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Send me a letter on cream linen stock,
written in cursive in handwriting fine.
With ink from a bottle, and a fountain pen sharp.
Seal it with wax and your signet ring’s sign.

Build me a desk of strong walnut and ebony,
filigreed with gold and with mother of pearl.
Joined without flaw, and with handles of iron,
and legs shaped like lion’s, each paw in a curl.

Roast some wild boar on a spit on a fire,
with figs and wild plums, some thyme and rosemary.
Tell me a tale of legends and heroes,
of magic and myths in the land known as Faerie.

Take me away from the plastic and gasoline.
Take me away from the tv and memes.
Let’s live somewhere else, anytime we can get away
from this place, doomed to darkness, to the truth in our dreams.
What a voice
An adoring grin
Like cotton tucked into linen
Warm hazel eyes
Welcoming sunsets in
A laugh
Like blooming jasmine
From October’s touch
To March’s kiss
A touch
Of drizzled honey
Warmth by a cup to sip
A smile
Like a spoonful of peanut butter
Grasped by the hands of a child
Hair
Messy and soft
Arms
To pull me in by the waist
Soothing and pure cheer
In your love.
                  Sincerely, B.
A pillow's kiss.
Ken Pepiton Nov 2018
Ya'll recall a devil went down, to Georgie, I believe it woz…

Well, that idea,
it comes up now, and then,

we have to pop it.
that is our duty, what we do, we pop
particular bubbles when they surface, it's included in the service, involve meant, on your part,
or role as you may say, non-quest.
Such bubbles, as evil as have ever been imagined,
do arise, from time to time.
This time we always pop them, it is our honor,
as agents of the I'll go rhythm that
makes us even imaginable,
in the first place.
… it's about self-government…
such bubbles emerge,
as they always do because nothing is hidden that
hasn't been known,

otherwise,
life would be un fair, and it's not, it's fair, beauty-filled
in every
crack and crevice and encrusted scabby festering

wound wound in linen,
white linen,
as cold
as the clay, that song, you must recall that,

that was your destiny, young outlaw, you saw it,
that's why
you took you guns to town, boy.

Life's about choices.
Christmas means the anointed message.

What does anointed mean, on the street,
what do people think Christmas,
I mean
anointed message
means? Jahknowaddamean.
I think I am living a long ago fantasy of starring in a Christmas Movie starring a Jesus my age watching the holidays unroll in 2018.
Occipital lobes, striated tendrils; clipped
Flowers made from sound
painting sunlight out of bounds
The clink-clink of conversation falling from
God rocks
The cabernet stains on the linen tablecloth
Her crooked tooth, the evolutionary pause from
Poetry
My heartbeat keeps Time returning
To its perch;
Medications, like territories, disputing imagination
for her smile unearthed
Lewis Hyden Dec 2018
Whirr. Click.
A gentle strum
Hums into play.
Vzzzzt. More clicking.
A quiet buzz, a crackle,
And a tune.

As if a choir
Had gathered in my
Tape recorder, chiming
The sweet air.
A click between each
New sheet. Linen,

The scent of
Carved wood, a little
Scrap of denim, fixed
To the brim. New
Sound cometh with
A little kiss, like Mum.
I wish I still had my old tape player.
YOU
A ten-year-old boy and his two brothers up in the cerro for three months during the rainy season, with their herd of goats. You camped inside a little house made of rocks with a roof of large leaves and every so often you or one of your brothers ventured down the mountain to your mother’s house to bring back food.
You who as a teenager helped your family keep bees. I wonder how you have managed to live in a city for 30 some years. How you have become accustomed to the L.A morning commute. HOW.

ME
I have outgrown the linen tops you bought me as a child
but not running barefoot & spreading my toes in the mud.
I still like to climb the trees, and lay on the grass and if
I ever find a bee indoors I cup one palm over the other, and take it outside.
Me who as a teenager helped you plant the tomatoes, cut the pumpkins and who’d run outside to snip some leaves from the cedron for tea. How do I live in a city again? How do I breathe deeply enough to find the traffic on the highway “ another” part of life? HOW.
tinhearts May 2018
Holiness
liken unto a rose.
shy.
afraid to open.
feelings need to blossom.
one petal at a time.
trying to keep composed.
opening more each day.
realizing that each day is a new
dawning.
filling the air with a scent.
never to be forgotten.
heaven is in the midst.
Truth within petals intervening
all bringing a beauty of their own.
as the twinkle in each child’s eye.
it only takes a glimpse.
to realize.
where the true heaven lies.
innocence so pure.
hearts of precious white linen.
never a spot unsure.
this is the way.
never questioning the fact.
love.
the rose.
will always open.
alive like a candles flicker.
knowing we are all taken care of.
just as the sparrow.
knows that God will provide.
taking one day at a time.
thorns part and bow.
fulfilling it’s purpose.
abide and know.
as long as the tide.
continues it’s ebb and flow.
so are we.
rising with the glory in us.
being illuminated each day
until finally.
we are one love.
In Jesus.
eternally.
*
tinhearts~©️
JJ Hutton Nov 2018
Zigzag the stitch
and rub a little jelly

rickshaw fresh
mama to baby

turnstile linen and
swaddle

good times
soon to follow

simulcast the
charged circumstance

mother, verdant
mother, vessel
mother, hollow

forecast past
the sleepless
and bloodless

fixate on
first steps, first days,
first sorrows

dumbfounded fully
by where it all started

adulthood summoned
by a little ****** and folly.
Alexa Oct 2018
and there were days when your kisses left hot imprints on my skin, smoldering.
     i would shove my head under covers and hope to keep the glow effervescent, my fingers tracing the pieces of you left in me.

a deep sleep would try to pull me through soft linen, it whispering
      "chase dreams here and not while you're awake."

but a hum in ears and a missing dip in a mattress,

cloth pressing against my skin, wrapped around my ankles:
a reminder that you were still not there.

and now i still shove my head under covers, chasing a heat that envelops the places between my thighs and shuns my feet from frost-

yet,
I can never find the warmth that you'd provide.
Mike Hauser Sep 2018
Hello Mom, I'm lost here in IKEA
It's been fun but I may never see you again
They say the arrows point the way
but they've been pointing the way for days
Swedish Meatballs, the only saving grace there is

In the linen section, I've been circling for hours
Waiting for landing instructions from the tower
As big as this place there has to be a runway
In a fog, quickly running  out of power

At a later date, I finally make my way
At the seventh gate, I see Dante wave
As he's pouring over plans assembling a pair of white nightstands
I'll come back and check on him in a few days

In housewares, there are too many cooks in the kitchen
I look around and see something here is missing
The main ingredient, food...still waiting for those meatballs dude
In that special sauce that does more for a man than just glisten

I should have known the way the front door ****** me in
I'd never see my family and friends again
As I wander through the halls of prefab furniture at low cost
My days of sanity are quickly drawing to an end
And even with IKEA's plans, I'll never be put back together again
Carter Ginter Jul 2017
You
You are
The smell of laundry
But not that cheap linen candle smell
It's a mix of detergent and something else
Something I can't place
Something so,
you.

And when I think of you
My heart does acrobatics
Flying through my chest fearlessly
As if the strings could never break
Even though they can
And they might
But right now it's all you.

You ignite something inside my soul that I forgot existed
When we are together
I am beyond aware of myself
Because every nerve is screaming
Because I want to touch you
And I don't mean ***
You are worth so much more than that

I want to feel your soft hand in mine
As I memorize the feeling of each line
I want to hug you for hours
As if time were at our disposal
I want to run my fingertips across your skin
Trying to figure out where it's been broken
And giving extra attention to your scars
Because they're a part of you
And they're beautiful
I want to feel everything I do
Without this fear and confusion
I want to make you happy
You deserve that more than anything

But I'm afraid to hurt you
I've dug myself into a hole
And I can either keep digging to uncover my feelings for you
Or I can return to the comfortable light of my routine
But I think we both know
That comfortable isn't always right
you're going to
accidentally switch
our socks —
wear my navy blues
instead of your black ones.
across blue, white
and warm wooden tables
at restaurants,
we will make
inside jokes
for a lifetime.
in one of our summers
you will get yourself
many linen shirts
and i am
going to be
pleasantly
surprised.
didn't think
you could look
even more
breathtaking.
there will be succulents,
coffee cups on the floor,
and some jobs
that we will complain about.
writer's blocks,
a few mid-life crises
and arguments about
what we need from life.
there will be a lot of life.
moments of
"i can't believe how happy
i am"
times,
staying home
eating fancy ramen
and listening to
Take On Me
over again,
and loving
every bit.
and across tables,
midst writer's block,
inside jokes
and coffee,
i'm going to
fall in love
with you
a little bit.
someday,
years later
you're going to
accidentally switch
our socks
again —
navy blues to black.
and we'd
never know.
Euphie Dec 2018
Today, I woke up this morning wanting to kiss you.
I have a thirst to caress you underneath
white linen sheets.

While entangling our legs together
like threads of a wicker basket.

I want to stare at you, ignoring
the minutes that go by.

I want to trace your image deep into my memories.
In my mind, I want to accentuate
your eyes, your hands, your lips, and kisses.

I’m enchanted by the way
you hold me sweetly.
Your humble soul sends
sweet signals up and down my body,
causing butterflies to flutter in my stomach.

We have different ideas,
however, you are always in my mind.
But my heart enjoys being by your side.
All the goodness in me blossoms
and tingles inside me like Baby’s breath.
Sam Bowden Mar 13
In a rush and dash,
you left the bustling and thoroughly coursed New York streets,
paved smooth by the administrators of your newly proclaimed home.
There I stood,
as I watched the Lyft carry you north,
as if on a cloud,
away from me.
And here, I find myself:
having left behind the sun and surf and sandy roads of my home,
which seemed so narrow but always felt a place rich with possibility.
Having left behind too, the parochial, working-class life of my forebearers, in search of something more.
In a city, foreign and yet familiar to us both,
we caught a glimpse of one another on a chilly night in November,
that sweet, sweet November.
Miles from the places we used to call home, Tehran, Bloomington, Boston, Philly... Nashville, Tampa, Chicago, New Brunswick,  
gone are the comforts of our mothers' kitchens and fathers' protection.
You, gracing the tiniest grain of sand with your presence as you carry your doctorates on your breast pocket,
and your mother's dreams in your hands...
Me, occupying the academy,
without rhyme or reason but ever searching for the latter.
Against the winter's breeze,
your tempest of black hair flows in the wind,
fluttering around your face like the Whirling Dervishes,
making me lost in the ecstasy of the Divine.
Clad in black,
and with no adornments nor jewels,
save the crimson lining your lips...
to my eye, your beauty has nowhere to hide.
And on that night, I breathed it in,
even as your mechanical chariot carried you away from me with deliberate haste.
A brisk wind caught my back, pulling me back to the pavement,
though as I strolled my mind drifted like dandelion seeds blown to the wind...
Back in Tehran, long faces wrapped in linen would grow despondent,
if only they knew my thoughts of you.
Sure as the pious, I knew:
a splendid love story began between us that night,
propelled by the tenor of laughter,
and the strike of piano keys,
and the belted lyrics of strangers sharing merriment well into the small hours.
My romanticized childish hopes swelled that night,
that a heart engulfed in a forlorn sea might make acquaintance with such a passionate soul...
As I strolled back to Harlem,
I couldn't shake the thought of your dancing silhouette next to me,
the feel of your hair around my fingers,
the warmth of your jean-clad leg pressed into mine,
the strength of your hand atop my thigh,
nor the magic of your smile which could spark the ire of miscreants
or calm the rumblings of a tumultuous sea.
Sure as the pious, I knew:
This was the beginning.
And only the beginning.
Suns rise and sink,
the moon melts and grows;
So too does our love.
Days and nights have since past,
ever spent caressing one another,
while the wheel of fate spins a web of love around us.
Tucked away in our cocoon, we are,
away from the eyes and envies of the world.
Resplendent in your timeless beauty, you are.
Know that the gentle kindness between us will never fade.
Know that the thought of catching your gaze,
even if only just once more, sustains me,
And it always will.
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