"leathered" poems
Thread. Pierce. Weave.
Her leathered fingers pulling it though from one single taut line, until it forms a flowing tapestry of a quilt.
She forgets. The mail. The laundry. The casserole that burned her house down.
The threads are her memories that have been lost. Each one a moment, a place, a person.
She forgets. Their names.
These threads are the last she will weave.
Family acts as thread. The quilt that catches her as she falls farther from herself into an image as faded as the last photo of her husband.
Thread. Pierce. Weave. Thread Pierce Weave.
She forgets. The quilt.
The daughter finds it, and sees a half spelled out name.
She forgets. Her name.
The daughter brings her mother her memories.
The daughter helps guiding her mother’s hand.
Thread. Pierce. Weave. Thread. Pierce. Weave. Thread. Pierce. Weave.
Threads become patches, patches from the cloth.
Thread. Pierce. Weave. Thread. Pierce. Weave.
Mother and daughter weave together an inheritance.
The quilt is finished, a single name. She utters the name she has been trying to find.
She remembers. Her Grandson.
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 4:10 PM UTC
Against layers of western pop and soulful jazz,
I find myself yearning for the sound
of traditional music
These ears know well
the tune that reminds them of home.
My blood dances
to the thumping of the tabla,
the melodious clash of castanets
and plucking of strings on leathered guitars.
Traditional music is the voice
of my silenced ancestors;
and the treasure that is the legacy
they have left behind for us.
Each night I will remind myself
of the beauty of Algeria
and the sound that vibrates its fertile soil
and resonates in my heart.
Reaching out to hold the hands
of those who came before me;
we stand united by the melody
of our anthem.
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 3:18 PM UTC
I dream of leathered men, I dream of you, touching me, ******* me, loving me.
Hold me in your clutch, dominate me, make me yours.
Your voice like velvet, and your body like diamond.
Cut me, mark me, I am your canvas.
I am your art.
The cruelest artist with a delicate touch.
I beg of you.
I whimper in pleasure.
More please.
"Be a good boy for me" "yes sir" on my knees. Complete submission.
Take me to space.
Make me forget all that came before you.
Jul 9, 2022
Jul 9, 2022 at 11:31 AM UTC
The dust will gather on beaten forge
which crafted hardened steel.
Even hardest blade it gorged,
but all forget the Blacksmith.
Rooted deep in township’s yore
with a trade of kings and conquest.
Upon him once relied your lore,
but all forget the Blacksmith.
Leathered hands, up night and day
with visage of steel and focus.
Sparks will reign and fly and spray,
but all forget the Blacksmith.
But when your steed wears down his hooves
or your gate-posts starts to splinter,
you’ll be found needing hardened grooves;
you won’t forget the Blacksmith.
For it is he who works all day
And keep the townsfolk working.
If you need hardship kept at bay,
Don’t forget the Blacksmith.
Jan 5, 2018
Jan 5, 2018 at 6:21 AM UTC
Polished off the filler rods
now lifes got me dreaming
soley about the silver lining
the spooning of the woman on the moon
Keep mapping the schematic, the big move
heading straight to the oil soaked cash
Ready again to make the great dash
This time I'll save my dimes
for those unavoidable hard times
I'll pile it under my matress
a secrete stash thats all mine
Work my *** to the bone
by welding up a storm
Sitting all leathered up
on my light weaver throne
To meditate and consentrate
on 13 times the suns bright
Keep the eyes focused and fixate
count to ten when the mechanics frustrate
Troubleshoot the lines of life
fix the issue then
collect the lute.
Dec 18, 2011
Dec 18, 2011 at 6:14 PM UTC
the night of the fake dead has become eternal
(i will wear Susan Lucci's face for it)
staggering through excesses unknown
and the uncertainty of this ranking system,
you tried to eat my earlobe
but lost interest in it quickly.
your scent safe in this butterfly net,
i am surrounded by the
murderous howls of your perennial
buttercups, determined to tempt
my animal ******* instincts.
(enuma elish la nabu shamamu)
(shapiltu ammatum shuma la zakrat)
i have tripped in the garden of Eve's desire
and felt torrents across my cheeks
of alternating salt and sugar-sweet nectar.
i have held the red locks of wort
and danced on the blossom-littered ground
in remembrance of wandered attention.
(When in the heights heaven had not been named)
(and below, firm ground had not been called...)
i have wept in the shadow of Adam's twin towers
and seen the rift between the continents
ebb and fall under silence's blanket.
i have leathered my skin under this star
to defend my eyes and tongue from
the bite of the turtle goddess.
i have seen the feast of the water,
devouring the naked soil of Pangea,
and tasted its salt with my eyes.
i have undertaken the toil of the shaduf,
churning mud and planting seeds for
the return of the floral messiah.
(Amaru baur rata)
(Shagane Ir Imshi)
i have borne the yoke of the oxen
and reaped stalks of wheat
in the summer's first harvest
i have broken bread with companions
under starlight mixed embers
glowing log light orange dynamo
(The Flood swept thereover)
(His heart was filled with tears)
Will you scream for me?
Can you profess the holiness
of my mission?
My name, my motif, echoes
across the ages...
Siaynoq!
Siaynoq!
Siaynoq!
In the end we are called upon by
stronger forces, blank expressions, glassy eyes
Siaynoq!
Siaynoq!
Siaynoq!
the cold of the world's knife,
pressed against the flesh of our selves,
unconscious rhythm heartbeat pounding
twisted sense rhumba of a thousand tiny shards
Siaynoq!
Call me to a greater purpose
Siaynoq!
Spill my blood across the sand
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 7:01 PM UTC
at two years old,
your curious hands
happened upon a bottle of
flea medicine
that lay waiting on the counter.
your mother was absent as usual,
off on an errand,
or walking the dog.
unwatched,
your enterprising fingers
eased the lid from the container,
and you poured the sweet-smelling
liquid down your throat.
the world was still so new to you,
and it seemed to be made for tasting.
who could blame a child
with a thirst for more than
mushy peas and applesauce?
two days later
they released you from the hospital,
your stomach pumped dry.
when you were six,
idly exploring the woods of your mother’s
sprawling estate,
you paused a moment from imagining
faerie queens flitting about in the greenery
to take rest on a log,
your undiscerning eye not betraying
its secret: within it was a nest
of wasps,
and thinking they were faeries
you dared not move as they
rose in a cloud above your head
and overtook you,
leaving your body peppered with
painful angry sores.
you fell to the ground.
a hired man,
strong and tall as the oak trees,
saw your quick descent and
ventured after you,
made a hammock of his arms
to bear you like a fallen soldier
back to your mother’s house,
his tough sun-leathered skin
immune to the assaults of the
faerie battalion.
at eight,
playing in the small child-sized house
in your aunt’s garden,
you sought to make stained glass
from the broken shards of the playhouse window.
having no tool at hand,
what better way to
shatter the clear, flat plane
than with your fist?
before reason could take hold of you,
you drove your hand
through the glass,
and the raw edges cut deep into your veins.
blood flowed in rivers
from your wrist.
your aunt, ever watchful,
rushed from the house to
stop your body’s catharsis
with a dishcloth.
the jagged unpainted shards
lay forgotten on the ground.
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 10:05 PM UTC
I shall write of simple things.
I shall write of dark skies and
black dogs, gardens full of red
tomatoes and green spinach,
of small streets where children
walk through the haze of distant
summers. I shall write of mountains
and men, of the sea, of fishes and
porpoises and whales. I shall be
among the plains and write of
old ranch hands with gnarled
fingers and leathered countenances.
I shall tell of cities and concrete
and lies, of schools and scoldings,
of hurts and healings. I shall whisper
of things human, of love and lone-
liness, of suffering and supplication,
of tender moments and terror. I
shall write of the simple and profound,
for they are one, borne of the same
center, which we call infinity.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Jun 18, 2019
Jun 18, 2019 at 11:46 AM UTC
***you are leathered with residue
decaying the rust off your skin
with our initials crawling into
alabaster sheets that all I have really
felt while staring out at the streets
we're people fading by egotistical
lack of self confidence
even though I admit using
seducing strategies
possibly disgusted by my own
emotions
that I am placing ******
thrills on my own configuration
because it's humid and blatant
unkowling breathing ruthless sentiments
of our holy communion
I am splitting into a holy sin
drenched in blissful wartime rations
of water or passion
your cotton skin and these sheets
bold statements between white teeth
it’s all a fading mystery
you said I’m something childlike
your hands are stained cherry
and even if they were around my neck
I’d whisper your name like a vesper
simply waiting
for the day to come where it all fades
because you refuse to be a
young god
no matter how it seems to be
to me in all of my naivety***
Mar 11, 2017
Mar 11, 2017 at 7:44 PM UTC
After years on this earth, I have weathered and grown.
As a child, I did things, I had joy, love, and goals.
In early summers, my life was a canvas for scar tissue:
hot pebbles burned soft skin into calloused glory,
the sun beat down and leathered my skin,
chlorine and dirt turned my young hair to gray.
When I was young, I etched tunnels in my bones,
with crayon and marker, I forged deep ivory valleys.
Some see this as cruelty, a sad deterioration,
but this atrophy is experience, the catalyst of life!
Years later, I sit here next to a painted sunrise.
With jell-o, gray matter rots on my styrofoam tray.
I wish for the summer, hot pebbles, and crayons,
for the laughter of youth and its calloused adventures.
But I've retired, so I sit idly in this plastic wheeled chair,
watching monitors beeping with ebbing heart lines,
grieving for my gray hair as it turns back to brown,
mourning, as my unused bones fill with marrow to the brim,
watching, heartbroken, old age clutching my hand,
as my wrinkled skin smooths away.
Mar 28, 2018
Mar 28, 2018 at 11:39 PM UTC
Evening cleats The Bay,
As cavalcades of passive argon, sulphur on
the ogham slicks,
to treacle ways toward the seeding
cooling of the hours,...
The sleights of crimson, fringe
the bruising cower of the West, to
brightly die behind the leathered hill.
From a wrist of tallowed amethyst,
a Tiercel purls a last ellipse, and in
his sinking helix ships, the Sommes
of curdled estuaries, to brood
the closing Mill....
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 1:11 PM UTC
I was made for war
My hands are soft, my lungs are weak
I was made for war
I have no discipline, I live to feed my flesh
I was made for war
My mind………my mind………………
It still contains the coal
Hot, burning, aware, remembering that
I was made for war
My leathered soul, dust covered, grey still burns
I feel it whisper, because
I was made for war
Lord, Oh my Lord
Harden my hands
Open my lungs
Discipline my mind and
Teach me to starve my flesh
Because
I was made for war.
[Ephesians 6:12-13]
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 8:33 AM UTC
You are a traveler of the South lands
brown, a leathered skin coyote
desert walker of the Sonoran sands
crafty, black magic witch
a shaman, lucid dreamer
Yaqui Indian spell weaver
of visions, of paintings in the sand
mixing colors, peyote flowers
red, the melting of the aloe bowers
dark blood, the blooming agave towers
thick with snakes, the fire and hiss
that burns black of sacaton grass
the quiver and flash of flying sparks
igniting night, time traveling to the stars.
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 11:16 PM UTC
My tongue is leathered
vvith glory
an oral j u m p r o p e
in the darkness!
Joy!!!
might you trip
&& break a femur
to make a meal of yourself?
Once prepared
alongside the parsnips && carrots
I relish your eyes
&& make no apologies
for being
Don't be sad
to be svvallowed
Some
are not as lucky
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 2:09 AM UTC
I can't seem to understand
These happenings
Scraped and leathered hands
Wipe away the stinging tears
Of this ardous transformation
Saying goodbye to everything
That no longer
Feeds me
Pulling from my old, tight skin
Growing into
The skin I was meant to be in.
Jan 5, 2018
Jan 5, 2018 at 4:48 PM UTC
We are young, they say,
like the new stars forming,
like the ocean sounds adorning
sleep to the city dweller,
with his leathered face
but handsome pay.
He's exchanging the sirens
for a more rhythmic pace,
taking off his coat
and professional face,
to press you to the wall,
forgetting the Keats and the Byrons
that came before.
We are young, I'm sure,
despite having to crawl,
despite disappearing into
the city sprawl,
and returning half a person,
only memory intact,
and a stream of shutting doors.
You're giving up too soon.
Too soon a disciple of established fact,
too soon beguiled by
your own stage-lit act;
a smile worn, rather than felt,
a dress bought for him,
but never touched,
and for all of the hands
you may have dealt,
not a single one
has kept you young.
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 7:23 PM UTC
Seats sat around standing tables
void of conversation,
whilst waitresses danced around the homeless
clearing up their desperation with no fuss-
just a cloth wipe across the surface
and a smile to a lonely face;
hard wood walls closed in like
coffin-lid, coffin-hinged cases.
One man alone in the corner held hands with his coffee cup and looked up hoping for familiar faces.
And his finger snapped around the rim,
for this cup of coffee
was his only drink of the day.
And his fingers broke around its handle,
for this cup of coffee
was his wick and leathered-spine candle.
And his fingers melded to the cup,
because this cup of coffee
burnt like coughed-up cigarette butt-stubs.
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 1:13 PM UTC
Push and Punt
I wander where you are heading,
punching above your weight?
Sometimes resolvent
with a leathered face
where's the forgiveness?
like a two way mirror
it stretches both ways,
culpability I hear you opine,
when you kick the germane tin can,
if you had known the source
of your ails,
you'd have less of the turbulence
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 6:26 PM UTC
Being divorced is not very much fun
Two kids, no dad, life on the run
A king-size bed with two pillows
But she’s sleeping alone
On a whim she headed East to the West
The Cowboy convention in Tucson
With her new boots and hat
And old friend Laura Lee, wearing a vest
This Hollywood screenwriter has seen them all
Jive city slickers with cell phones and new cars
It had been so long since she’d really been kissed
Her love life needed a punch, it could not make a fist
Samuel Dawson was born on and still lived on the ranch
He rode fence, chased cattle, is one studley man
With a soft streak as demonstrated by his craft
He works wonders with leather, why it was art
He too was lonely, this singular man
He’d cleaned himself up since his wife went and made other plans
For he had deserved it, so he sat hoping to sell
Wishing he’d find that artesian well
Stop the action, let me set the stage
There he sits at his craftsman’s booth
Underneath the canopy in the hot afternoon sun
Here comes Rebecca meandering along
She lingers and fingers his feathered and leathered strands
He smiles and she notes his mustache and tan
They talk, she will not turn away
Laura Lee shouts, “Let’s get on the way.”
This is where the story begins
One cowboy love that has no end
She’s still a writer on fine TV shows
Sam is the wrangler, whom everyone knows
Loves a lady who fancies parasols
On hot Summer days, who now rides a horse
Who no longer leads a half-finished life
Where western handicraft is everywhere in sight
And their love is on course
Some don’t understand, some don’t want to know
But bridges are built wherever you go
Even on land with no river in sight
When a cowboy finds love he succumbs without fight
The ranch is now located in Southern Cal
The fence he mends is picket, see for yourself
For I know them, and please call me Sam
She’ll be home in a few, I’m her lover man.
Dec 16, 2016
Dec 16, 2016 at 2:15 PM UTC
I wish we named every rainstorm.
Hurricanes get everything, but
It's easy to have everything when
All you do is take.
I used to think that falling
Asleep was the same feeling as
Earthquakes shaking the grounds.
Don't get stuck in the chasm.
Washed up memories, shoe box
Chachkis, left untouched through the
Eye of the storm. Who knew these
Relics would follow you here.
Crying as the pouring rain stops
Is impossible.
All of the tears have been taken.
But rippling water is overrated.
Have you ever seen sand slide through
The Sahara Desert.
I've been there. I've seen it.
I watched as each minuscule grain slid
Down the valley ridges built from years
Of wind storms making piles.
Piles idiosyncratically stretched across its reddened face,
Maybe modeled by the smoldering surface of mars.
Lay down and let it wash across your leathered skin.
Sensations spreading, each nerve on every centimeter of you
Lighting up, marquee, competing with the hot desert suns.
A million dandelion spores dancing ballet.
Tip top, tip toes to a tarantella timing.
Buried under dunes, only too soon to
Uncover you once again.
You wouldn't believe how something
Solid can so namelessly float across the land.
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 3:21 AM UTC
Today, I miss,
The gunslinger in your stride,
Toting a bootfall, swagger laugh.
The plump of a whiskered cheek
Turned sunny side up
Harley Davidson pony tail,
Leathered up decorum,
Wild Child riding in on a heart of gold
Every now and then
When the cowboys seem so small
I think of you
Long shadowed against the platform of my childhood
Hear the faint whistle of John Wayne on the wind
Calling the memories up like
An Ole Spice bear hug
And the loss
Hits like a gunshot
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 11:14 AM UTC
when critique is about, the unsuspecting walk like peacocks, showing off the wooden dutch slacks of fear prior to criticism, forging a proof of god so debased that it would require the holocaust to have taken place.
- yes, this call is immediate, what's the severity?
- immediacy in all circumstances.
- sounds terrible.
- yep, blood in my **** too.
- ooh, dialectical diarrhoea?
- skidding at one hundred miles per hour with a popsicle swerve on the slurp.
- trafalgar sq. fountains?
- lions roaring in alabaster to the breaking of bony hinges.
- triage.
- can i see him face to face.
- no, you need to speak to him first via the triage telephone system.
- so he's the now receptionist and knows the daybreak slots with chemical compounds.
- no, thingy thingy, dum dum **** a toe, crackle fun pull a twig: we're
the receptionists, he prioritises the eventuality of a cancer advert.
- three quid down the drain?
- yes, we, the receptionists of the world will stand against the robotic onslaught!
- ****** on winter sledges.
- exactly.
- not exactly, you, receptionist, you jane, me tarzan, you book face to face, now.
- you tarzan, you straighten bananas.
- you jane, you book, appointment.
- you tarzan, you straighten bananas.
- you jane, you book, appointment, now.
- me jane, me receptionist, me on the conveyor belt of corn crop patched harvestable.
- me i.q.
- me one hundred and fifteen.
- face to face to farce.
- farce to bloke to pole.
- pole leaning on a pole.
- englishman eating a napkin.
- blackjack and ingredients for the pride of britain: vindaloo child.
- sloshed on a cricketeer's return.
- puns and cardamon cardigans of colour without scent.
- pushy apple sours coloured acid green without the mojo juice.
- spank that gimp ***** into a piglet.
- leathered up, boots on parole.
(who the hell is talking now?)
- i need to see the doctor face to face, i need my sick note to live on:
on brink of day in ultraviolet twilights, and drink.
- are you a banker?
- i'm a sick man, a beggar.
- we only provide sickness to the rich and famous.
- so what do i get?
- premature death.
- oh, can i have a bank account with that?
- oh sure, as long as you can accept debt.
- 5% like standard a.e.r.?
- no, 2000%
- so my debt interest will be crazy dizzy above my savings interest rate?
- yes.
- do you sell *** positive syringes?
- we're accommodating.
- thank you very much.
- thank you.
- goodbye morrow and marrow tight.
- bones ashore.
- **** all ahoy.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 8:58 PM UTC
i walk out the door and it's a living anti drug ad---- grannies in pink with scars up and down their legs, youth with big black glasses chewin' out their teeth chumpin' for my change to score, leathered out n' shot up tracked all all over ***** men swaying with grins beating their heads against walls calling for MORE MORE MORE... just one more score... skeletal grave home... street sleeping slums of lonliness
Sep 8, 2010
Sep 8, 2010 at 12:53 PM UTC
The walls are circling now,
Closing in around me,
And the demons push forward,
Sparring my sides.
I am surrounded.
Oh dove,
This is not your place.
Your freedom taunts me.
Why do you choose to witness such torture?
Exorcist,
You cast the leathered bats from me.
You, who watches me writhe
Utters spells and prayers,
And pulls me from my depths.
Oh dove,
I shall gasp water when you flee.
Jun 6, 2010
Jun 6, 2010 at 11:33 AM UTC