoke this morning,
there as the sun drew long shadows,
I, a diminutive daub of nautilus,
On a California King,
rippled plane of sand,
Sporadic shivers, beneath a chenille blanket
I, the town crier of dawn as
My own dreams ran screaming through the silence
Pointing a finger at
my sanctuary… “Here is your pearl thief!”
Men in hats, briefcases, heel-toe black clicky and shiny shoes
on leashes lugged,
Yanked by noisy hounds passing by
stop, sniff, snarl-toothed ********
then one caught my scent,
“Five minutes more sleep,” I implored
"Find another dreaming fleshy mess of bones!"
And leave me to my pearl.
But it’s a universe that simply will not wait
And suffer fools for sleepers,
not a moment more
Yet for my many sleepless minutes after,
Dusk till dawn, and still beyond,
it’s always,
five
minutes
more
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 4:54 PM UTC
The First Age of Lelija; The city was like a hanging
Green Technology. The move affected the sums
of big plants. A beautiful golf club
In Latin America; And gold unfortunately
Finds Star Wars blood will go; One is coming
to the town of the College, therefore,
The children's signet ring, Saed Puck is alive;
American woman thought her head carrots
in the Brightness of the moon of the messengers
of the six Fractured poets. There by the door edge.
No air; The girl. Igor Yellow hear what England?
a drunken man, and the father of it to give
it on the feet of their father for a drink,
no pleasure in him; Born of three Greek and *****
State water box, you do? In order to live,
The shape of jellyfish and a fierce star;
The stone steps 1 Basic Jeans metal with a small
amount of it, and the fears of the reason
is mainly political; He went to the most
Barbie is beautiful woman is wearing clothes
But much more delicate and beige, 1 am Delightful
Guy critically and permanent Hate Chenille
mannered cat; fear evil at the last, and which
is able to be a part of fire is the art of fame
Kiss the Voice of changes
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 11:36 PM UTC
I pour the wine, while you raise your cup
until our bodies have had enough,
that our spirit’s twist, wrung out dry,
sexed and sated; shyly truth seeps outside
of careless vessels, free once more -
unable to collide, despite this ardor.
Our thoughts clashed clandestine,
while our demeanors docile.
Your scowl, the bone beneath a smile
our rose skin kisses, turning hostile.
The quaff of a tongue, the taunting touch.
Skin chenille, beneath blankets blush.
Suddenly sensitive to the sounds of dawn,
a trash truck groans, someone mows a lawn.
Last nights dream bent around a now that’s gone.
Time has stopped, but it still goes on and on.
I’m up, you’re naked;
Every morning maunders, over-medicated.
Every house a story, every window, perspective
my window is dark, theirs, a beverage,
to fill a voyeurs empty cup with scornful slake,
set to brew when strangers wake;
having gone to bed not knowing each other,
in the morning, woken as broken lovers.
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 12:43 PM UTC
In a faraway place and faraway time
stood square a cabin rotted pine and bramble flue.
Once haven for old crones craven - their skins thin-skinned slivers of brine;
now nary a soot line marked a witches' brew.
In the dark, swirling silver stark and creatures would quiver
held over pot-stew thither, along hymns of damning chanted.
Waggled tongues with an evil glaze would slither,
cursing in eye, toe, and liver the bubbling broth decanted.
Oh a malkin giggled and a paddock piggled;
sniggled in a mirth-marked cauldron's rubble double bubble.
With a whoosh and a swish a bony finger had wiggled,
as papery skin withered the drubble swuddle brubble.
On those blackest of nights, when wolves would fear the moon,
howls held loomed, choked on down the throat of dusk.
Hatred uttered its sleepy breath, pitch-entombed
and justice marooned under a tar most brusque.
Shadows danced incantation
for an occultish creation, oh the devil's bidding be done!
Flamed carnation, neither here nor there god-fearing,
cackling a primrose coronation; the stirring spoon spun!
Death-catcher chimes hung close upon the entry;
a dust since turn of century marred bone;
witches’ wart-encrusted noses crinkled at gentry;
chenille voices sung with celerity a hellish praise: Divinum Occultum.
A little duende ran down the cauldron,
gloom chanting a chant come out with a hurl.
Burnt feet chasing away all ghosts ‘n goblins,
unfurling like whisper from the concoction:
Doom upon all the world.
Dec 1, 2024
Dec 1, 2024 at 6:26 AM UTC
So easily I slide
Into an old chenille robe
Slouching to accept defeat
Feeling each past failure’s probe
My isolation morphs
Into alienation
I slip into a winter
Of my discontent again
Familiar imprint there
Tattooed backside on the couch
A negative reminder
Under dark shrouds of self-doubt
Passively sinking
Wallowing in all things bleak
Difficulties must precede
Enlightenment that I seek
Can’t hardly lift my feet
Both beneath my tree-log legs
I shuffle with some coffee
Time to empty out the dregs
After the longest day
I kick takeout boxes aside
I ricochet off balance still
No fall comes without any pride
Mar 14, 2019
Mar 14, 2019 at 7:43 PM UTC
Violins straining
lights playing
on the heroine's face
her eyes misty
with suffering
the handsome hero
caresses her frail hand
suddenly
her hand rests
on the chenille bedspread
her face passive
against an ivory pillow
her eyes close
soaring voices rise
lights dim
quickly
the hero
his lady
the room
lights
colors
music
screen
theater
people
you
me
fade
out
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 5:09 PM UTC
Un jour, causant entre eux, différents animaux
Louaient beaucoup le ver à soie.
Quel talent, disaient-ils, cet insecte déploie
En composant ces fils si doux, si fins, si beaux,
Qui de l'homme font la richesse !
Tous vantaient son travail, exaltaient son adresse.
Une chenille seule y trouvait des défauts,
Aux animaux surpris en faisait la critique,
Disait des mais, et puis des si.
Un renard s'écria : messieurs, cela s'explique ;
C'est que madame file aussi.
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Elle passa, je crois qu'elle m'avait souri.
C'était une grisette ou bien une houri.
Je ne sais si l'effet fut moral ou physique,
Mais son pas en marchant faisait une musique.
Quoi ! Ton pavé bruyant et fangeux, ô Paris,
A de ces visions ineffables ! Je pris
Ses yeux fixés sur moi pour deux étoiles bleues.
Fraîche et joyeuse enfant ! Moineaux et hochequeues
Ont moins de gaîté folle et de vivacité.
Elle avait une robe en taffetas d'été,
De petits brodequins couleur de scarabée,
L'air d'une ombre qui passe avant la nuit tombée,
Je ne sais quoi de fier qui permettait l'espoir.
Pendant que je songeais, croyant encor la voir
Même après qu'elle était enfuie et disparue,
Et que debout, pensif au milieu de la rue,
Contemplant, ébloui, cet être gracieux,
J'avais l'œil dans l'espace et l'âme dans les cieux,
Une vieille, moitié chatte et moitié harpie,
Au menton hérissé d'une barbe en charpie,
Vêtue affreusement d'un sinistre haillon,
Effroyable, et parlant comme avec un bâillon,
Me dit tout bas : - Monsieur veut-il de cette fille ?
Ô pauvre colibri que vend une chenille !
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Pouvons-nous étouffer le vieux, le long Remords,
Qui vit, s'agite et se tortille,
Et se nourrit de nous comme le ver des morts,
Comme du chêne la chenille ?
Pouvons-nous étouffer l'implacable Remords ?
Dans quel philtre, dans quel vin, dans quelle tisane,
Noierons-nous ce vieil ennemi,
Destructeur et gourmand comme la courtisane,
Patient comme la fourmi ?
Dans quel philtre ? - dans quel vin ? - dans quelle tisane ?
Dis-le, belle sorcière, oh ! dis, si tu le sais,
A cet esprit comblé d'angoisse
Et pareil au mourant qu'écrasent les blessés,
Que le sabot du cheval froisse,
Dis-le, belle sorcière, oh ! dis, si tu le sais,
A cet agonisant que le loup déjà flaire
Et que surveille le corbeau,
A ce soldat brisé ! s'il faut qu'il désespère
D'avoir sa croix et son tombeau ;
Ce pauvre agonisant que déjà le loup flaire !
Peut-on illuminer un ciel bourbeux et noir ?
Peut-on déchirer des ténèbres
Plus denses que la poix, sans matin et sans soir,
Sans astres, sans éclairs funèbres ?
Peut-on illuminer un ciel bourbeux et noir ?
L'Espérance qui brille aux carreaux de l'Auberge
Est soufflée, est morte à jamais !
Sans lune et sans rayons, trouver où l'on héberge
Les martyrs d'un chemin mauvais !
Le Diable a tout éteint aux carreaux de l'Auberge !
Adorable sorcière, aimes-tu les damnés ?
Dis, connais-tu l'irrémissible ?
Connais-tu le Remords, aux traits empoisonnés,
A qui notre coeur sert de cible ?
Adorable sorcière, aimes-tu les damnés ?
L'Irréparable ronge avec sa dent maudite
Notre âme, piteux monument,
Et souvent il attaque, ainsi que le termite,
Par la base le bâtiment.
L'Irréparable ronge avec sa dent maudite !
- J'ai vu parfois, au fond d'un théâtre banal
Qu'enflammait l'orchestre sonore,
Une fée allumer dans un ciel infernal
Une miraculeuse aurore ;
J'ai vu parfois au fond d'un théâtre banal
Un être, qui n'était que lumière, or et gaze,
Terrasser l'énorme Satan ;
Mais mon coeur, que jamais ne visite l'extase,
Est un théâtre où l'on attend
Toujours, toujours en vain, l'Être aux ailes de gaze !
350
T'oseroit bien quelque poète
Nyer des vers, douce alouette ?
Quant à moy je ne l'oserois,
Je veux celebrer ton ramage
Sur tous oyseaus qui sont en cage,
Et sur tous ceus qui sont es bois.
Qu'il te fait bon ouyr ! à l'heure
Que le bouvier les champs labeure
Quand la terre le printems sent,
Qui plus de ta chanson est gaye,
Que couroussée de la playe
Du soc, qui l'estomac lui fend.
Si tost que tu es arrosée
Au point du jour, de la rosée,
Tu fais en l'air mile discours
En l'air des ailes tu fretilles,
Et pendue au ciel, tu babilles,
Et contes aus vens tes amours.
Puis du ciel tu te laisses fondre
Dans un sillon vert, soit pour pondre,
Soit pour esclorre, ou pour couver,
Soit pour aporter la bechée
A tes petis, ou d'une Achée
Ou d'une chenille, ou d'un ver.
Lors moi couché dessus l'herbette
D'une part j'oy ta chansonnette ;
De l'autre, sus du poliot,
A l'abry de quelque fougere
J'ecoute la jeune bergere
Qui degoise son lerelot.
Puis je di, tu es bien-heureuse,
Gentille Alouette amoureuse,
Qui n'as peur ny soucy de riens,
Qui jamais au coeur n'as sentie
Les dedains d'une fiere amie,
Ny le soin d'amasser des biens.
Ou si quelque souci te touche,
C'est, lors que le Soleil se couche,
De dormir, et de reveiller
De tes chansons avec l'Aurore
Et bergers et passans encore,
Pour les envoyer travailler.
Mais je vis toujours en tristesse,
Pour les fiertez d'une maistresse
Qui paye ma foi de travaus,
Et d'une plesante mensonge,
Qui jour et nuit tous-jours alonge
La longue trame de mes maus.
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