"flannels" poems
I still reference you in conversations.
I still smell your flannels.
I wonder how soft your hair is today.
I kiss the walls of the shower just to hear the same pop our lips would make.
I wish I had endless pictures of your collar bones and eyes.
I wish I had endless access to your thighs and chest and that dot on your neck.
When I *** I say your name.
Your voice recordings aren't the same. I want you to call and put me to sleep with your breath and I want this all without the repercussions.
I want you to be my friend.
And I want the benefit of you being my lover again.
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 4:02 AM UTC
found
grounded bird closed in
ribboned-box and buried
underneath a willow snapped back
to finally relax
to decompose and nourish
by the lake in drooping shade
the felled leaves pile
candy wrappers gray snow in
parking lot corners
with pumpkin spice scented candles
with charred letters skirling up
the arm dropped to sizzle and puff out
white beanies
flannels
leather boots and jangly bronze-leafed wind chimes
I sit on the patio and listen to you speak
the chill of your words
perched like a squirrel barking on a fence top
hibernation preparation and breeze
the gospel of your autumn
it’s lovely.
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 11:26 PM UTC
i am
monday nights filled with
candlelit journal entries
and sipping hot tea while
watching rain bounce off
the roof and open windows
in autumn and messy hand-
written letters and white
tees and cuffed jeans and
pb&j; with the crust cut
off and folded origami
cranes and watching the
sun rise while everyone
else is tucked away in
their beds and midnight
car rides and candid smiles
and lists written in blue
ink and wildflowers and
mountains and birds singing
and books and movies that
make you cry and nicknames
and flannels in the winter
and soft music and loud
music and moments recorded
only by memory and pumpkin
pie and forever stamps
i am all the little things
and if you don’t make an
effort to understand why i
love all the things i love
you will never understand
me
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 10:16 PM UTC
I love you for your laughter
your soft hair
the morning routines I tried to adopt, that you have down to a science
the way you gaze into the abyss
with tender expressions
the careful footsteps
the blushing falseness
the pretty lace and ribbons
the black eyeliner and studded collars
BUT
beards and hunting and fishing
flannels and strength and handsome fellers
truck stops and smoking
whiskey and bonfires
g i joe and spiderman
but most of all batman and joker
the complications of comics
gaming on friday nights with bottles of bud
I love men and boys and women and girls and ladies and gentlemen
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 5:00 PM UTC
In September, we missed the bus
And walked for miles
In the Cornish rain.
We laughed as it licked every
Square on our bodies
And squelched into our shoes
Turning our socks to flannels.
The asphalt had become beautiful
- it had drunk the sky
And rehearsed the whispers
Of the sea.
We were the only humans in Cornwall
As the sun went down
And you put on your head torch
We climbed through mirrors
Of trees and bends.
When we got back to the cottage
We did a funny dance
To peel free of our clothes.
Then we toasted our bodies
And watched television.
Feb 1, 2012
Feb 1, 2012 at 7:34 PM UTC
(Chirstmas Day, 1917)THE FIVE O'CLOCK prairie sunset is a strong man going to sleep after a long day in a cornfield.
The red dust of a rusty crimson is fixed with two fingers of lavender. A hook of smoke, a woman's nose in charcoal and ... nothing.
The timberline turns in a cover of purple. A grain elevator humps a shoulder. One steel star whisks out a pointed fire. Moonlight comes on the stubble.
"Jesus in an Illinois barn early this morning, the baby Jesus ... in flannels ..."
2.5k
We would sneak on your rooftop during every thunderstorm
Watch raindrops kiss our flannels closer together before we knew just how powerful the clouds could be
Lightning cracked
And just like that
It's Wednesday morning
This ceiling fan drowns out that wet pitter patter as I sit up in bed
Estimating how much water these bodies can hold
I tell myself the rain here settles down better than I do
I close my eyes
Pretend every droplet becomes another letter you sent for me
Pretend my silence now is just as deafening as my silence then
And the skies rip open
Your voice drips down my window pane onto my carpet
Asks me one last time for an answer
So I just want you to know
When we grabbed our hearts and became the flood
I thought we would be free
This nefarious rubble is all that's left
And now you're gone
I haven't slept much since I left
Most nights I stand at my window and wait for the wind to greet me
If I stand close enough, I can spot the stream behind my bedroom here
The sound it makes at night frightens me
Dec 7, 2016
Dec 7, 2016 at 3:07 AM UTC
Mentally audible gasps and misty flannels
But she’s busy, dusting filthy wooden panels
Focus, is her every second sacred chant,
Her clad body sticking with sweat,
Yet there she is carrying out a bant,
Trying to sound cheery and buoyant
Music that is setting off sensations
Whereas, her ears are only brimming with static
She glances at the leaves falling on the road
She couldn’t blame herself for being
aesthetic.
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 5:50 AM UTC
My whole life Iitried to live in the body I was given
The body I am in
Growing up I never “saw the signs”
I never knew that there was anything else I could possibily be
I never knew that I was going to change
Or that there was anything else
Something. Someone better that I could be
Someone who is more comfortable in their skin
I had no idea that the reflection I saw staring back at me everyday in the mirror was not me at all
Ive noticed that ive felt different from how I was taught to feel
Ive found out a lot of things in my life so far
But I never thought I would find myself being envius of boy
Not because I disliked them but because I wanted to be like them
I found myself not wanting boys
But wanting to dress like them
Not wanting boys
But wanting to walk like them
Not wanting boys
But wanting to have my hair short like theirs
To have a “boys” hair cut
I found myself not wanting a boyfriend
But wanting to be someones boyfriend
I found myself realizing that so many girls have that muscular physique
I thought it was normal because other girls looked like that
So maybe I can too?
I tried to fit myself in the categories I saw others in
Girls. Boys like girls. Girls like girls too
I like girls. Im a girl that likes girls
But I do not want to be a muscular girl
I shouldn’t be in this body
So why am I?
Why does my mom strictly tell me not to pick flannels when were in the store
Have conversations with my stepdad saying
She wants to be….
But how can she…
If shes not even..
How can she?
She doesn’t like showing skin she tells him
Im too angry to listen to rest
But then he says
Im not saying its right but its her
HE SAID IM NOT SAYING ITS RIGHT
HE SAID IM NOT SAYING ITS RIGHT
WHAT IS RIGHT!?
I was certainly a fool
He never did accept me huh?
That. Is .Right.
But in my eyes im struggling with confusion
The illusion of my body and what I have now
Is the not the reflection of the real. Me
I found myself listening to other peoples stories and comparing myself to them
I should feel the same way because you have to feel the same as everyone else to be trans
But I didn’t. So I brushed the feelings away
Let them fade.
Blind to similarities
Frustrated because I had no idea who, or what I was
I looked at so many peoples stories
And the one thing I didn’t take from them all until the end was
They were all different
NEVER WERE THEY IDENTICAL
SIMILAR
NOT IDENTICAL
SIMILAR
NOT IDENTICAL
WHO
Am
I
Who am I if I am not the same
I am different
I am not supposed to have the same realizations as everyone else
The entire time I was looking around for answers from other people
Truly I knew exactly where the answer was
But. The feeling of trepidation was all my mind knew for the first few weeks of searching
I found myself thinking some more
This house is only bringing me down
Can I just get out of here?
I found myself wondering why she loved to prevent me from doing things I loved
The same ones that praise you
Are the same ones that hate you
I am me. Alittle bit different than most.
But im me
I found myself, while writing this poem
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 7:41 PM UTC
Allergens
Memories
Strong spices
Leave your scars
I'll send them below
Precious new memories will replace
Your unwelcome pain
Napkins and longboards
electronic haze
I don't watch Disney
I wish I
didn't know my parents
But I take this for granted again
Outbreaks
Gluten
Shedding
Flannels before they were Cool
painting my room
two shades of black
Shakira
I'll share my life
If you will pretend I'm awake enough
To absorb yours
Can we become closer?
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 3:09 AM UTC
I am worn flannels
from the boys section
of the second hand shop.
Long sleeves covering
the seven years
worth of scars.
Seven years
battling mental illness.
I am paint stained carpet
and broken down shoes.
A pair for the different person
that i decide to be
everyday.
I am an adventurer
trying to find a place to call home.
Late night bonfires
and the starlit sky.
I am who i am
and most of all
I am proud.
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 9:54 AM UTC
I call myself a writer yet I'm awful with words and every time I say sorry it's more like an exit wound than an apology. It's difficult to tell you what I'm feeling when I don't know how to speak and I'll go on talking in my broken languages until you realize you will never understand me. Everyone is telling me I need to stop running away from my problems but I've already tried hiding from them and they'll just keep finding me. I keep thinking that maybe if I smile a little more you'll always be here and I want to **** the thing inside you that makes you leave. I have attachment issues because I remember when I was little and not understanding when people told me they'd "be home later" that they never considered anywhere that I was a home. And maybe I don't want to talk about what you did maybe I want to talk about songs and cities and which direction we're going to walk next and if you want to keep the shirt I'm wearing and if touching each other a certain way is okay and how many buttons you leave open on your flannels and how I'm getting home tonight.
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 1:58 AM UTC
Ray LaMontagne - Hold You In My Arms
"I could hold you in my arms, I could hold you forever."
In this hidden corner of my world
Anything
could happen
woven Guatemalan Frisbee
with a lonely older man
talking about dank and his ex-wife
sweet vanilla coffee with a shot of something fruity
smoking in the wind
bot support Ashe
I use a trackpad
fingerless mittens and fuzzy knit earmuffs
they double as headphones
metal and country and sappy romantic pop ballads
gauges piercings tattoos flannels beanies band tees and scene girlfriends
gossip about the bar next door
bashing the outer world
this is utter peace
catching the eye of an attractive stranger
in the mirrors behind the bar
My stomach feels tender from too much coffee
my head buzzes with nicotine
caffeine
My purging week of healthy choices ended
with hash browns, french toast
too much ketchup and 6 packets of sugar in my coffee
Denny's
skeleton string lights and chalkboard walls
abstract photography and everyone plugged in
this is my escape
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 2:54 AM UTC
I want to live in the crook of your neck,
Where I am always warm and always loved.
I want to live in the crook of your neck,
Your hands around my waist keeping me grounded.
I want to live in the crook of your neck,
So that every time I look up your lips will meet mine.
I want to live in the crook of your neck,
Because I know when I have sad days you'll only hold me tighter.
I want to live in the crook of your neck,
Where my mothers disappointment will be reflected off my shoulders.
I want to live in the crook of your neck,
Your love will be the only words to impact me.
I want to live in the crook of your neck,
The smell of your flannels reminding me to breath.
I want to live in the crook of your neck,
Your touch telling me I am part of your beautiful life.
I want to live in the crook of your neck.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 12:56 PM UTC
I’m certain that by now
The windows are all steamed.
There could be dust on my towel
But I sit here picking at my own seams.
The soap bottle is lying on the side
Watching with hatred from its huddle
As I stare at my hands and try to hide
My stomach with flannels and bubbles.
I squash the buds between my fingers
While hair clings to the skin of my back.
I scrub at the writing that still lingers
Faded to blue from black.
I remember only ink and tingling
And you smiling against a classroom blur
Our hands entwined, my concentration dwindling,
Who knows in what world we were?
I’m just scrubbing veins now the pen has gone.
I wonder why you even let me exist
In your world. Tell me, am I withered and worn?
If you kissed me- Ha would you ever kiss this?
I can still feel the ink prints etched into my skin.
Will they ever fade away?
No; the phantoms in the water always win
And I can’t help but listen to everything they say.
Mar 16, 2021
Mar 16, 2021 at 5:37 PM UTC
SLEEP is a maker of makers. Birds sleep. Feet cling to a perch. Look at the balance. Let the legs loosen, the backbone untwist, the head go heavy over, the whole works tumbles a done bird off the perch.
Fox cubs sleep. The pointed head curls round into hind legs and tail. It is a ball of red hair. It is a **** waiting. A wind might whisk it in the air across pastures and rivers, a cocoon, a pod of seeds. The snooze of the black nose is in a circle of red hair.
Old men sleep. In chimney corners, in rocking chairs, at wood stoves, steam radiators. They talk and forget and nod and are out of talk with closed eyes. Forgetting to live. Knowing the time has come useless for them to live. Old eagles and old dogs run and fly in the dreams.
Babies sleep. In flannels the papoose faces, the bambino noses, and dodo, dodo the song of many matushkas. Babies-a leaf on a tree in the spring sun. A nub of a new thing ***** the sap of a tree in the sun, yes a new thing, a what-is-it? A left hand stirs, an eyelid twitches, the milk in the belly bubbles and gets to be blood and a left hand and an eyelid. Sleep is a maker of makers.
1.6k
If the world
Went my way
I would be 25 and
Fresh out of college.
Three dogs
Back home in a
Two bedroom apartment
Furnished with the
Comforts of home and
The future.
If the world
Went my way
I would wear
ripped jeans and
Flannels and black
Nail polish
And i would smile--
Always
I would earn
my own money
And buy
my own things
Go out
Every weekend
and take
pictures of everything.
I would
go on a roadtrip
enjoy the sights
and smells
and feelings.
And i would love
Everyone I’d meet
And laugh
And cry without
Conviction.
If the world
went my way
I would
Be a volunteer
Learn how to cook like a pro
Watch tv all day
Eat strange foods
And try my best
to try everything.
I would travel and
Gain experience
Learn a new language
or three
and maybe even
become religious.
If the world
went my way
I would have done all
this by now.
If the world
went my way
i wouldn’t have to deal with
****** people
and pop music.
If the world
went my way
I would be jamming to
punk rock
on my way to Rome
smiling at
everyone involved
and loving
every second of it.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 8:44 AM UTC
I wear pants under my trousers
A vest under my shirt
Put on trainers to go running
Use a plaster when it hurts
I walk along the pavement
Put my ******* out in bins
Dunk a biscuit in my coffee
Pick up my mobile when it rings
I wash myself with flannels
Go out for a bit of nosh
And if you're spouting nonsense
I'll say you're talking loads of tosh
When I'm knackered I need sleep
I pay the bill after a meal
And if someone's in recovery
It just means they need to heal
I use a rubber for corrections
And when life becomes a drag
I pour a glass of vino
And roll myself a ***
Is weird this common language
I'm still learning the translation
And I thank you for your patience
While I change the situation
To learn the proper lingo
Is now my only quest
So bare with the girl from Blighty
As she tries to do her best!
(C) Pixievic 2016
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 12:45 PM UTC
The devil walked into a store
Eying the clearance rack.
He made eye contact with the cashier
Walking towards the half priced jackets
Flannels & boots.
At that moment he saw something that
became his whole world.
His fingers wild with excitement
passing through all the colors
The hangers clanging against metal feverishly
to find that they didn't have his size.
He thumbed back through the sizes
as though something would have changed
Checking then double checking.
He asked the cashier if they had anymore
in the back,
much to his dismay
to receive the same answer.
He saw a cardigan in his size but hated the way
it looked.
Flapping the hood up and down.
He circled the store
Looking up & down the isles.
Until he noticed the buttons.
Those big wooden buttons
Memories of a different time & place
How fast time slips away.
All that's left;
Shoes to match
Jan 3, 2020
Jan 3, 2020 at 11:10 PM UTC
a blackened lung heaves breath
a broken mind reflects
a wagging tongue cries out
a rolling eye drifts roundabout
the stifled gasp the strangled shout
and powder skin all slick with sweat
the murmurs in the dark,
attentive ears pricked up with doubt
tender hands pressing warm flannels
onto vacant brows
the last words over and over
is this the last? is this your last?
eyes half shut you slip into the past
and then
eyes laid out in glazy glass
i didn't see you leave just
one more moment
please
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 3:05 PM UTC
I've left a part of my heart in Denver, Colorado.
Four twenty somethings jumping into the the freezing
lake head first from the mountain tops just to see
what it's about. We counted flannels and puffy vests
and tried to calculate the net worth of this place.
Rooster cat opened a up a blank wall to me where
I blew out my brains and left my phone number.
Remember, your neighbor might be lonely.
Lavender lime muffins and clouds intricately laced in
patterns meant to hold the sun hostage for but an hour more
as it gently strokes the broad shoulders of the 14ers backside.
Without them, how do you know which way is west?
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 3:08 AM UTC
Rucksack – Duffle bag – Backpack
Packed
Note books – Journal books – Poetry books
Book books
Tin cans – Pots and pans
First aid – Survival kit
Complete with fishhooks, fishing line,
Lighter, matches
of the waterproof kind
Even a sewing kit
Equipped
With extra sewing needles,
black thread, safety pins,
Buttons,
Band-aids, gauze,
antiseptics,
Burn cream
Just in case
it's ever needed
Bucket hat Stuffed
down somewhere deep
A handkerchief –
bandana too
Flannels and sweater
For cool weather
Tennis shoes
For when hiking boots
Get too hot
A few days worth of food
Vegetarian – salmon jerky – chocolate protein bars
Sleeping bag rolled tightly
All slung heavily over my shoulder
“One fast move or I’m gone”
Kerouac once said
As he tried to run away from
Crashing waves of stardom
I just want to get away
From crashing city noise
And live life like a
Dharma ***
Nov 1, 2011
Nov 1, 2011 at 7:10 PM UTC
you and i, you and i
dreamcatchers blown by the wind
world maps crumpled full of
what it seems to be a trace of late-night roadtrips
laidbacks in sneakers and flannels nonchalantly strolled the road
you and i, you and i
never got tired of prose, whispering a life to handwritten mess
on our backs we feel heaved carrying dreams that seemed like forever
what a wanderlust soul that we both have
show me the limit of the sky
tell me about the universe inside us, and all the stars, and broken dreams
sing me a goodbye lullaby
run me a thousand miles to the top of the world
and we will scream our lungs out
this night is ours
life seems like at its fullest whenever we are together
writhed, we refused to fall back into
heartbroken poems we wrote on our once scarred wrists
small talks, ******** about our enemies, about light colored eyed boys
there's no mistake amidst
seven billion people on earth, seems like we got lucky with our fate
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 5:40 AM UTC