"laddered" poems
Here.
Attempting to write something
To match your eyes.
Something that will make you see things
The way I see things.
Noticing.
Every mark.
Torn by fences climbed
To get away from those who didn't take your hand
And fly.
They left intricate laddered rips in your jeans,
Though you try to hide the fact that you know,
That I know that is the case.
We play childish games of denial
Because all romance is to be transported to a time when we were innocent.
Back to a place where ‘I love you’ is what your parents said
When all the screaming, laughter
And the innocence of loud noises stop
And is replaced by silence.
‘I love you’ made that warm feeling
Growing and radiating out
Eventually finding the tips of your fingers and ends of your toes
And bursting out,
Moving through to the next person you touch.
*Contrary to popular practice,
‘I love you’ is not just three words to be said
When you are trying to break the awkward silences
Left between two people who have simply gotten used to each other.*
I love red licorice.
It gives me a warm feeling of sugary goodness.
Though artificial,
In the times when the weight of the world is the weight of your sheets
That lay a top of your body
Which you tell yourself over and over and over
It is not good enough for that person
Who gives you the inner warmth
That a campfire gives your shins;
I find that artificial red licorice warmth is good enough.
And sometimes good enough is the best we can get.
Here.
In the hope that the words that must be said
Stream from ink to page.
I hope my hand moves so fast over the page
That smoke starts flowing and my words mean something...
But no words come.
No letters.
No ink scratches the page.
I just want you to see the way I do.
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 7:48 AM UTC
THE TROUBLE WITH TIGHTS
The trouble with tights, they dangle.
They’re very annoying at times.
When around your ankles they slip.
Snag them on the garden gate.
When on the way to work, they rip.
Just as you’re in a mega dash.
They really are such irksome things.
Tights are laddered, cash all gone.
Still need to carry on.
Of course, they have their other uses.
Will fix a broken fan-belt well.
Maybe a robber of the money institution, will find them a lovely disguise.
The only bank robber ever caught.
In possession of a pair of long nylon ears.
Stockings are much sexier.
Lovely soft and silky.
For whenever you are feeling *****
Who ever heard of wearing tights, beneath their wedding dress?
Wear them for a date.
When pretty woman goes out hunting.
Just to find her perfect mate.
Surely, stockings must merit the order of the garter
Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 2:17 AM UTC
The heron spreads his wings and preys.
His stony stand a beachhead sloughing
The salt sea, a sepulchered wading.
Leaven the broken bred, unshell
The teeming waters, a fisher of mermen
Unlordly low this lying father,
His wings are palms,
His rock a mount, his wings a bay,
And deafness, tears in the outer shores
And exaulted seas the forgiven waves,
Swells the briny blood and kelp.
Vains are streaming to the fisher king,
Lordy he lands the lying father
His wings are psalms.
A tiny flood that arcs the sky
Marks lord in miniature, a King
Fisher flies, His wings are
The waters calmed.
The otters bask and preen, mermen
Jostle in the laddered rays of the sun
They mark their surf, insouciant play,
Wavering the fisher of men, he sways,
Simply they circle in song singing hours,
Dancing as do the murmuring waves,
Their strokes are psalms.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 2:34 PM UTC
The heron spreads his wings and preys.
His stony stand a beachhead sloughing
The salt sea, a sepulchered wading.
Leaven the broken bred, unshell
The teeming waters, a fisher of mermen
Unlordly low this lying father,
His wings are palms,
His rock a mount, his wings a bay,
And deafness, tears in the outer shores
And exaulted seas the forgiven waves,
Swells the briny blood and kelp.
Vains are streaming to the fisher king,
Lordy he lands the lying father
His wings are psalms.
A tiny flood that arcs the sky
Marks lord in miniature, a King
Fisher flies, His wings are
The waters calmed.
The otters bask and preen, mermen
Jostle in the laddered rays of the sun
They mark their surf, insouciant play,
Wavering the fisher of men, he sways,
Simply they circle in song singing hours,
Dancing as do the murmuring waves,
Their strokes are psalms.
Jul 30, 2012
Jul 30, 2012 at 1:28 PM UTC
Bottoms of glasses, under ***** caps and vases. In pepper pots, though holes in socks, twixt blooming buds and fasteners. Kitchen’s sink; shades of pink, through willow-wood hearts and:
Behind Polaroid frames and flashbulb flays, measuring pixels and yards and:
In sewing thimbles, between knitting needles; gentle beetles, playing cards and:
Through laddered tights and telephone drawers, on written paper under boarded floors. On cotton shirts caked with dirt and in refuge sacks of reticence begirt. Cushion covers and shopping bags, through electrical wire and sodden rags. Under flower pots, inside sticky locks. In coffee mugs and china cups, Teabags and teaspoons and niches for tee lights. Bottle necks, glass jars, coin dish, cream jugs. Window sills, knife block, light bulbs, plugs. Plate stack, lotion *** saucer, dust. Record slips, ornaments, lamp, clock. Table, chair: drink and sit around it.
I’ve hidden my heart almost everywhere and you still haven’t found it.
Jun 29, 2011
Jun 29, 2011 at 3:14 PM UTC
~
If you only knew
these feelings I clench in my fist,
locked in endless lingering,
breathing for only this
Painting a future
caused by eternal dreams
found in your…
Smile…
and I too shall smile,
laughing in flowered
blooms filled with heartbeats,
fragrances sifting
along alphabetical fence lines,
counting the letters
found in your…
Words…
send a message,
feeding desires of my visions,
fruited of vine fed bounty,
weaving about my skin,
tempting me to search deeply
the roots
found in your…
Thoughts…
flow freely
within my soul,
beyond scattered butterflies
on the top rung
of this laddered stairway,
padded with beliefs
found in your…
Love…
sets me free,
fits me with wings of chiffon renderings,
soaring to destined heights,
glowing in the shimmering rays
of a springtime sun
in the forever solitude I
found in you…
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 2:28 PM UTC
.
The heron spreads his wings and preys.
His stony stand a beachhead sloughing
The salt sea, a sepulchered wading.
Leaven the broken bred, unshell
The teeming waters, a fisher of mermen
Unlordly low this lying father,
His wings are palms,
His rock a mount, his wings a bay,
And deafness, tears in the outer shores
And exaulted seas the forgiven waves,
Swells the briny blood and kelp.
Vains are streaming to the fisher king,
Lordy he lands the lying father
His wings are psalms.
A tiny flood that arcs the sky
Marks lord in miniature, a King
Fisher flies, His wings are
The waters calmed.
The otters bask and preen, mermen
Jostle in the laddered rays of the sun
They mark their surf, insouciant play,
Wavering the fisher of men, he sways,
Simply they circle in song singing hours,
Dancing as do the murmuring waves,
Their strokes are psalms.
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 2:30 PM UTC
The heron spreads his wings and preys.
His stony stand a beachhead sloughing
The salt sea, a sepulchered wading.
Leaven the broken bred, unshell
The teeming waters, a fisher of mermen
Unlordly low this lying father,
His wings are palms,
His rock a mount, his wings a bay,
And deafness, tears in the outer shores
And exaulted seas the forgiven waves,
Swells the briny blood and kelp.
Vains are streaming to the fisher king,
Lordy he lands the lying father
His wings are psalms.
A tiny flood that arcs the sky
Marks lord in miniature, a King
Fisher flies, His wings are
The waters calmed.
The otters bask and preen, mermen
Jostle in the laddered rays of the sun
They mark their surf, insouciant play,
Wavering the fisher of men, he sways,
Simply they circle in song singing hours,
Dancing as do the murmuring waves,
Their strokes are psalms.
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 2:51 PM UTC
oh, sweet discovery--
an affirmation, iterate anew--
frissoning along the spinal ungulate
of waxing waning curve of time i spin
within that spiral, scapular
for sternum bloom in thinning breath
to thick, spread elongate
digitally ground
and see the phasing moons
as one, what, separated is in union once again
as what, in being one, unites united difference all again, again
--again repeated-- in my cells that newness thread
laddered spiecieswide, and more
alighted language coding
holograms in boon of sun--
golden futures past--
univocally found
by none, by all and only some,
and even only one
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 12:41 AM UTC
i write from the 1st of october. i write from cold air and turning seasons. from hazy days and lazy days and 'maybe things will be okay's. i write from stale bread and cold tea cause id made it at half past three, and the wind is blowing.
and i want to wear my dads big old fairisle jumper because somehow, it always smells of him. and the wind is blowing.
i write from the 1st of october. i write from endless evenings and too many cigarettes and a craving for my mothers supermarket box wine. i write from tired eyes and floaty songs and i write because im feeling fine. and time is passing before my eyes and it makes me feel uneasy because these are the years i want to remember. the 1st of octobers and 6th of februraries and 27th of mays. and all the other days.
i write from the 1st of october. i write from awful poetry and laddered tights and dreams about boys that got lost in the city. in more ways than one.
i write from the 1st of october, and the wind is blowing.
Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 7:35 PM UTC
The heron spreads his wings and preys.
His stony stand a beachhead sloughing
The salt sea, a sepulchered wading.
Leaven the broken bred, unshell
The teeming waters, a fisher of mermen
Unlordly low this lying father,
His wings are palms,
His rock a mount, his wings a bay,
And deafness, tears in the outer shores
And exaulted seas the forgiven waves,
Swells the briny blood and kelp.
Vains are streaming to the fisher king,
Lordy he lands the lying father
His wings are psalms.
A tiny flood that arcs the sky
Marks lord in miniature, a King
Fisher flies, His wings are
The waters calmed.
The otters bask and preen, mermen
Jostle in the laddered rays of the sun
They mark their surf, insouciant play,
Wavering the fisher of men, he sways,
Simply they circle in song singing hours,
Dancing as do the murmuring waves,
Their strokes are psalms.
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 1:48 PM UTC
On Yehudit’s
first weekend off
from work
she met you
by the field
near the stables
arriving in her
cotton dress of green
and that raincoat
left over from school
and she said
been waiting long?
no not long
you said
although you’d been there
ten minutes or more
feeling the cold
bite into your skin
couldn’t get away
Mum wanted
this done and that
she said
leaning against
the fence
thought you might
have changed your mind
you said
why would I ?
she rubbed her hands together
to warm off the cold
said I’d be here
and I keep my word
she said
you sensed her uncertainty
the words sticking
in your mouth
we used to be closer
she said
none of this distance
between us
she knew about
you and Yiska
knew what there was
to know
the fact that Yiska had gone
made no difference
betrayal had been done
she sat on the fence
and looked out
at the frost covered grass
you sat on the fence
beside her
her knees showed
where her dress
had risen
she had a laddered stocking
what was she like?
Yehudit asked
I mean did
she kiss good?
you looked
at the laddered stocking
flesh showed
yes she was good
you said
did she let you?
she asked
let me what?
you said
looking away
from the stocking
your eyes
meeting hers
you know let you do it?
she said
pushing the words out stiffly
as if the frost
had got to them
does it matter?
it’s history now
you said
it matters to me
she said
her voice
getting tighter
she looked
at the field
green and white
I guess it does
you said
we didn’t anyway
there wasn’t the place
or opportunity
you added
watching rooks
in the grey sky
their calls
filling the air
Yehudit looked at you
her eyes glassy
but you wanted to
she said
even if you didn’t
you breathed in
the icy air
you remembered
that you and she
had made love
in some woods
back behind you
the evening
had been warm then
flesh to flesh
heart sensing heart
I’ve met someone at work
she said
breaking through
your thoughts
I wanted you to know
not discover
and feel betrayed
you sensed a loss
bite you
a falling away
beneath your feet
I’m pleased for you
you lied
she climbed off
the fence
her feet sinking
into the frosted grass
see you around
she said
and walked off
across the field
you watched her go
sensing the cold
and the falling of snow.
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 3:27 PM UTC
There is
the open book
her inquisitive look
the way
with one stockinged leg
hanging over
the arm
of the chair
the centre parted
wavy dark hair
and he sitting
across from her
at the writing desk
writing to his mother
saying how good
he was being
all alone in Paris
reading the books
she’d sent
paying his way
paying the rent
eating out
working in
getting
the studying done
leaving the girls alone
no late nights
no *****
no cigarettes
no sadness
or regrets
and looking up
from the letter paper
seeing her opposite
with his book
open on her lap
her black
laddered stockings
the way she sits
invitingly
him smiling
dotting the i’s
and crossing
the t’s
periods at the end
whispering
to the dame
be there soon
kisses on the bottom
of the letter
for mother
and the dame’s
(bottom)
maybe later
letting the ink dry
imaging what
beneath
the dame’s dress
and underclothes
may wait
and his
deep sigh.
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 11:56 AM UTC
Your alluring face
figurant and immured,
yet all those things
that made you proud
Oolong tea,
laddered nylon tights
coltsfoot by the river
mattered more.
Jun 14, 2012
Jun 14, 2012 at 2:15 PM UTC
Or you, father, pointing down to a Sicilian harbour ―
its dark pincers compressing an eye-glass
of water
Or my skin, watered down by a lifetime out of your sun
yet thick and dark through our blood’s long curing
in white light
Or your silhouette, insect-strange on the black breast
of a Northumbrian hill, our kinship of shape lost
in the white flood-down
of summer
Or that sequoia glade whose green we drank: a tall glass
where dark sank as heavier spirits do, and stirred leaves
made a white effervescence
of sunlight
Or you, black and white, slumped in that wicker chair
mourning your father, steeped in a kitchen’s shadowless
fluorescence, toe-caps scuffed grey
by the glare
Or rain, elsewhere, as white horizons laddered with dark ―
rain as fault-lines slanting the light ― till, here, resolve
the first cold drops, steaming on your curved
back of earth
Mario Petrucci from Flowers of Sulphur
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 8:53 AM UTC
The heron spreads his wings and preys.
His stony stand a beachhead sloughing
The salt sea, a sepulchered wading.
Leaven the broken bred, unshell
The teeming waters, a fisher of mermen
Unlordly low this lying father,
His wings are palms,
His rock a mount, his wings a bay,
And deafness, tears in the outer shores
And exaulted seas the forgiven waves,
Swells the briny blood and kelp.
Vains are streaming to the fisher king,
Lordy he lands the lying father
His wings are psalms.
A tiny flood that arcs the sky
Marks lord in miniature, a King
Fisher flies, His wings are
The waters calmed.
The otters bask and preen, mermen
Jostle in the laddered rays of the sun
They mark their surf, insouciant play,
Wavering the fisher of men, he sways,
Simply they circle in song singing hours,
Dancing as do the murmuring waves,
Their strokes are psalms.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 12:34 PM UTC
The heron spreads his wings and preys.
His stony stand a beachhead sloughing
The salt sea, a sepulchered wading.
Leaven the broken bred, unshell
The teeming waters, a fisher of mermen
Unlordly low this lying father,
His wings are palms,
His rock a mount, his wings a bay,
And deafness, tears in the outer shores
And exaulted seas the forgiven waves,
Swells the briny blood and kelp.
Vains are streaming to the fisher king,
Lordy he lands the lying father
His wings are psalms.
A tiny flood that arcs the sky
Marks lord in miniature, a King
Fisher flies, His wings are
The waters calmed.
The otters bask and preen, mermen
Jostle in the laddered rays of the sun
They mark their surf, insouciant play,
Wavering the fisher of men, he sways,
Simply they circle in song singing hours,
Dancing as do the murmuring waves,
Their strokes are psalms.
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 1:52 PM UTC
Drag my feet across the space of time. Down the rungs of laddered rooms. So many doors. Most are locked now. Soles pricked by evergreen. Every remembrance, a splinter. Subcutaneous, then deeper. Hypodermic nostalgia. Pin-cushioned and pine-needled. I could pull them out. But relief is not found in extinguishing bushfires. This wooden heart needs to burn free. Poplar, ash, maple…there is a forest within me. Limbs upon limbs draping and dripping and gracing skin that falls away when the weight is too much. And the lightness never seems to last beyond three months. Appendages on oaken tombs. Endless hallways. Sealed doorframes. This winter is eternal, and my timber…a pyre. Lips pressed to polaroid.
I’ve become a jungle of eulogy.
A thicket on fire.
Oct 30, 2022
Oct 30, 2022 at 12:18 PM UTC
Bits & pieces of pixelated, ground up species.
We have conversations, but the conversing stops, when the lighting changes & the flirting fades. Between us we have nothing but a few soiled goods, & a bottle of cheap romance.
None of this poetry means anything, because your lips won't read the words. I knew you had fell out of love, when you...stop calling. The Cheez It's no longer held the same silly value. A back seat ***** you long forgot about.
I'd spend journeys, journeys with you. Lacing up laces. Crossed & laddered. Interweaving our emotions into one big shoe box. That no one will take off the shelf.
I feel nothing but a subtle head ache, missing & wishing the acid would kick in.
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 10:21 PM UTC
I am not a prize to be wanted
I am not a prize to be worn
I am not a sacrifice to be sentenced
I am not anyones reward
If you can take a peek at a close spot
And listen to what you are saying
Sure take a thought about it and let me see
This is a reality and a secondhand degree
All you may see is a pretty painted picture
But all that you have seen is a piece of the easel
A picture you've noticed is worth a thousand words
But one is clearly all to be
I may be all fresh and melted
To what you may agree to disagree
But from many assumptions
There is just never an ending sleeve
Look at you and glance down upon yourself
What may you want with me?
I am not a piece to be yours
It can be sheltered upon and shattered
But all that is there is despair
For what may become of you and all whose laddered
So all I am saying it don't get too close
Nor ever take a piece of my heart
Don't try to get all comfy due to all you can 'see'
You know I am in love
But all there isn't always me
I am not a prize to be wanted
I am not a prize to be worn
I am not a sacrifice to be sentenced
I am not anyones reward
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 11:59 AM UTC
it's never you he will remember it was her
he was a car crash
and you were an unreturned library book
he caused thousands in damage
you; a late fee
she was EMT's and flashing lights
and bandages and scar kisses
she was storm clouds and
lightening strikes and screaming between sheets
and you were condensation
on shower ceilings and crackling
speakers in beaten up cars with roll up windows
you were floral patterns and pastel shades
and grey socks and tidy bedrooms
you were studying hard and drinking with friends
you were beach trips and family photo's
and B grades
you were wavy hair, no make up pyjama sundays
she was studs and torn denim and
laddered stockings and lace up boots
she was binge drinking and pill taking all alone
she was road trips and broken frames
and "I didn't finish College" grades
she was last nights make up and strangers clothes sundays
she was hushed whispers and angry words
and 100 things you did wrong today
you are child hood friends and same class time to graduate
she is loud and grubby and free
you are shy and calm and soft
you are memories and happy dreams
she is crying in the middle of the night and aching touches
she is broken fingers and hearts
you are bashful smiles and spring clouds
you are april showers and she is winter downpours
your touch is sacred
her touch is a fabrication of a half-dream
just chemicals and adolescent love
you were 2 kids, suburban homes
you were safe
she was fear
you were alive
she was living
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 7:04 PM UTC
CLIMBING TREES IN HIGH HEELS
the swish of her
dress as
thigh crosses thigh
the static electricity of her
nylons laddered
from climbing trees in high heels
the rescued cat now
safely asleep by the fire
snoring not purring
the whiskey a jewel
in the cut-glass decanter
the glint in her eye
again the sigh
as thigh crosses thigh
she singing softly to her
self as if
she was the only one
left in existence
the clock leaving
a longer and longer
silence between each tick
and tock
and tock
the clock now stopped
looking elegant
in a thin white vase
the yellow chrysanthemums
just stare and stared
as if they were frightened
of the silence
a shepherd carrying a lamb
in chipped china
looking out of place
without his companion piece
a ***** shepherdess
broken only last week
it was ten past 7
though the clock did not know
that
Time had abandoned
the room
outside the first snowflake falling
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 3:47 PM UTC
amongst the night scented pines
i register
with an impish partner
plugged from off a fancy tiered cake
her school dance dress
and me a lumberjack of fashion
new together
us toys two
splintered from our band of goofs
you are crow
I become antler crowned
a primer of pranky static
amongst the wooded pines
roots and leaves
rhythm extant
and a flashlight
and slunken and bravado
and hip checks and embarrass
and mischief seek
and mischief applied
and bombast
stolen alcohol and torso
spatty wind and forrest
swig
mouth-to-mouth
and pines and dark
cloud covered stars and no moon new
all the time a thing impending
romance with exposed wrists
a sick excite
glassy glances into eyes
and our mind could speed friction into flame
feel the spin of the earth
it's all just speeding up
we clutch
the pine roots hold it all together
drawn silence....
...
and she laughs
to unnerve the 'breath withheld'
then wind springs
and creaking and branches again
and we dance our feint
we dub it 'the turpentine'
one flashlight
each takes turn and spotlights the other
drunken performances
hers a showy enchant
and baiting stumbles
discarded slippers
earthy wet knees
through laddered tights
playing meekish prey
i only take a quick awkward turn
(some tribal hunter mime)
so she can clown once again
our spotlight scatters life
steals the nights light
strips auras from the trees
and we fire out the beam
in waste and hazard
as only courting humans would dare
Jun 17, 2021
Jun 17, 2021 at 1:09 AM UTC
laddered interior young
at the stem. axing archetypes,
archaic impulses needling,
tracing a thin history.
versed in red cedar,
conversation inherited from
compulsive dreams,
spontaneous ******
absurd.
air thick through
hemlock mind, beliefs
losing acreage
to wildfire,
practice.
feet like temples,
side stepping,
environment a dip of
images patterned,
falling to edges,
mountains
widening,
basic matter.
Aug 17, 2019
Aug 17, 2019 at 2:25 AM UTC