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Nico Bee Aug 2012
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.
Stephan Aug 2016

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
no truth login Jun 2019
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
Lyra Brown Jan 2014
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.
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.
22.02.2018
brandon nagley Aug 2015
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
Tenisyn Jun 2013
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.
This ones an oldie. Wrote this in 10th grade.
Chris May 2015
~

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
I wrote this poem first and then wrote a rhyming version of it that I will post at a later date. It is kind of long, so I am posting this one first.
Haven Collie Feb 2012
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 ***** 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.
see past it.
Tammy Boehm Sep 2014
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
think "Each month of the year"
PK Wakefield Oct 2010
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
                                    )?
Ashleigh Black Jan 2015
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.
A W Bullen Jul 2022
Arc
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
Lucanna Apr 2015
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
tween to teen clients
collin Jul 2015
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
Rollie Rathburn Mar 2018
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.
Logan Robertson Oct 2019
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
She wanted marriage unconventional. And when those words reached his ears it broke his heart. He conceeded the seesaw but not the swings.
Ben Jones Feb 2021
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

**
Brie Williams Feb 2020
I bleed
And I cut
Every inch of your lust
You make me want to die inside
You make me cry on my way home
You made me flip 3 times
Why do I
Get found by men like you
Men that like to pull thread through your needle
I wish I could stab it into you
Hammra Sistur Sep 2020
13
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ this
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀cactusscaped
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ garden
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ with
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ punctured
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ sun⠀puddles
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ is
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀gladly
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀an eyelet
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀  for tearful
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ souls
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
your kiss is like
Easter Sunday
dressed in white eyelet
wearing daisies
sneaking chocolate bunnies
secretly holding hands
during morning service

your kiss is like
fiery icicles
melting my muscles
tingling my toes
flaming my fingertips
leaves my lips burning
aching for more

your kiss is quietude

your kiss is quivering

your kiss is quintessential
Jill Sep 23
My eyes are clear
Opening my lash-eyelet curtain
A near-perceptible glacier-clean,
--thud-crack of thick ice
Forming two, perfect, transparent, oval shards
Convex bevel edges
Satisfying symmetry.

My brain is quiet
Waiting for the roaring, train engine, kettle-boiling,
punctuated by slight, syncopated,
tap-taps that,
-- so kindly, remind me, my mind be, relying
-- on pulsing blood
Still roarless
Still, roarless
Spline-smoothed
Blood journeys gently, cloud-style
Not muddling, befuddling, nimbostratus
Just happy little cumulus
Soft. Nice.

My shoulders are low
Cage only soundtrack here
Absence of intended sounds
Only the astral smooth void
Flawless, measured, even space
My ears can kiss my shoulders if I feel like it
--but I don’t feel like it
Comfortable.

My breath is even
Jaws are open pliers
Thoughts are photos in ice and midnight blue
-- no rue umber or regret beige
Muscles are liquid-warm wax
Palms are oasis-free deserts
Pupils are obsidian-shined globes
Skin made of moonlight
Heart matching the beat of the universe

I have returned
Back inside myself
I am here.
©2024

Music reference – John Cage, 4’33” (1952).

BLT Webster’s Word of the Day challenge (rue) date 23rd September 2024.
To rue something is to feel penitence, remorse, or regret for it. Rue is often used in the phrase "rue the day."
Mid February dreams amongst the winds of change
I am waiting for the season to relinquish its hold
like the frost on the  rooftops, the snow at my door
sooner or later will be no more...
I am watching the pine tree swaying in the cold sun
dipping its branches, courtesies of a winter's day
A piano plays softly in the background
as I sit here contented as a well fed cat
Mid February dreams amongst the winds of change

From my rocking chair, lavender fields remembered
sun born kisses with eyelet flashes of white linen
suntanned arms raised before a blue, blue ocean
airborne on a surfing board secured as an eagle
like a beach boy I flew, and who ever knew
She came to me like an August dream and
slipped her tiny hand in mine, we became one
like the summer stars in the sky when they bly
from my rocking chair lavender fields, I remember

Winter enclosures well aged in composure I sit to admire  
the view, amazed at how everything secretly, expires.
TJ Struska Oct 2020
The day flutters like ticker-tape
I smile like Buddha
Unzipping the night
A pocketful of whistles

A dark ceiling of stars.

The needle is threaded
Night wide open
The engine cranks over
A cello of moans.

A tattle of gold
My ways of turning
To ripples of silver, a hush.

Was it you who bring
Red lines of lupus
A world of wheals and whirs.

Through the terminus
Blue walls of morphine
A corridor of trains
A thunder of hosts.

Buzz of blue flies
Slip through the eyelet
Me gluing a matchstick of men.

The days drag behind
Seven hours in a sack
Spilling stars
Through a *****'s blind eye.

Unloosen the screws
The singing of prisoners
The clouds fall away
The snow drips impossible light.
This is a second draft of a new poem. I hope you like it. I hope for a response, dear reader. TJ Struska
poetryaccident Jan 2019
Pull the laces to cinch the fit
winding upward to constrain
twisting lines through eyelet space
the sinuous feeds carnal tastes

like a serpent from the book
with forked tongue that taps pure lust
whispering that the footwear holds
limbs enveloped for beauty’s sake

this second skin on the thigh
cool to touch, enclosing heat
leather cast in midnight black
I’m led astray to desire’s path

with a promise of the enthralled
pressing tightly around a limb
sight unseen still taunting me
driving want to the extreme

some look upward, I look down
wrapping round the perfect calf
I’ll ask no more to satisfy
this inclination for boot wear.

© 2019. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20190104.
The poem “Cinch the Fit” was inspired by my love of thigh enclosing accoutrements.

— The End —