"flannel" poems
In fathoms
Between my flannel sheets,
There's no better place
To sleep;
But then I turn my blanket on,
Level Two
Is snug and warm.
Envelope-like we interlope,
Entwine and grind,
And grasp and *****
Giving me rising hope,
This tug's gonna stay afloat.
Up now. Rise. Up periscope!
Dive. Dive!
Beneath waves and swirls,
Beneath flannel caps
To chests of pearls,
Now deeper,
Where life unfurls.
Our raging flannel
Seas
Grow calm;
And in the quiet,
After the storm,
We lie on
Our bedded sea,
My first mate sighs:
*I have to ***
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 12:51 PM UTC
So in this Month your Heart begins to press
For Good October promises your Due
Thinking of Delight and Travel Costs less,
And finally meeting her through and through
Her arm must have healed, given Time's duty
No more must such Fortress wall you apart
Her, Blessed Pronoun who cheers you truly
On her own Springboard she performs her Part
As you guide Witness to her own Unique Craft,
That Guideline which does greatly Inspire
Now look! Her Swan whips the Air; And the Draft
Begs humbly deep its legs to retire.
Your Hug was her Reward; Then the Flannel
Covers your Cheers on the Upper Panel.
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 8:53 PM UTC
there is no cure quite like for the dour
than clean pyjamas post-long-hot-shower.
with a sigh and a hug and flannel kisses to yer ***
hot shower/clean pyjamas: for when a day is done.
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 12:25 AM UTC
I feel invisible
Yet you claim(ed) I am the air you breathe
And perhaps like air I am always present,
But presently forgotten
The heaviness of your hush is crushing me with empty blows
This silence leads me to wander down a path cloaked in a heavy mist
That whispers harsh truths such as:
Our hopeless, fictitious, drawn out infatuation is like
A library book that was checked out last March
You underlined and doggie-paged the first few chapters
And then left it on your shelf to collect dust all of April and May
I foolishly kept begging you to finish the book
Read the last sentence
Take time to skim over the epilogue
Please
Find your way to the back cover
I foolishly ignored your “I can’t”s
And now it’s late August and our love is long overdue,
In the opposite sense of what the phrase typically means
I write with angry lead because
I am too stubborn to admit I just filled a trash bin with tissues
And that the cuffed sleeves of my flannel
Are damp like grass’s morning dew
I have so much more to say,
Although I cannot find the words
To say anything more than
You should’ve written.
Because two weeks of nothing
Was enough for me to realize that you are just a passing breeze
Seldom present, presently becoming something of the past.
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 3:32 PM UTC
no use in wondering if you saved my letters
or still look at photographs of me and sigh
because at the end of the day
when i’m wrapped up in sheets and blankets
wearing wooly socks and thick leggings and flannel
i’m still cold
and you’re still
so far away
in so many ways
and i miss you, i miss you, i miss you
i miss you
but i can’t tell you
and i won’t tell you
because even if you miss me
like i miss you
i’m the one
who tripped up the stairs
and even if you offered me a hand
(you didn’t, that’s okay)
i couldn’t take it
because i need to clean
the cuts on my knees
and wait for the bruises to fade
on my own
so while it seems that you’re fine now
with taking the stairs two at a time,
i’m still trying
to stand on my feet
and i miss you, i miss you, i miss you
i really freaking miss you
and i’m trying so hard
to be strong
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 10:12 PM UTC
I
am
one
rejection
away
from
softball
tournaments
and
flannel.
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 7:18 PM UTC
Because he was the robin, see
I built him a birdhouse made of the fingernails I chipped from every time I was forced to button up my own flannel shirt
It was quite silly and awkward-looking
So it didn't bother me when he didn't want to live there
It would take a lot of fake smiles and wooden blinds to tolerate a habitation such as the one I constructed for him
So it didn't bother me when he didn't want to live there
When he told me he was making a nest I took a paring knife from the kitchen drawer
When he told me he was making a nest I gave him 10 inches of weave to (through) the twigs
When he told me there were lots of split ends and varied shades
I wasn't too hurt because it was true
And I knew he would use twisty ties from bread bags instead
Which were much more practical than 10 inches of lover's hair
I just couldn't understand why he didn't give it back
He misplaced it, he said
How can you misplace something I had (longed) for him
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 3:12 AM UTC
Hello old friend
it's time again for flannel shirts
and dead leaves
bitter coffee and cold breezes
jack o' lanterns are our totem
and 4am that knows all our secrets.
its autumn again and the veil is thin
I hope the witching hours Find you well
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 1:57 AM UTC
You breathed your last breath from the air
in this room;
that threadbare Persian carpet
holds flakes from your skin;
hairs from your head
corkscrew the dented cushions
scattered and idly waiting on the sofa;
bed linen scented with your sweat
the goose down doona that stole
your last warmth;
sleep spit and tears
human moisture that permeates
the acrylic layers of your pillow;
an eyebrow hair wedged in the tweezers;
a clipped nail that flew off
somewhere out of sight;
that new toothbrush used only once;
your flannel and towel still drying out;
the wet press footprint on the bathroom mat;
the talcum powdered slippers
abandoned under the brass bed.
Each moment of everyday
we shed ourselves
shed dead cells and renew -
a cycle of shedding
until the last
shedding of ourselves.
© M.L. Emmett
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 7:01 PM UTC
Come in and enjoy the Night-Light Hotel
Where Pillows and Perfumes meet and relax
And Therapy takes either Bond or Belle
And Goldfish blow this Friday's Bubbly Sax
Here upon registry your Token awaits
The Flannel up-hook which you strip and wear
Then wait for your turn as your Number rebates
A little whilst knowing your Musk reeks there
I for one made this Malicious Decide
And tempt my ****** to swallow this Treat:
Upper-Lower Left; Upper-Lower Right
Then descend into Base - Heh! Heh! Heh! Heh!
Stud or Salome, let Conscience give choose
But trust me to say I am a Man too.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 11:12 AM UTC
I want something other than ****
with the short shorts showing
everything
the low-cut crop top
exploring eyes wander over
on countless evenings
my imagination having nothing
left
I want smokey flannel
a two-day-old pony tail
boots stained by the dirt and grass
a hole in your jeans
that wasn't there when you found them
I want hungover-fastfood-drive-throughs
with my shorts and your tank top
wrinkled from your floor
your hair still wet from the morning shower
I want leggings, a t-shirt
and a backwards ball cap
while we sing loudly out the open window
tapping the dashboard off-beat
hand raised fingers pointing at the moon
laughing at the man that sits watching us drive
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 5:11 PM UTC
When I was 5 ...
Your kerosene heater .. I hated that smell ..
Your snoring .. kept me awake at night ..
Bathtime .. my ears hurt when you cleaned them with the rough flannel ..
Bathing in the river .. I was ashamed to be naked like you ..
Your teeth .. in a glass scared me ..
You had no mercy .. when on the hunt for head lice ..
Now I'm 45 ..
You had no mercy .. relentless, you got them all ..
Your teeth .. I keep mine in a glass in the bathroom ..
Bathing in the river .. unrestricted & one with nature, I get it ..
Bathtime .. your ears do get ***** I use a rough flannel too ..
Your snoring .. any snoring reminds me of you ..
Your kerosene heater .. the whiff of kerosene, my strongest physical memory of you .. I think of you .. now I love the smell of kerosene ..
Every cherished memory of my Grandmother, no detail forgotten, I will always love you Nan XOXO
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 9:37 PM UTC
Moonup, shades of sangria
hazed in mothwing
dust
motes. We wrap in
flannel, tartan Seattle
warmth
accompanied by smudging sticks.
Batteries never charged-
defibrillator
shock. Flatline.
You said no violets (you
didn’t
mean it). Moondown takes
time- scores of swaying shadows
to arc
the parsecs. Inherit starlight,
bank it, never blink; wet stones
echo
in the noise of stars.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 2:58 PM UTC
Weeping Zaire, her Bleeding Flannel blew
Over the Land this Serenity bequeath
What happened, then, to the Children you knew
Took out their Armites; And shot Mercy beneath
Salt from their Riches they greatly export
And infected your Brothers in the Dark
With Mums, Flesh-Spermed Tales of Horror consort
Lost all but their Shelled Samples in the Park
Our Dear Hands sprout! And cry to Heaven's Name
Asking the Saviour when this Madness ends
As the Radio's Red Tape is all just the same,
All just Light-Shows; But very few Amends.
These Congo Apes weep black at the Event
Not just the Brother; But Habitat meant.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 6:56 PM 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
You're a flower-child,
spread on the bed with
flowers stuck to your little
head,
with Ginsberg & Whitman on
the shelf & feminine mystique
dripping from the
ceiling.
Moon-lady,
Venus,
tides rising & crushing
the shore,
while I snuggle
my flannel for warmth,
trying
not to be a bore.
Framed pictures as you
reminisce on when we
were younger &
untamed.
"We can still be untamed,
we've been framed
for uninsanity!"
But you call me a fool
& put your
porcelain head in my neck
& I feel foolish.
In the damp light of a cloudy day,
muscles aching, waves
crashing,
uncontrollable urges.
Stranded in the pregnant
belly of a ***** secret city
drawing
the red rose of secret union
& we are sheltered
in the ****** warmth of the
blankets,
cocooned like little monsters.
The calming ocean
& the calming whispers
& the tiny kisses
surround me, blot out my thoughts.
You sing me to
sleep & run little
fingers
through my knotted hair.
Your tiny dollar store
Buddhas belch incense
over
the backdrop of your perfume.
The wind chimes
twinkle & whimper on the
porch where the swingset
rocks in the rain.
"I wish you weren't
engaged but I don't mind
breaking a few taboos."
You laugh like a soft mad fairy
& look down
at your phone & I turn over
on my naked side.
You laugh a funeral
giggle & I know I should have
worshipped you sooner
at the pillow-altar.
Show me Heaven without
death &
the Garden of Earthly Delights
devoid of sin,
show me your sharpened fox
grin &
the way sunset ripples
at your breath,
I will show you sacrifice
& the hidden light
of our lives
in the damp of the night.
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 10:48 PM UTC
the gallon of arizona green tea that you only drank a fraction of.
the salt and pepper potato chips you meant to eat, but only did so in the dream i had last night.
the unmade bed that was still unmade when you flew back home, the one i still cannot bring myself to make.
the dyed green hairs i keep finding around the house.
the way you always pronounced 'mosquito' as 'mosk-it-toe' on purpose, and how you pronounced my cat's name 'sullumun' instead of 'solomon' on accident.
the partially closed closet door from the morning i drove you to the airport.
the faint smell of your sweat on my pillow left because of your hyperhidrosis.
the flannel you wore and the longsleeve shirt you doused in your aftershave, that is three sizes too big for me to realistically wear.
the empty taco bell cups in my car from your fourth day here.
the empty shopping bags from our impromptu mall trip.
the polaroids you really wanted to keep, but we couldn't find when you packed.
the pieces of you that you never meant for me to keep that i keep piecing together as though, like an alchemist, i could make you appear again though i cannot, and you are not here, you are gone.
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 4:28 PM UTC
The cocktail dress split hope down the screen
Letting that reoccurring dream compel me
Into memories of you
The clink of my cup
Shattered sobriety with the pain of daybreak
The ice looks like crystal but only something that will disappear and overflow your glass is standing at attention
The bar stool cracked, empty and the faux leather ripped, and torn
Cougars and MILFs strut down the bar top
Scanning tonight’s bachelors
I sit behind, for my dress is long and flannel
Heavy, hot making me sweat and stink
I run faster than a cheetah in my mind
Tearing doors and bridges apart
Speeding towards the sunrise
Attempting for the *** of gold
The cocktail drips from the table on to the floor
A puddle I will eventually slip from
Hair in my face
My ankle sundress reaped with alcohol
I stand up, look around
Towel?
But all I see is you
Walking back slowly retreating to the door
Leaving me to deal and regret the decisions
I so poorly execute
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 5:29 PM UTC
To a Louse
by Robert Burns
translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Hey! Where're you going, you crawling hair-fly?
Your impudence protects you, barely;
I can only say that you swagger rarely
Over gauze and lace.
Though faith! I fear you dine but sparely
In such a place.
You ugly, creeping, blasted wonder,
Detested, shunned by both saint and sinner,
How dare you set your feet upon her—
So fine a lady!
Go somewhere else to seek your dinner
On some poor body.
Off! around some beggar's temple shamble:
There you may creep, and sprawl, and scramble,
With other kindred, jumping cattle,
In shoals and nations;
Where horn nor bone never dare unsettle
Your thick plantations.
Now hold you there! You're out of sight,
Below the folderols, snug and tight;
No, faith just yet! You'll not be right,
Till you've got on it:
The very topmost, towering height
Of miss's bonnet.
My word! right bold you root, contrary,
As plump and gray as any gooseberry.
Oh, for some rank, mercurial resin,
Or dread red poison;
I'd give you such a hearty dose, flea,
It'd dress your noggin!
I wouldn't be surprised to spy
You on some housewife's flannel tie:
Or maybe on some ragged boy's
Pale undervest;
But Miss's finest bonnet! Fie!
How dare you jest?
Oh Jenny, do not toss your head,
And lash your lovely braids abroad!
You hardly know what cursed speed
The creature's making!
Those winks and finger-ends, I dread,
Are notice-taking!
O would some Power with vision teach us
To see ourselves as others see us!
It would from many a blunder free us,
And foolish notions:
What airs in dress and carriage would leave us,
And even devotion!
One Sunday while sitting behind a young lady in church, Robert Burns noticed a louse roaming through the bows and ribbons of her bonnet. The poem "To a Louse" resulted from his observations. The poor woman had no idea that she would be the subject of one of Burns' best poems about how we see ourselves, compared to how other people see us at our worst moments. Keywords/Tags: Robert Burns, louse, church, bonnet, lace, Scotland, Scots, dialect, translation
Apr 21, 2020
Apr 21, 2020 at 5:26 AM UTC
I still have your flannel
and you
you still have my heart.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 12:13 AM UTC
My love and I were just seasonal lovers
I lost all faith in him
he was a scourge to his sensitive pride.
Today we are in a different country
Our smiles is now upside down
Our laugher is seldom heard,
Between us is the Brooklyn Bridge,
When he uses to look at me
his brown eyes tell his soul
It’s going to be colder outside,
For lovers like us,
He with his flannel pajamas
And I with my heavy pink robe and
fuzzy slippers
it's going to be a lonely winter
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 9:47 AM UTC
Dearest Reader,
My name is Margot Dylan, and I'm a pariah.
On the 16th of April, I told my mother that I was gay. She threw the clay mug that I made for her before she found out I was gay, against the floral, peeling wallpaper mess of a wall, in our kitchen. The decaffeinated peppermint green tea left a wonderful aroma that almost cleansed the room of the stench of 'lesbian'.
I met Dylan Dunham a few days after that, and, a few days later, she was the first girl that I ever loved.
Dylan wore a red flannel jacket, and was a butch and sometimes a bitch-but I loved her even at her tomboy cruelest.
Dylan smoked a cigarette that smelled like lonerism, and she looked at me like she didn't care. My heart skipped a beat, as cliche as it sounds, whenever she would remove the cigarette from her mouth, exhale, and look at me as smoke traveled up her face. I looked at her and knew that she was everything that I wasn't, and everything that I wanted.
Dylan was Dianne, before and after school. Dylan was Dianne, who wore floral dresses and lipstick and who ditched her butch clothing in her locker before leaving. Dylan was Dianne, who was straight and who thought Tyler Wesson, from church, was cute. Dylan was Dianne, who had a short hair cut because of track and field, because she explained that she ran a faster time with less hair. Dylan was Dianne, who didn't associate with me before or after school because her parents knew that I was gay.
During school hours, the only thing Dylan did keep from Dianne was the lipstick. I was envious of the cigarette because of it's burgundy stains. We would stand in a stall, as she looked across from me, after each drag. She frequently offered her cigarettes, but I refused because I only let love **** me. If she ever brought alcohol, sometimes she'd kiss me. I told her that I loved her and she said, "I know."
The only thing that Dylan kept from me was my heart, before she started to smoke cigarettes in the bathroom with Annie Way.
I wish you the best moments so they can overcome the worst,
Margot Dylan
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 1:50 PM UTC
A Zippo lighter with a smoker's cough,
propositions the ladybug
clinging to a flannel pocket,
You can always trust a tealight
to warm the neglected beetles,
that cling to your chest.
this Ritual of the staring contest.
attention behind the curtain:
When You blink at the Rorschach shadows
tell me, they are not mailboxes.
The spirits linger; we stumble into entanglement
birch trees weaving
baskets from our branches
I'm known to cave on integrity, for the taste of freckles,
flickering tealights in the hearthstone, with a smokers cough.
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 3:08 AM UTC
I always thought it was lovely,
the way you climb out of sleep
You unfold your back up out of the
sheets before you blink your eyes
I always thought it was lovely,
the way you unbutton my flannel
You start at the bottom
& save the best for last
Well, I guess I'm driving home tonight
You have cider leaking from your pores
but still I'm melting into every
half-hearted word
You came here with me on a limb
You said I didn't have to travel alone
But now I feel lonelier than I've ever been,
looking at your lazy eyelashes falling up
and down from the passanger's side
Knowing that you're not looking at mine
I drag you to shore
everytime you start to drown
I love you
even when you're hard to like
I have pain drenched pillow cases
from every night you said
"hey I'm stayin in tonight"
& I have half-empty pill bottles
from every month you spent
falling away from me
This is not as lovely,
as it looks to us
This is agony,
all dressed up
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 12:06 AM UTC
flat at
flake lake
flame lame
flamenco cool
flamingo goof
flapped lapped
flayed layed
flavor vortex
flannel electricity
flag lag
flash lash
flaxen axen
flab lab
flail ail
flattering ring
flaw law
flair air
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 11:40 AM UTC