"eyelets" poems
Lost to backdrops scrolling past,
She sits knitting
in the carriage of a train.
The vague needles
They scintillate and glimpse
With the cadence of the wheels –
Upbeating ceaselessly.
Strips of tiny loops
And eyelets like dewdrops
Of condensation
Grouped on the superior rim.
Once in a while,
She gives a heave
To loosen more yarn from the skein
Of Filipino-made wool,
brushed worsted weave.
Spun and carded
from the richest fleece,
Deeper in the wicker basket by her feet.
The needles flash,
With ancient rhythms and attack
Of duellists in their chainmail coats.
With little hesitation she can tack
From plain to purl to blackberry.
Count back by rote or slip a stitch
While the fish-eyed gimlets gleam.
All gather profusely in her lap,
As windfall trove, rich-patterned
And warm with peach-fuzz nap,
All crafted from a single line of yarn.
Marvels fall continuously from wise
Spell-binding hands and all is well for now.
(9/11/13 @xirlleelang)
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 10:10 PM UTC
These vans on my feet are *****
Dripped on by the blood of a won basketball game.
Dirt covered from the many mosh pits.
Torn on from my longboard grip.
Rubber grey from long walks.
Bled through tie die from lots of running
Brown stains from standing in the woods
Broken eyelets from a forgotten drunk night.
Missing shoelace caught in a bicycle wheel.
Only to be replaced.
Just like my love.
Like my summer.
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 10:19 PM UTC
http://m.wikihow.com/Unhook-a-Bra
Pinch the eyelets but oh so gently,
To properly unhook the device to safely release paradise
From it's containment chamber.
This be one of many secrets to unlocking
The mechanism that holds some of the happy things
The human body artist conceived
To perpetuate the
Species.
According to the internet,
To extract joy to the world correctly,
Depends upon both your station and your
Positioning.
Thus, it helps to have GPS,
Which most men think is that pointy thing
Between their legs,
But is not.
Given the laws of gravity,
And other natural limitations,
Sadly that utensil of little avail
In this surgical operation.
If one desires to release the tension
Between the connectors of the protectors,
Guardians of her heart,
It will be necessary to
Let your fingers do the walking.
So cut and paste the title above,
In your web browser place!
Do your homework or risk feeling
As petite as a schnauzer.
Seems your natural tendency,
Righty or lefty, matters in this endeavor,
Of which I was unawares, oft pressing the incorrect lever.
This, the likely cause of my spectacular
Teenage
Fumblings and failures.
Had I known that fact,
In the days before the Internet,
Surely I would have brought along my
Catchers mitt
To step up my game.
Sage advice the article provides:
*Get a bra, and practice, practice, practice!
It gets easier with experience.*
But methinks that is a bit of a
Risky adventure,
Lest you be seen boy,
Practicing upon yourself,
Or even a dummy,
Dummy!
So cut and paste the title above
In your web browser,
Do your home work or risk feeling
As petite as a pocket schnauzer.
But the most important tip
This wealthy article of information provides,
The conclusion.
In the hour of your desperate struggle,
Drooping
Ego
And
Crushed
Pride,
Ask for assistance from one more practiced,
Hopefully nearby,
Whose help usually comes with a charming smile
of touching condescension
For your male idiocy and verbal in-articulation.
*She, unawares, that you have got her
Positioned precisely where you want!*
For when you lift her up,
In a free state, the one Divinity intended,
and in your arms, enfolded and protected,
In one grand poetic gesture,
Sweep her off her feet,
Her surprise will be
**..
O
So Touching!**
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 6:30 PM UTC
The shoes I bought
Are too big for me
But I love them
I love them dearly
I strapped them up tight
I redid the laces
Put on layers of socks
Crammed ***** of tissue to
fill the empty spaces
I submerged them in water
In a pail, to the bottom they'd sink
I left them in the sun
In the hopes that they'd shrink
I just wish that they'd peer through their eyelets
And see me for all I've done
I will not cease to fill the voids
And fulfil the love I've begun
The shoes I bought
They remain too big for me
But I still love them
I love them dearly
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 10:55 AM UTC
I am The Shoes of Shoes,
which are Solomon’s. Let him polish
me with the oil from his brow, for his gloss
is better than sunshine.
Because of the fragrance of thy ointment buffed
upon me, thy name
is Scent Shine, therefore do the ****** shoes
love thy feet. Stretch me,
with your Shoe-Tree, and I will run
& rejoice with thy feet through
gardens & woods, and across mountains alike.
I am leather, but comely, O ye Daughters
of Shoeshopingham, as The Pile Beneath
the Prophesised Viaduct, and as in the abundant
bottom of The Wardrobe of Solomon.
Look not upon me, because I am leather,
but put me upon thy feet for I
am thy soles.
I am the Rose of Shoe, and the Lilly of The Laces.
As the strong shoes among thorns, so
is my love among The Shod.
As the tongue that tightens to the fruit of the foot, so is
my beloved among The Shod.
His left foot is in my left purse, and his right
foot is my right, tight.
The Polish of My Beloved, behold, cometh
glinting off llyns, he cometh leaping upon
the mountains, with both of me tight on his feet.
Looketh fourth through The Round Window
of Wisdom, through The Lattice see
him shoeing himself with my flesh.
Take us the socked foxes, the little foxes that chew & spoil,
for our shodding is tender.
My Loved Shod’s feet are mine and my leather is his.
Until the day break, and the unshod shadows flee, turn
my Loved Shod, and be thou like the shoe young on the mountains.
Behold, thou art fair, my shoes, behold thou art shoes as fast
as a flock of goats over the Mountain of Shoedon.
Thy laces are like soft strands of moss, which have been spun
& woven in the Workshops of Acorns by The Grubs of Oak.
Thy eyelets are like the sweet slots in which nestle
the seeds of the pomegranate.
Thy tongues are like scarlet leaves fallen from speaking
trees, and thy squeak as I walk in thee is comely.
Thy heal is like the shield that should’ve been
fashioned for Achilles.
Thy two toe caps are as sleek & pert as the twin otters
that fish among the lilies.
How beautiful are thee, shoes for feet, O Goddess’s daughters,
the joints of thy soft foot-slot smooth as the gleam
of jewels, the work of the hands of a cunning cobbler.
O Solomon set me twin shoes as seals
upon thy feet, for Love is as strong
as The Road to Dead we must follow. O
my Loved Shod! for every one
of thy steps you make
in me is my bliss.
Feb 8, 2012
Feb 8, 2012 at 8:25 AM UTC
I'm wearing my favorite boots today
They fit perfectly,
Since Ive finally broken them in
It took a while to wear my footprint into their soles
But now my body has beaten the leather
Until it curls around me.
They are comfortable, practical
The tongue used to stick out and squeak with ever step
But don't worry, I silenced it.
I've laced my boots up tight
Don't want to be too big now
Don't want to be loose
I can't let you slip away from me again.
I top the knot off with a little bow
Still got to be pretty
What are you if you're not pretty?
They have scuffs and scratches and cuts and bruises
But that's just because of all the fun I've had
Sometimes I clean them up a bit
A little spit and polish, and they're good as new
A little spit and polish, and everything's okay again
But they're getting worn down, I can see it in your eyes- I can see it in their eyelets
But I know they can't walk away
After all, who else could they fit so perfectly?
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 10:14 PM UTC
In a shoe box he sits
Quietly watching the darkness
Sitting forlorned
He's a sneaker
A loafer
Tied in laces
And hidden in shine
Alone
As his eyelets sag
With hopes the light peeks in
An envelope
Finding his leather
If only he could feel a touch
A foot
Feet
Interaction
A women's toes that wiggle
On those cold and lonely nights
Where inhabitation brings comfort
If only
He
His shoes
It could be fitted and fulfilled
Tailored and shined
And not be a beaten path
With wishful thinking
Of a women's toes that wiggle
For now though
A shoe horn would be the panacea
His hope
From being shelved
Hidden
In a shoebox he sits
Looking at the darkness
At the four walls corrugated
In lost time
Oblivious
Of walking
Logan Robertson
11/24/2018
Nov 24, 2018
Nov 24, 2018 at 2:25 PM UTC
the silhouette cast from the sun light
there is a tease of peekaboo played thru eyelets
a taste of yellow to a crispy white cotton
revealing an opened back and naked shoulders
a memory and a time
Missed
this is the smile that comes to my eyes
cast from a simple Sundress .
Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 1:40 AM UTC
You appear as an image of beauty through a smoky haze
One true thing no impossibility can deny
Making thunder echo with the grace of an angel
While you delight in the lovely sound
Of my sighs
Then careful indeed, you drift before my eyes as a vision
Quiet as a dear offering of perfect silence
********** my soul as you pull on every string
Connecting the fabric of my heart’s
Very own eyelets
The moment I find I am a breath away from pretending
I see your face clearly as a fresh-water spring
Softly smiling, I lie listening to your echoing thunder
Resounding inside my perfect silence
Surrounding everything
Feb 20, 2011
Feb 20, 2011 at 2:32 PM UTC
it was that i was. gurgling a valorous *** of cells at the bottom
of the notched brick habitat of sickly algebra. and i and. with all
the dirt meticulously skeletal. trenchant chaotic lips blathering
skinny vocal animals. the smooth monkeys pinstripe about the
square in my needle city. well and i am an we. with your habitual
pocket of blood and dust in correct lumps small and large proportionately
spitted on your ideal, at my hips your hips(hand in hand). we walk
bythe specific straights towering sky breakers hollering reflective
skin. the neon electric residue of light smacks my eyelets. and
some ****** **** with the night air agreeably. but i,m a yours
and only. yes. so let's make some drips of clear tremulous benedictions
to this vibrant lovely hell
Oct 6, 2010
Oct 6, 2010 at 12:07 PM UTC
I hear when you're upset, a walk calms your mind
It explains why you're in stride all of the time
I know, right now, I'm the cause of your feverish pace
I'm the reason you've took to the trail and covered your face
So I suppose it makes sense that I should apologize
I know you love your shoes, but take this walk in mine
The souls they share - they're already worn
The toes are scuffed and the laces torn
They've been everywhere I've ever tried to roam
Eyelets have seen it all, except a peaceful home
The right tongue, it sometimes slips and lies out right
And the heel has turned, but not without a fight
They know how to cut shapes, they've kicked ideas around
Their views on life and the world are quite profound
The curve where your arch rests, it almost feels divine
They could be a perfect fit, yeah, they're my size nines
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 3:21 AM UTC
Many Jack does come-a here
in bat-light hours stumble far.
How you wander here then, Jack?
Not follow misty guiding star?
Jack all alone in darkling woods.
Why Jack elf so alone?
No Jill elf keep-a company?
Be Jack elf never Jill elf known?
Why Jack be looking sad, Jack elf?
Jack know not way to go?
What be you in your hand, Jack elf?
Why dew from eyelets flow?
Jack come with me, me know what way.
Me play-a Jack a song!
Me keep-a Jack in heart and mind!
With me Jack elf belong!
May 18, 2017
May 18, 2017 at 9:45 AM UTC
We’re tying our shoes-- as we think about the day's gifts
Holding strings-- curling ribbons with latent sweat
"I’'ve heard they’ll pull us through-- we tie around each box
eyelets, through tunnels and catacombs."-- a shimmering luster abetting
beyond the sky.
Today we mourn those drained sausage-limbs at noon-time
--(Sallow-cheeked mistresses and fortunes abounding
for those who have time for such things.)
With tears
--hiding the feelings of those who have none
slapping the ground.
We see
every unfurling light
combine with blots of pity
to fortify prairie grass.
And I remember an old gravel highway that separates my family and church from geologic
build-up which the wind is slowly chewing.
I can't be with them-- like the western, sandy steppes of Nebraska,
I can't hold water, and their loving nourishment sinks through me.
My arms won't be like ribbons, in an embrace of the
dead’s remitting tendrils.
As I lay outstretched on the Sand Hills, shielding my belly from the desert sun;
boring water trapped in caverns under neatly wound sweat-bows and boxes
I, one day, too, cry emaciated tears.
Surely, we are tethered firmly to the spool, dangling with
tensity on the tines of breath, shimmering, aloft-- but also, don’t forget:
We are fastened by a knot above our leather casing
holding the body in-piece and being manipulated at once.
We decorate the boxes, in which we are to lie
with wet, green ribbon, pulled through rocky soil by course, chapped hands.
Mar 1, 2012
Mar 1, 2012 at 2:16 AM UTC
partially due to the weather,
state of the roads.
these are not just closed
due to snow, some
as cars slide, cause a commotion.
it is a steep hill, the crimea,
some call it a mountain
steeped in history.
plans change, while
the bus windows remain *****
sbm.
nails
#notes and jottings
Esgidiau Meirw Boot Dump, Moel Bowydd Primary Reference Number (PRN) : 14626 Trust : Gwynedd Community : Ffestiniog NGR : SH69924845 Site Type (preferred type first) : Modern REFUSE DISPOSAL SITE Legal Protection : Description : A mound of slate waste covered to an unknown depth with the (?burnt) remains of thousands of hobnail boots, heel plates, nails, eyelets etc. Dimensions 40 x 30 x 2.5m. <1> A low mound about 35m in diameter lies to the east of the A470 (Plate 66). Its earliest phase consists of slate waste from a shallow linear working shown on the 1889 OS 25 map. This is almost entirely covered by a dump of waste boots. The upper layer consists entirely of heel plates, eyelets, nails, screws, sole shanks and occasional sole plates (Plate 67). Beneath this is a thick layer of ash, also containing metal fittings. Until quite recently there was a grave slab with a pair of boots incised on it along with the inscription Esgidiau Meirw (dead shoes). The stone now lies on the wall of PRN 14777 (Plate 68). It was probably moved by the land-owner for safe keeping after being daubed with paint. The dump is known locally as Tomen Sgidiau (boot dump) and dates from World Wall II. The boots are rejects from a factory that was set up in Blaenau Market Hall to recycle old boots and shoes for the army. (Hopewell, 2005) A low heap of slate waste lying to the east of the present main road. The tip is covered with the rusted metal fittings of a large number of hob nailed boots, and other small metal waste, including nuts and bolts. There is also a significant quantity of a fine silty material – possibly the residue of burnt and decayed leather. On top of the mound is a slate grave slab with a pair of boots incised upon it and the inscription “Esgidiau Meirw” (dead shoes). The feature is thought to be a World War II army boot dump. (Riley & Roberts, 1995) Sources : Riley, H. & Roberts, R. , 1995 , A470(T) Blaenau Ffestiniog to Cancoed Improvement ( © GAT) Hopewell, D. , 2005 , A470 Blaenau Ffestiniog to Cancoed Improvement Pt I & II ( © GAT) Hopewell, D. , 2000 , Upland Survey 2000 , <1> Events : 40503 : Gwynedd Upland Survey 1999-2000 Moel Bowydd (year : 2000) 43801 : A470 Blaenau Ffestiniog to Cancoed Improvement: Archaeological Recording PtI&II; (year : 2005) 40295 : A470(T) Blaenau Ffestiniog to Cancoed Improvement (year : 1995)
see also
boot dump incomplete blog
https://sonjabenskinmesher.wordpress.com/2015/03/26/boot-dump-2/
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 1:39 AM UTC
He asks you, “how does a forest sound.”
there’s that veiled, monastic hush to everything,
not so much muffled,
words, (in your language or others,)
that cannot be understood save for their intonation,
vague fingerprints on your pearlescent neck.
you look up and there’s lace,
weaving itself matador armed through impossible eyelets.
straw falls out eventually,
your face hollows,
and eye sockets repurposed as homes for vines,
tendrils pushing upwards,
they breach the surface of the earth and take their first breath.
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 1:31 AM UTC
Laces snake through sneaker eyelets
As shuffling rubber squeaks anew
An impressionist blur of mottled colors
Shuttle end to end with fury true
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 9:25 PM UTC
Your face is a token.
Thus feed instead words.
Don't bore me with lesson's facade.
I've seen this, the circus.
Your rings merely eyelets.
Engage me with freshening Odds.
I'll teach you to whisper.
Though, bring me full substance.
Even pelt me with heaviest clods.
Let's drink now fruition,
Til swimming in discourse,
And earn out each other's applauds.
Jan 27, 2011
Jan 27, 2011 at 10:40 AM UTC
of crying violin on cello moonbeams
spending my spinning around
wet, filled eyelets, drumming in my heart,
rising me up, bringing me close,
under a delicate chin,
drawing the bow across my breast,
to a ledge, poses me delicately on a quiet impasse, brings me
off the edge; varying from key to soft
then growing again, impossible, so
to describe
orchestrally.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 10:03 PM UTC
of crying violin on cello membranes
spinning around my head
to wet filled eyelets
strumming heartless strings
rising up, bringing closer
up under a delicate chin,
a bow
drawn across a breast heaving,
to a ledge so close to dropping off,
posing delicate
now a quiet impasse
letting the edge go.
varying key to soft then growing,
again,
to an ecstasy
impossible
to describe,
orchestrally.
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 11:34 PM UTC
Suspended by eyelets, over delicate violets,
in the coat closet above my grave.
The marionette, of skeletons wrist,
layer together like clothes neatly hanging.
We divide up our lives, into green, pinks, and whites,
like my sixth grade best friends wardrobe hung.
But the guilt below our silk, displace dirt as earth spills,
keeps us nailed to pineboxes we dug.
Skeletons in our closet
While the parade of tendons follow bones.
Muscles drag our bodies, while our loved ones place our grave stones
The doors shut but we are digging
Our way out of this dirt
Clenching our ribs our femurs out hips
This basement emotions mirth
Collapse, dig down below the cave bottom trove
Of eyelids hung open starring at our motion while we try to gather our home
We put together skin to make us look better we staple our eyes opened up
Tie our veins back in to our circulation, inervate our brains to our thumbs
Piecing together after death has weathered our body's to frail specks of ****
The vultures can eat us but put back the pieces scab ourselves back together with dust
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 1:02 AM UTC
I remember the day we first met. In the doorway of that tiny boutique with the leadlight windows on the corner of Main and Wharf. You looked expensive, all laced-up leather and felted wool, commando meets catwalk. Your friend was in stitches about something, and it was when you turned to her and stuck out your pretty tongue - then, right then - that was the moment that I decided you were going to be mine.
I put aside my embarrassment and guilt. I ignored the whisperings of my empty wallet, and the thought of what my flatties would say in the morning. I picked you both up and took you home. Two for the price of one.
Ten years later, both of you are still around. Not quite as streamlined and sassy as you used to be. Your souls - my bad - soles are in need of repair, your white stitching has blackened, and your brass eyelets are looking a little worse for wear. But we’ve walked miles haven’t we? You, me, and your mirror image - BFFF - Best Feet Forward Forever.
Jul 5, 2019
Jul 5, 2019 at 10:40 PM UTC
Chances are, you have to do a 'search', then order one on line. If you're under 60 years of age, you probably never heard of it, anyway.
Walking in to a pharmacy, or drug store, asking a young clerk, who is in their late teens, or early twenties, or even 40's to 50's, knowing very well what their reponse will be before you ask the question, becomes'comical', seeing the puzzled expression on their faces, especially when the companies web site indicates the store has it "in stock. A"simple little tool", inexpensive, but to some, of which I am one, 'priceless.' It can relieve a huge amount of frustration in seconds, put a smile on your face, make your day "bright" again, saves time, can help prevent being late for appointments, and it has been around for centuries, long before the 'zipper' was invented. Approximately eight inches long, solid handle, with a curved wire tip, two and a quarter inches in length. I introduce you, to,"The Button Hook!", Tah-Dah!
This "simple little tool" is used by many who are afflicted with such maladies, as arthritis, or have neuropathy issues in their hands, making it difficult to button a shirt, pants, etc. Just insert the wire end through the buttonhole, loop it around the button, pull it through.
Some tools have a 'hook' on the opposite end of the handle, to help pull shoelaces through the eyelets.
I realize this is not a poem, but there are many on the site in my age range that may have similar issues, or perhaps physical issues due to injury or illness. Just wanted to pass this on to you.(I posted a photo on my Facebook timeline.)
richard riddle 06-06-2016
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 8:18 AM UTC
so i got home,and the wind yesterday has blown some of the leaves away….
taken the holly wreath down there and surprised to find I was crying.
( ah when you are under the weather things get to you……)
it will be nice to see you. the early days are hard especially this time of year.
your hat has turned into quite a project. i took it to mill to get darning wool,and it was pointed out that lots of the holes are indeed eyelets, and what a splendid hat it is.
also spoke of leaf bags and she said that if one have had the bags a while they will start to degrade…..
how much needs mending?
sbm.
Dec 15, 2016
Dec 15, 2016 at 2:06 AM UTC