"draping" poems
The dark (k)night,
Cold and dreary,
The silver spot of light,
Soothing but scary,
Draping the shadows beneath the (k)night'sky
Running away from a reproachful eye,
Wolfs cry and leaves rustle
Sprinting feet quickly hustle,
(K)night's dark but the dawn breaks,
(K)Night sleeps deeper and deeper, it's insatiable,
Mother doesn't but son wakes,
The dystopian slumber doesn't quiver,
He's only one left awake in this rubble
He's only one left alone to flow away in his dreamy river.
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 6:46 AM UTC
Todays sun felt lonely
Drenched in isolation
Melting for acceptance
Draping light upon empty carcasses
Feeling the gravity of the space between
An embrace no one can fulfill
Without the proper tools
The days will be spent empty
Full of giving solar flares of its former self
Begging for a better understanding
feeling altruism at the core
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 6:26 PM UTC
In winter I bundle up tight in layers of warmth
Like a love I've never felt
Draping scarf over hoody over sweater over skivvy
The wind bites my button nose and reminds me of a love
A love I know too well
Bitter cold brief sickening and harsh
I catch my eye in an ice smitten mirror and I'm torn
My eyes look like hell
How could anyone love me like warmth and fall
For this fat face of shame, tears and freckles
Even if they do
They'll never tell.
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 4:56 PM UTC
*all my life i held a dream
of a woman i would love
of course
she would be alluring
supple
a charming countenance
erudite, with an angelic face
her body
a muscular stretching willow
arching her legs over head
kissing her own
curving soft feet
a graceful contortionist
in confetti colored sparkle pantyhose
stretching towards me
silken hair draping a perfect symmetry
with spun sugar kisses
wafting the scent of vanilla
and candied vaporous breath
lips like cherry lozenges
but
one never knows ones destiny
i met her
my girl destiny
and except for a faint look of languor and ruin
with a tinge of withering
she was without doubt unbearably titillating
with razor-thin blackened lips
mascara slits for eyes
hair pulled straight back
jet black
jelled like hardened licorice
with satanic blood rivulets
and pitch fork tattooed ****
a vice of lechery
a malefaction of moral turpitude
her *** scarred from orgiastic beatings
her **** became
like a large wrinkly mouth
resembling the face of a bullfrog
from pleasuring herself with
tableware cutlery
her soul
a broken creel
suffering bouts of anxiety
like a weeping moon
having been institutionalized
in Mother Marys Hell House
from a ghastly bout of parricide
her father,
a hobbling gloomish troll
while the dark veins of mother
ran through her soul
leaving little choice
but to dispatch
the parents
abandoning their corpses in the kitchen
like strewn litter
turned out
just my
kinda
girl
d
e
s
t
i
n
y
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 9:14 AM UTC
I started with my dress,
The white one with the black flowery design.
I added my black scarf, draping it
Casually around my head,
Trying to stop my thoughts from drifting
To what I was dressing up for.
I slipped on my sandals and then
Slipped out the door,
Not slamming it because that felt like
An ending.
I didn’t want another ending.
Walking into the church,
The temperature went up 50 degrees,
And my anxiety went up 100.
I shook hands with the extended family,
Hugged your widow,
And comforted your grandchildren.
I made it through the opening liturgy,
Your favorite hymn, and the obituary.
I even stopped my tears from falling
During your granddaughter’s touching eulogy,
When she started sobbing up there on the altar.
Afterwards, I sat through the meal,
Everything tasting like cardboard in
My mouth as the temperature kept increasing.
Near the end of the night,
When the church was clearing out,
I went back to the food,
Craving a final bite of cheesy potato casserole
Before I could finally leave this night behind.
Yet when I get there,
The tray is cleaned out,
And there is no more cheesy potato casserole.
That’s when I finally break down and sob.
I didn’t get that last bite of
Cheesy potato casserole.
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 3:11 PM UTC
a draper is someone who creates garments or patterns by draping fabric directly onto a dress form (Wikipedia)
~~~~
I am a draper,
by trade, by nature, by instinct;
a fling of one arm across her body,
while she dreams and sleeps, rambles, mumbles,
and even convulses,
to hold her tight with two, with both,
soon grows discomforting as the blood ceases to flow,
the heat breeds unsweetened sweat,
and the snuggling impact,
is too fast subsumed by the pins and needles
numbing, deadening,
and ironical attenuation
this is my pattern,
how I address her,
how I dress her,
draping my contiguous,
drawing five fingers
upon her form,
reshaping her in her sleep,
the arm flung, there, and then
there,
to be hung,
at varied places across her body,
higher lower, above below,
but her face,
free and clear,
so not to interfere
with her sensory preceptors
and as I draw my pattern upon her skin,
her body whole,
listening her to indeterminate utterances,
to determine
which
pitter patter pattern
to which.
she feels best suited,
then,
I prepare my
invoice
for her,
for services rendered,
to present upon awakening,
demanding
in voice,
by her voice,
payment in words,
of her own chosen
amuse-bouche,
mmmm, will it be?
good morning my love?
hello you!
or just an indiscriminate
but yet,
a discriminating
sound of
having been pleasured
by unknown forces
in her deeper sleep, using her lips
to say, to hum, to sing,
a genteel unspecific
but, and yet, a
terrific,
deep from within
guttural remittance,
the sound of a delicious,
mmmmmming
greeting
a new equinoxal gale
of a refreshing fresh
birthing, fulsome
already satisfying
draping of the
day
Aug 13, 2025
Aug 13, 2025 at 5:01 PM UTC
i am running out of
air
i am running out of
scrapes on my knees
running out of
new corners to cross
in this neighborhood
we are growing up in the same houses
with the same curtain of trees draping
their limbs over our windowsills
we are sleeping in the same bedsheets
wrinkled from the imperative
tossing and turning
of adolescents.
we inflate our chests
and float away like red balloons
a freckle in the pale complexion of the sky
for this love affair with the pavement
has lost its edge
this slipping on
slimy banana peels
has stabilized
we have bitten and scratched and stained
the doors of your fingers
studied every trail of your fingerprints
we have grown older in the palm of your hand
your fists raised to the sky
it is time for you to open them.
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 3:33 PM UTC
I don't know much about Jellyfish, but I do know of a girls biggest wish is to become one of those fish and
oh, she would fit.
The female Jelly of a rare species, one of the most beautiful, divine finds.
A very rare kind, that would ever so shine, there's only one of it's kind,
it leaves me so blind.
The gentle Jelly so breathtaking that it takes away all of my oxygen,
The Jelly's, heart breaking.
She's so damaged, she's dead on the inside with many different strings
loosely draping among with her, it's a representation of all of her past,
so terrible, I wonder if I could fix that?
I don't know if there's a Jellyfish that continuously changes colors in a glowing manner,
but she would.
This is why this Jellyfish would be the rarest.
This Jellyfish would glow colors of Yellow,Purple,Gray,Black,Blue, and Red.
The yellow would be her happiness, though it may be the rarest of her colors.
Purple, would be her scars.
Black, is her hidden irrationality that I wont ever let her drown in, in her wonderful blue lit sea.
Gray, would portray something like the clouds on a rainy day, something that keeps her happiness hidden.
Blue, a very sad colored blue that would be the color of her tears that I try to wipe and keep away, this blue is more distinct than
the color of the waters she lives in because it represents only her pain and only comes out of her.
Red, would represent her recent scarring's, a recent ****** wound that has just been cut or even a wound that will not disappear.
The Jellyfish being through all that she has been through still continues to float among the sea,
a weak, but also a strong Jellyfish as my bubbles keep her afloat, I wont ever let the waves engulf her.
The persistent sea critter drifts delicately reminiscing, but not forgetting.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 3:37 AM UTC
swallowed in a world of green
creatures hiding below me
watching every move I make
a line leading me down
to the green abyss
fear grows as the color deepens
swallowing me as a whole
electricity kisses my hand as a welcoming gesture
my knuckle covered with small dots
a stain from the kiss
deeper as i go
the line never ends
as i levitate holding my breathe
nothing but green surrounds me
cold water shivers down my body
waking up my nerves to keep me from being hypnotized
by the green eyes
my chest contracts
my signal to leave
the green monster lets me go
as i head up slow
the green lightens
and i see the blue sky draping over me
and as i look down
the green abyss smiles at me
waiting for me to go back
Jan 2, 2021
Jan 2, 2021 at 9:43 AM UTC
Murva fashion collection introduced at Eco Fashion Week has been a life long process for Ivana Knezovic, Creative Director / Designer. This was not only the 29 year old Croatian designer's first collection, but also her first international performance.
She debuted her eco-friendly collection titled Rust & Flow on the runway at Eco Fashion Week in Vancouver, Canada. Her pieces are all made from eco-friendly wool flannel.
Ivana Knezovic made interesting use of symmetrical lines, and I admired the draping from the shoulders framing a dress low-cut in back. One dress had several parallel vertical cut lines on the backside.
Many of her tops had capes, hang from one shoulder or both, paired with slim pants or a skirt. A nice touch of dramatic flare as the models moved down the runaway.
“Fashion design was always in me,” say Ivana Knezovic. Having resided in New York, Toronto, and Switzerland, designing was something she always wanted to do. "Murva is the name of a tree in my village. My company represents a return to my roots, to who I am at my core."
"I like structure. I like hiding the body behind some kind of a structure," said the designer who makes all her own clothes and cosmetics. "Eco is a product of maturity and of wholeness that you can only achieve when you really and truly grow up."
As a designer, she told me that she strives for “pure minimalism,” yet her eco-fashion designs are made for a sophisticated, minimalistic, and determined woman.
Exactly what the eco-fashion movement needs.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/bridesmaid-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-2015
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 10:59 PM UTC
For me, the naked and the ****
(By lexicographers construed
As synonyms that should express
The same deficiency of dress
Or shelter) stand as wide apart
As love from lies, or truth from art.
Lovers without reproach will gaze
On bodies naked and ablaze;
The Hippocratic eye will see
In nakedness, anatomy;
And naked shines the Goddess when
She mounts her lion among men.
The **** are bold, the **** are sly
To hold each treasonable eye.
While draping by a showman's trick
Their dishabille in rhetoric,
They grin a mock-religious grin
Of scorn at those of naked skin.
The naked, therefore, who compete
Against the **** may know defeat;
Yet when they both together tread
The briary pastures of the dead,
By Gorgons with long whips pursued,
How naked go the sometime ****
4.2k
Oh, but it is *****
--this little filling station,
oil-soaked, oil-permeated
to a disturbing, over-all
black translucency.
Be careful with that match!
Father wears a *****
oil-soaked monkey suit
that cuts him under the arms,
and several quick and saucy
and greasy sons assist him
(it's a family filling station),
all quite thoroughly *****
Do they live in the station?
It has a cement porch
behind the pumps, and on it
a set of crushed and grease-
impregnated wickerwork;
on the wicker sofa
a ***** dog, quite comfy.
Some comic books provide
the only note of color-
of certain color. They lie
upon a big dim doily
draping a taboret
(part of the set), beside
a big hirsute begonia.
Why the extraneous plant?
Why the taboret?
Why, oh why, the doily?
(Embroidered in daisy stitch
with marguerites, I think,
and heavy with gray crochet.)
Somebody embroidered the doily.
Somebody waters the plant,
or oils it, maybe. Somebody
arranges the rows of cans
so that they softly say:
ESSO--SO--SO--SO
to high-strung automobiles.
Somebody loves us all.
3.8k
My back touched the fabric
of the couch
as I slouched and tilted my head.
I let my elbow fell on the armchair
as my thumb flew between my lips
and my teeth perched on its flesh.
My forefinger
ran back and forth, restlessly,
on my nose bridge
as I inhaled the details
of your head thrown backward,
your hair suspended in midair.
some strands draping down your chest,
your mouth half open,
your secret self and your entire being
all seducing my peripheral vision.
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 6:08 PM UTC
He was the epitome of a loveless boy, and he knew it. In fact, that was what kept him restlessly awake most nights, especially on this particular evening. He glanced down at the dark mess of hair that was laid across his chest and listened to the soft emission of peaceful breathing slipping from the lips of the girl whose name he did not remember. For a second, he debated on searching the dark corners of his mind in an attempt to remember it, but he soon realized he never even bothered to ask. This disappointed him for one reason - it was another question mark that he had to add to the list of names that he kept pinned to the front of his brain. At the thought of this particular list, he felt sick, as though an ounce of regret had seeped into his stomach and spread like an infection and now threatened to rise like bile. He knew he needed to keep it down, so he leaned over his bed and wrapped his fingers around the neck of the glass bottle he kept hidden in the bed springs. He sat back up and slowly unscrewed the cap, his eyes mesmerized by the amber liquid that swirled around the bottom half like a whirlpool of gold. He brought the top to his lips and tipped it back, filling his mouth with the warmth of forgetfulness and feeling as it burned his throat like fire the entire way down. It instantly washed him clean of every bad memory he had done his best to forget for the past week. Every tear that every girl had shed on their knees in front of him, begging him to love them; every cigarette that he had chain-smoked on the rooftop of his apartment building in an effort to cloud these very memories (unsuccessfully); every streetlamp that he had found solace in as he walked the streets mindlessly at three am, searching for answers that never came to him. He closed his eyes and imagined the whiskey rising inside of him until it leaked into his lungs and filled them, drowning him. He held his breath, pondering how long it would take for him to go lifeless in this position. But the sudden stop in the rise and fall of his chest caused the female lying on it to stir in her sleep, draping her arm around him and pulling him even closer. He felt sick again so he took another sip. He knew that when he looked back on this evening, he wouldn't remember it, which was becoming a classic move on his part. In fact, his life had become nothing more than disconnected nights with nameless and faceless females and fire whiskey that filled all the empty space within him. And he wasn't sure how that had come to be, but he no longer cared enough to even attempt to figure it out.
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 9:38 PM UTC
I am at a crescendo of this mercurially
fervent woe, maimed by the visage of
_smoke and mirrors;_
"a death in chrysalis is to live once again."
Draping into the worn out disheveled
silk, _beautifully withered_
lulled by the sound of riverbanks
as if it's pacifying the feral.
A star-lit eyes deluged with bliss
rose with thorn-teared flesh
overwhelmed by a mawkish melancholia. Although we were haunted by our old love, _it will never be the same_.
Oct 9, 2022
Oct 9, 2022 at 12:05 AM UTC
The legere sacristy of pure love blazing
Feline confluence across ethereal plains
Arched angelic collusion of things sepulchral
The arcane occidere travisty of
Transmogrification canonized
Darkling eminence ordained;
The verity aura of radiance
Twilights tidal blood- dye magenta,
Germane sleek meagre wealth chiming lo!.
Finitudes golden prayer draping flounded
Brutality tithing the zenith with mealy
Doer aptitude majestically turbulent
Sacrificing thoriums weld feudal
Of heavens deceitful soothsayers,
Fellow djinn of Gotterdammerung
Soli of vilest stoic jingoism.
ELEETE J MUIR.
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 7:07 AM UTC
what if there was no war,
no uncanny screaming of the aghast,
no blasphemy of the past ,
nobody had to breathe their last,
No ******* ten years old,
with a vestbomb as their told,
to wear it
As 'their allah sees it,
how young and bold they are.
No shedding of the tears,
from the eyes that waits ,
for their father and brothers,
and fears that last ,
No blood that shall gear from their mass.
What if there was no soldier to die ,
only You and I,
Together end this solemn execution of the nicer soul,
and be bold enough to give them hope,
draping them in brightest colors of life
and solicit the world to be in it.
What if...............nevermind
These are hoax with no light,
They probably are somewhere in the dark,
For there they would always bark
Dec 27, 2017
Dec 27, 2017 at 10:27 AM UTC
at first when you take off
the world just looks small
a dollhouse, a miniature world
an amusing punchline to an old joke
a fantasy tinged with g-force and sprite in clear cups
but as the sky darkens and the plane lifts higher
the world seems to drown in blackness
an inky clarity of night not confused by clouds
and suddenly it is as if you are at the top on an ocean
looking at a far away ocean floor
crawling with foreign creatures with all of their bones lit up
over coral reefs of light and movement
parking lots like stationary jelly fish and highways like currents
of neon veins pumping lights and cars
all of the world's exoskeleton is illuminated
and it is beautiful and movable
it is nature's patterns played out in electricity
but the farther out you go
the more the sharpness and geometry of the roads and cities
attack the eye
and the coral reefs turn to computer motherboards
all of man's ingenuity and beauty no longer draping the world
but ordering it
into squares and jagged lines
into distant pixel pinpricks
into maps
until you're not traveling through the world
but over it
Mar 14, 2010
Mar 14, 2010 at 11:06 PM UTC
She have never been into things such as growing a garden, they say her potential will have to be reached by a streak of light draping through the window pane.
she builds her greenhouse and collected some seeds, she doesn't sort if she'll grew by season or if it's a monstrous plant— she just want to see a lot of butterflies that she have never seen before.
she remain unimpressed, seeing a hues full of periwinkle and blues, roses and thorns decorated beautifully by her fragile hands, you can see on her plain tone the visible traces of paper cuts and ink blotch.
one day, a boy visited her garden, he grew fond and perpetrated on every flower she had. they sat on an empty, unfurnished room, filled with his paintings and brushes, not seem to notice the one uncleaned palette she used and left forgotten. She watched the boy as he paints, as if he knew every detail of his magic, it reminds her of the days she spent the same way, on how she loves it, tenderly in her heart— she said he was a stray butterfly, everything on him is luminous.
they spent their time there, little did the boy knew that she loves everything he had done on the garden. She wonders how a little misadventures were found in a wild wood.
Oct 8, 2021
Oct 8, 2021 at 11:00 PM UTC
I am paperwhite,
a delicate bird,
thrashing and ensnared.
Paperwhite,
and bones of feathers;
light and airy.
I fly,
fly away in the ceaseless night sky.
Snowflakes stick to my face,
my eyelids,
my garments;
That are knit together too big on my frame, draping over
My winged shoulders and shielding me,
like a wall
Protecting a delicate feather from windy skies.
Running, fleeing.
Gasping, dying.
Blood starts flowing,
and rushes down my forehead,
Thin, the kind of flow that won’t stop.
It flows over my eyes,
down my chiseled face
And pools in my collarbones creating a lake.
I look into the distance;
staring back at me are ashen eyes.
I am homesick for somewhere I’ve never been.
Longing, longing,
flying, running.
Running home,
running far.
Reaching with open arms,
Reaching closer.
Reaching out,
breaking the cage keeping me.
A mucky ocean of dirt and sediment,
Clears into an open water,
a clear oasis,
a path.
Folded like paper, flying like a bird.
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 11:06 PM UTC
A parade of leaves dancing within the willow,
Draping branches dangling in the breeze.
Chattering sparrows
Laughing with the hint of rain.
Rumbles of thunder humming
A loud whisper.
A growing whisper
Takes shelter within the willow,
Quietly humming
A song for leaves in the breeze,
Droplets of rain
Shower the chuckling sparrows.
Feathers of the sparrows,
Drift away, soft as a whisper.
Sprinkling rain
Gets lost within the branching willow,
The feathers play hide and seek in the breeze,
And the thunder continues humming.
The thunder is still humming,
While the feathers of the sparrows
Float in the breeze,
And storm clouds whisper
A strong kiss of wind through the willow,
Allowing a canopy of rain.
The creek floods with rain,
While the rumbling remains humming,
Dancing willow,
The sky imprisons the sparrows
The lightning sings a whisper,
Disguised as a breeze.
The fall leaves stir up in the breeze
Drenched in fresh rain,
Rainbows whisper
Over the thunder’s loud humming,
The return of the laughing sparrows
As they perch within the willow.
The humming of thunder in the distance, the whisper of lightning,
The after smell of rain, lingering in the breeze
The buzzing of sparrows, perching within the willow.
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 9:53 PM UTC
masked
from the winters snow
surrounded by the color of cleanliness
never have we touched his thick coat
with mitten less hands
for we know how cold burns
i stride
wearing my printed smile
stainless steal
plastic shine
tasted less stale
when i was a child
i used to play piano
giving mocking birds words of their own
so they too
will forever be free
like the ideas of a writer
racing through his pen
drawing out
my lovely mothers eyes
deepest blue
like the oceans blanket
always comfortably draping me
till she closed them shut
was the day i played broken keys
snow settles as the color white
only in my memories
hands became mitten less
for i
know how the cold burns
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 2:56 AM UTC
Blue curtains draping over high, tall windows
Gazing into the glorious night sky you should know
In the highest tower, lies the eagle above others
Certainly more victorious than another
This is the House of wit and learning
Where points will be given that will be earning
The confidence in ourselves we strive to seek
So don't be shy and not too meek
The House of Ravenclaw takes only the best
But do not forget to get along with the rest
We hold the colours of the cool blue and shiny bronze
Yet we are the most quirkiest against all odds
And most of all, we value our wit and wisdom
For it is like our soul and our kingdom
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 8:05 AM UTC