Basko Jan 2014

She gave me gloves.
Sapphire lets call her
I loved how she would
roll her eyes close
whenever i swore louder
or when i-
being in the mood
of being an arrogant snob
Told me to be, mean
and so vicious

But Lady Sapphire is kind as the
depth of the ocean and nice
as the sugar and spice
of a confused fangirl,
Who i believe
is precious as the rock
i name her from

Will Rogers III Feb 2015

the sun flickers upon his hand
and thoughts of the past flicker upon his mind
no time there is for school or band
when sadness, lies, and regrets are behind

freedom from all thoughts is his prayer
but that is not possible for now
he fears this time he can not bare
but he must trust Him somehow?

the pink gloves rest softly on the table
And the sun drifts softly across the heart unstable

[composed on January 22, 2014]
C S Cizek Nov 2014

Pure cane sugartar that sits on teeth,
sits on a canine porch swing
and swings too far, kicking the enamel
siding, wood knots, and greying-thin
windows. More exposed than Brad
Pitt's marriage or JonBenét Ramsay
on the cover of Old World News Daily
in the dentist's office. And there we
are. We're bleached white and burning
beneath paparazzi bulbs and a
a murder case. Brief case money/
two thousand fourteen and it's still
relevant, still useful blood money.
Novocain lightning flash; burn a tree.
Cali home tucked behind parsley
palms. Fortune teller, baby, O.J. didn't
do it. Not The Juice, not him.
The gloves. The gloves. The gloves.
Comfort of picket fence rainbrushed
paint stripping. Raymour retail
of a mocha-cushion couch half-off
'cause the back's spattered with
toothpaste and taxpayer juice
like Grandma's cancer handbag.
Put your feet up, stay a while.
Don't leave.

brooke Nov 2013

I walked out
along the river
today and thought
about the time I tried
to make you wear red
gloves with a the christmas
deer on them, I should have
never tried to make you wear
the red gloves with the christmas

(c) Brooke Otto 2013
Paul Goring Feb 2011

My first gLove
Lost on the bus
Or In the street
Parted in the snow

My stolen gLove
Taken whilst my back
Was turned

My fleeting gLove
Impaled by a stranger
In the street
On a spike
For all to see

My forgotten gLove
Left lonely
For too long

My worn out gLove
From years of absent

My Christmas gLove
Ill fitting but warm
And worn
For a day

My lost summer
Lost summer
Lost summer gLove
Didn’t make the suitcase

My gLove for life
Soft yielding
And strong

These are the gLoves
I have loved and lost

Copyright - Paul Goring 2011
Woody Oct 2016

I walk around with the seacoast

in my cuffs and the boogie woogie

under my toes with the silent song

of the fiddle and a riddle under my

tongue like a sanctuary of dust beneath

pillars of mystery and wisteria and

my pockets sewn up with guitar strings

carrying an old jug of blood and a root-

a-toot toot floating like a sad song that hides

behind the blue moonlight while I sleepwalk

in white gloves like a pallbearer whose lungs

are on fire from tugging the bodies of massacred

Africans and Natives through the backwoods

like the real tragedies of epics I wrote on a bus

bench while waiting for myself to arrive and

when I finished the heroes had all died by

the time I got there dead tired and miserable

to boot I knew I had my work cut out for me.

Amanda Goodness Jan 2014

This house is burning straight to the ground
And all you can think about
Is that you're "cold now that all the sweaters are destroyed"
"But the embers look beautiful floating by my face."
I guess you took a few too many pills,
And I didn't take quite enough.
It wasn't the flames of justice that engulfed our house.
But it doesn't really matter.
Because that house was not a home.
A home is where I live with someone I love.
So that house was not a home.
Because I didn't love you.
I loved your hips and you tits.
I fucked you and you made me drinks when I got back from work.
I never loved you.
I started the fucking fire to get a rise out of you.
You still don't care.
At least I made you fucking shiver a little.
Like that counts for shit.

Shelley Connor Feb 2015

Fumbling through drawers
At that distinct, cold feel  
We need to wake the hats and gloves
For the Winters sharp chill  

As I try to pull on your hat
I realise how you've grown
And my heart starts to ache
Like I've never known

My little boy is growing up
And as you laugh at the size
Of the silly small hat
And the tears in my eyes  

I wonder
With both fear and joy
How long until
You are no longer a little boy

too large, fit for the rabbit,

slipping silk, no hand to hold,

while waving slide off.

you think they will have thought of pins

just now.

all that tapping,

makes a soul happy.

benefits are few these days,

make the most of those

that live in huts.

believe  that the earth loves us.


Anna Skinner Nov 2014

There's never enough tea, she said,
a single, cold finger tracing the lip
of an empty mug.

Adequate poem for this cold, November day in Indiana

I take off my coat and stomp the snow off my shoes.
Trip over the rug and instantly bruise.
Glance up at the stack of medical bills, next to the various bottles of pills.
Crawl into bed to drift away.
Ready to escape another horrid day.
and right when conciseness started to vanish.
There's a knock on the door,
A little Spanish girl I'd never seen before.
"Sorry, wrong house."
She says in a heavy accent.
I notice her knit gloves are frozen
On her hands, made perfectly for imprints in cement.
And I wonder
If she ever made art with her hand prints when she was a kid,
I don't know, maybe she was better than that.
But for some reason, I want her to make me one of those hand print crafts.
So I say, "But this house has a fireplace, come on in."
She steps inside and laughs.
I pull the frozen knit gloves off her tiny cold hands. and breath into them to make them warm.
My stomachs butterflies are flying in swarms.
Then she sees the the pills and asks "what are all these?"
My heart sinks
"Don't worry about it, just forget it...please"
Her eyes drop and get wide when she sees the bruise on my knee.
And for the first time she really sees me.
I know how she must feel.
getting in on the short end of a sick deal.
Or maybe she can't believe that it's real.
she just pulls up her sleeve, and shows me her wrist.
A hospital bracelet with bold type reading flight risk
I start to tell her she needs to go back.
And feel my cheek turning red from her slap
she says "I'm sorry, Just don't make me go..Nobody want's to die alone."
I don't know if it was the needy look in her eye,
Or the helplessness in her tone.
But you should know that
She didn't die alone.

© copyrighted Nicole Ann Osborn

Another story from a male's perceptive.
sarah gentry May 2014

the night shoals of city lights,
where stumping feet
gives their own interpretation
to the baseness of silence
nothing is serene
just marked time
with feral pride
stretching into tied darkness.

I follow past's,
Shadow, let it weave.
Into my hands,
Into dark winter yarn.
These gloves were my dad's.

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