"eyelet" poems
*
Cast among the downpour,
gates beneath dark clouds are left open
The creek is rising, drowning underbrush,
darkening tree trunks,
moving swiftly the discarded,
Collecting at the walls of this place,
as stone and mortar slowly crumble
From a desperate vantage point
overlooking nature’s angry powers
I see a shape, a floating aura,
eyelet gown of gold stitch, woven ribbon dreams
Mahogany hair flowing, eyes captivating,
drifting atop muddied raging waters,
directing the flow with blown kiss persuasion
Suddenly swept away, barely a breath remains,
swallowing life in surrendering gulps
Flailing intoxicated waves, undertow’s grasp,
when a hand reaches, fingers interlock
Glazing blue skies whisper in sunlit reflections,
ocean breezes soothe washed out tides,
as a sand dollar wishes on a seashell
And now upon this beach I lie safely within soft arms,
tasting her mimosa lips, warm and sweet
I drink in her flavor neath palm tree shadows,
cool in the heat, but hot of her skin
My heart hears the glistening, tingling my senses,
awashing me in desires impossible to imagine,
as I happily drown in her*
Aug 30, 2016
Aug 30, 2016 at 7:03 PM UTC
life choices cast in iron skillets,
presented choices that possess no flexibility
twice, she asks me today
morning fruitage, on offer,
peaches ripe to rip real sweet perfection
from your eyes to the remembering salivating mouth,
or
sweet but just **** enough
strawberries that will wince your tongue buds
intolerant of either, but perfect together
acorn squash,
over roasted to be the violin section
to your barbecued chicken orchestra serenading,
but which shall be the sweetener,
honey or maple syrup,
similar but different
the kitchen floor explosive shakes,
pans to the floor fall, eyelet unhooked all,
spices from cabinets burst forth,
kitchen mittens slapping each other
in utter disbelief
when I reply,
let us choose both!
for there is no bifurcation,
no line of demarcation
on our taste buds
this a truthful -
our lives a perpetual blending,
both will login lead to a
the right and proper ending
Jun 30, 2019
Jun 30, 2019 at 5:34 PM UTC
you can find me in old picture frames, hidden
in a box at the bottom of your basement.
you can find me in telephone booths, scouring
my pockets to find the meaning of change.
you can find me in the font of signed birthday cards, stylized
and nonsensical.
you can find me in your ashtray, waiting
to be reborn.
you can find me at the bottom of your coffee cup, a sludge
of accumulated words that fell out of your mouth
each time you go in for another sip.
you can find me in the pages of your youth, smiling
at the illusion of time.
you can find me in the lyrics to each song
that come on in your car as you drive, alone at night
that make you think of how we were.
you can find me underneath the carpet, a stain
that refuses to come out no matter how hard you scrub.
you can find me at the beginning of your dream, camouflaged
with scenes of sirens, snakes and skeletons singing lullabies
that make you forget what you dreamt of when you finally awaken.
you can find me through the eyelet on your door, as i float
above your head the moment you consider opening it.
you can find me in every embrace, every kiss, every promise
you choose to let fade from your needle-pointed memory.
you can find me in your shoe, a rock
that makes each audacious step feel uncomfortable.
you can find me in the ditch, roadkill
that quickly passes you by as you mumble a
“what was that?” to no one in particular.
you can find me beneath the apologies you didn't mean
and the iloveyous you forgot to say.
you can find me amidst the scattered shards of glass
that scour the linoleum floor from the glass of water
that you dropped in a bout of thirst at midnight.
you can find me underneath your pillow case, whispering
reminders like sweet love songs for the self.
the pieces i have left are ripe and over-cooked,
i can only resign myself to the fact
that you may never choose
to look.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 7:28 PM UTC
to be frail
is a beautiful thing
I think.
with those thin wrists
writ from sheets of unlined paper
and wrought with simple weak.
with those delicate bones
daring to disintegrate
with the lightest brush touch.
with those supple eyes
wide but suffused of colour
used of black and grey.
with those delicate movements
from those who do not divide
and the dance with pinned wrists from those who add.
with those lacy eyed lashes
that listen and lapse the lone deserved
lost in a world of felt and move.
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 4:06 PM UTC
North African English teachers
Are so rare in Peru;
However, I was sent right there
By the Erasmus - EU.
My adventures didn't even start
When I felt strong unease;
As if I was followed by some,
Some dark and unseen breeze.
My first day was ruined by a bite
Happened in the toilet;
I saw a shade in the mirror,
Then, some tooth and eyelet.
---
On my first day I got injured
That was badly enough;
However, the first day kept me
A night just alike tough.
Knock-knock-knock I heard on my door,
The darkness was shallow;
Knock-knock without answer,
My guest was Diablo.
I'd been never superstitious,
Though, I believed in Jinns;
Just as I was a believer
Of many other things.
---
Knock-knock-knock - for a hundred times,
As if my head was' door;
My fear' fulfilled with angriness,
I faced the corridor.
I got the door slowly ajar,
A black claw might me seize;
I snapped its hand and bring Quran,
"It's time to Exorcise!"
The demon tore the door crying,
Of Quranic verses;
The North African welcoming
Has no demon versus.
Oct 5, 2019
Oct 5, 2019 at 2:44 AM UTC
Conflation groweth between ourn sinews
We shalt row upon the island's with canoe's;
The eyelet's aloft us shalt sprinkle celestial powder
We're long away from civilization, dusk hour's.
Fondu pupil's, art the culture to that moment
Her hug's, like gods cloak, encases me with a bonus;
Snug Creation's forgetting the cares around them
The only thing's we thinkest of, art the love's blend.
Justice run's through ourn courtship
As the scales art finely balanced;
None ogre's to looketh over ourn shoulder's
Ourn closeness, keepeth them silenced.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane dedication
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 10:57 PM UTC
I don't belong here.
This place is not my home.
The uniformity of suburbia makes me wearisome.
I am a pygmy among giants,
Something entirely
d i f f e r e n t
within a
society of similarity.
I don't belong here.
This place is not my home.
I close my eyes and dream
Of a half days drive north of where I stand.
Where Hemlocks tower and
Fir brush the sky
I close my eyes and I can feel
The warm sunshine beating down
enveloping my body made of stardust
The whisper of breeze cast off the lake
brushes my face and tangles my hair.
I belong here.
This place is my home.
The scent of earth and gasoline invites me in,
And I can feel the tug of cut-off shorts and eyelet lace
Tan skin smudged with oil and dirt,
Feelings of security wash over me
crisp and refreshing,
the zealous waters of the lake.
I belong here.
This place is my home.
Fireflies dance and twirl in the iridescent twilight
As millions of stars began to glow softly
I was one of them long ago.
The man on the moon demurely shows his face,
And I smile back.
I belong here.
This place is my home.
A car horn jolts me out of my reverie; smog fills my lungs yet again.
No longer standing among friends in mountain air,
But sitting along, surrounded by concrete.
I needed only a fleeting moment of nostalgia to remind me.
That I don't belong here.
This place is not home.
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 10:50 PM UTC
~
Cast among the downpour,
gates beneath dark clouds left open
The creek is rising, drowning underbrush
darkening tree trunks
moving swiftly the discarded
Collected at the walls of this home
stone and mortar slowly crumble
From a desperate vantage point
overlooking nature’s angry powers
I see a shape, a silhouetted aura,
eyelet gown of gold stitch, woven ribbon dreams
Mahogany hair flowing, eyes captivating,
floating atop muddied raging waters,
directing the flow with blown kiss persuasion
Swept away, barely a breath remains,
swallowing life in murderous gulps
Flailing intoxicated waves, undertow’s grasp…
when a hand reaches, fingers interlock
Glazing blue skies whisper in sunlit reflections,
ocean breezes soothe washed out tides,
as a sand dollar wishes on a seashell
Upon this beach I am now safe within her heartbeat,
tasting her Pina Colada lips, warm and sweet
I drink in her flavour neath palm tree shadows,
cool in the heat, but hot of her skin, salty, wet
and my heart hears the glistening, tingling my senses
drenching me in desire’s hard to contain,
as I endlessly drown in her perfect love
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 12:12 PM UTC
i've never liked to hike before
until i met the trek
from the volcano to the shore.
emerging from the cold grey sea
wet and sleepy
to meet fields of grass
where light plays in the sweet-smelling air, like
the pleasure of cold water
or warm honey.
past the crevices,
tramping through fields of laurel & mantis,
the golden mountains slope to greet me
like a kiss on the fingertips
after a story read and chocolate melted
in a house with tea rose air
until --
hark! a black pit,
the gorge leading
to the Path of Everywhere!
opening and flooding with
the world of color
and putting forth sadness and insight!
gaze upon the silent wonder!
the air up here speaks to the ocean
with a silver voice as a constant decision.
i often sit by the eyelet and breathe in the warm black,
dangling my feet in the thick air,
and it seems to dive through it
would be to find a home in that i could live.
Feb 17, 2012
Feb 17, 2012 at 3:58 PM UTC
Silent she slips in
Resolute the new day
Steps of eiderdown
Path rendered muted echoes
As sparkled snow sugars tongues of lovers
A petaled hand extended
Fragrant cherry blossoms
The blush
The rush
Will cupids lacquered eros wax
When the breeze of romance
Roars ferocious
Lions prowl on taloned claws frigid
Before the frail Paschal lambs
New birth awaits the cadence of spring rain
And jonquiled mornings pregnant with dew
Little girls skip minuets
Plait the maypole
Festive in buttered eyelet, whispered taffeta and crisp dotted swiss
Dreaming of castles and gilt armor
Bind this heart of mine in gold and champagne roses
Love and gunfire burst on the palette of the night sky
Sonic color settles shrieking freedom
The haze of summer days
The wind warm, your breath warmer
She languishes heavy lidded
Pine pitch fragrant in her hair and sweet strawberries in her mouth
Fireflies flit teasing
Tepid water waits for stain glass wings to grace the surface
Taut the day holds her breath
As rumbling thunder promises the cool monsoon
Chase away the dog days when the atmosphere clings heavy
Sleepless nights of croaking toads and the drone of mosquitoes
Breathless for the heady patter of rain
Herald the skies of burning blue
Above a cacophony of color
Cottonwoods in petticoats sunflower yellow
Crimson maple and dusted ash
Dance beneath the harvest moon
Thankful
Life is a gift to be unwrapped
Surprise exquisite
Like the first star sparkling on your horizon
At the end of the day.
TL Boehm
02/01/10
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 4:03 PM UTC
You stabbed me with words
that cut like a knife
all the way to the bone
and with all of the blood
that pooled at my side
you only made it worse
when you tracked it up
my snow white eyelet dress
that I wore when we first met
you know, that night by the lake
with nothing but a blanket,
the stars and the sky
and although you're standing here now
as if you couldn't care at all
I let a smile catch my lip
knowing that even then
and even now
I love you at your darkest
and because of this
the darkness took me too.
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 10:09 PM UTC
incidentally it was night 2 lasts i
was
wearing the wriggling organism of your lips
(
and cradled in the dripping chasm of your slight grinning pocket
i nestled specifically in y
our iron stallion
in the eyelet of the small strangled heap of quiet
by the new carcass of
the posthumous day
and waited
for the first gargle
of gnashing pink
to canter
across
the prose
of rocky protrusions stinking
on the horizon
)?
Oct 15, 2010
Oct 15, 2010 at 2:59 PM UTC
Taste
new words
to see
it through.
a pseudo
synaesthesia
grown easy
on the eyelet,
fits, apparently
awake
the derelict
convictions
say,
it cannot be
this much is all
The All, we are
to ever have
and less the time
to take
Seems aeons
since the badlands
let, their Agincourt
of arrowheads,
projecting from
the epicentred
tragedies
of Your
a softer
vector
than before
yet, pertinent,
as ever
Their
ambient
trajectories
descending
back to you
Jul 23, 2022
Jul 23, 2022 at 5:21 AM UTC
There is a
Chuck Taylor black energy connecting
Every one of my couch’s teens
But please don’t generalize a single spirit
And especially stay away from adjectives like
“angsty” and “misunderstood”
Never accuse them of such a cliché travesty
At such an age spotlighted syndrome stage
The Sufjan Stevens song she brings in has the same yearning
That another’s canon snaps with trapped black and whites
That same shadow tangos with the forced-into-therapy-tween’s
faint scalloped smile lines
of times before, when she had not been hunting for her own identity
When she could spin around the willow
And not worry about her eyelet ******* peeking through
Then the cloud covered eighteen year old daisy
Drags amber strands across forehead while she murmers
Blame that oozes from her juvenile jawline, mirroring
The prior sweetheart that stormed out of my office at 3:00pm
Tawny strands across her wrist
And how could I ever forget the last string of fiber
Fierce and cross armed
The last knot to the cat’s cradle of adolescent midnight string
“I know I will conquer my genetic hand”
She declares
Bubblegum harbored in fleshy cheek
Whiskers and all.
I hold sacred in my bones
The appendage I am in all of this
wide eyed need
And I let the walls absorb their sighs
Until, in awe I witness
the beauty in vulnerability
Again
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 2:43 AM UTC
I almost bought some frog skin shoes
With sturdy rubber soles
Shiny green and mottled brown
With blinking eyelet holes
But when I slacked the laces
To try them on for size
The tongue shot up my trouser leg
And latched on to my flies
**
Feb 4, 2021
Feb 4, 2021 at 4:52 PM UTC
Why did his lost love
Find the shoeshine
And not the moonshine
As she polished his walk
With closure
Her tongue ragging his soul
Their arch
His boot
His foot in the grave
Those lost steps are so unkind
We're they not a pair
The fabric of their souls
One lace short of an eyelet
Two insteps short of a dance
Then ... her kiss of wax goodbye
The ***** and spam
The breaking of a dam
He often looks back
At the years
Thirty four unanswered prayers
At the abyss, the black
The knife in his back
The foreclosure
With no procurement
His mind playing no tricks
To her, it was just for kicks
She, twirling in defeat
The moon, the stars absent
Forever, the lingering pain
His step in time elongated
Logan Robertson
10/29/2019
Oct 29, 2019
Oct 29, 2019 at 5:29 AM UTC
There’s something to be said
for the nostalgic banality
of fading industries,
standing in line to buy stamps,
request blank checks,
or updating vehicle registrations.
Reminders that we seldom truly know
what nothing feels like.
Thumbprints on the underside of reality
two steps left of the center line,
and if you look back, it disappears completely.
the same way sleeping through the night
became a chore after realizing
the most peculiar part about
you silhouetted in my doorway,
is that it’s
you.
Silhouetted in my doorway.
Across the cheap Ikea pine,
that comfortable laugh doomed me.
Like a worn-in afghan,
and the smell of wax papered spice cabinets.
It made me grateful beyond reason.
But still, the linoleum peels, and tube lights
flicker pop
back to dark.
So I savor the minute
spent lacing each eyelet of my faded hiking boots.
Making sure the door is locked twice before I leave,
trying not to wonder
where it is you go at night.
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 5:34 PM UTC
i guess that's what happens
quick **** then cue the dancing
the game we play
before the sky is raised
i fall back
to my room
and go through
the routine like
i'm supposed to
despite how
close to you
i get keep these
feelings in the eyelet
of my shoes
miscues laced with
dreams of second chances
that won't come true
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 4:12 PM UTC
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ this
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀cactusscaped
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ garden
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ with
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ punctured
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ sun⠀puddles
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ is
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀gladly
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀an eyelet
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ for tearful
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ souls
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
Sep 6, 2020
Sep 6, 2020 at 2:26 PM UTC