"oxfords" poems
We sit here at a small table
Our feet slightly touching
My pretty little blue dress
Your flowing white shirt
A pair of little, white high heels
A simple pair of black Oxfords
My small, pale hand wrapped around the tea cup
One of your hands encased mine while the other held a small tea cup
He smiled then said,
"It is funny that we are sipping on tea."
I pondered this for a moment then,
"Why is it funny?"
"You are more like a shot whiskey than tea."
But we just sat there sipping our tea
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 4:53 PM UTC
He said “Cult of Simultaneity”
in such a sultry way
it made we want to kiss him
in that “Gay guys are attracted to me”
sort of way.
An English major taking an
upper level history course
as an elective—
When he smiled at you
in one-on-one conversation
his Irish emerald eyes gleamed between
slits (as he squinted his eyes
in a merry, amiable way).
He wore silk dress shirts and vests
every day with pressed tapered
black dress pants and
gleaming black oxfords.
His well-trimmed red beard
enwreathing the doorway to his mouth
made his lips (full, lush;
I swear they were glossed)—
evermore tantalizing.
I gave him a cute nickname
that was just his name shortened
but with a y, like Jimmy
and Bobby and
I hope he liked it—
He spoke with such finesse
carefully enunciating every syllable
running his tongue smoothly
across his teeth lips and
the roof of his mouth
free of spit and stutter—
every phoneme imbued
with his placid charm,
I ate every crumb
with my eyes glued to him
across the classroom—
Vain and straight,
straight in vain.
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 5:11 PM UTC
A tough
guy still
his place
relives Spanish
Inquisition and
gossamer upwind
only prorogue
yesterday with
those Oxfords
on shoes,
shirt and
Otis for
trusty returns
easily now
a ghost
ware of
his Aberdeen.
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 4:56 PM UTC
i know there have been moments where you pulled yourself down the stairs just to collapse onto the kitchen floor
i know there have been moments where you repeated,
"i will most certainly not make it out of this alive"
and you wake up the next morning and make it an inch further
my dear dramatic girl
there is no fault in loving with all of your heart
you will grow up and know what each word he presses to your chest means
you will have an Oxfords Dictionary for every time he tells you he was just out late
but if you keep putting pieces of you into everyone who runs their finger over your lips
or tells you "forever" as if it hasn't already lost its meaning
you will lose yourself
do not let the world desensitize you to its contents
theres nothing more tragic than watching a romantic become a cynic
you are full of a quality you cannot let every boy that stops loving you when it's convenient take from you
you are truthful and forgiving
you are trusting
and whats left of your heart is safety-pinned onto your sleeve
your heart belongs to you alone and i know its been a while since you heard this, but
you are full without people miles away telling you that they think you'd look pretty without your clothes on
dust it off,
lie on the kitchen floor and remember what it felt like when you said
"i will most certainly not make it out of this alive"
for when you wake up one morning and forget how it sounds
to be despondent in love
do not let the world take you and spread you over people who push you to fill pieces of them they have lost in others
you are prevailing every time you whisper
"i love you, too"
Jul 6, 2016
Jul 6, 2016 at 4:57 PM UTC
We wore these SADDLE OXFORDS until our feet grew long.
They'd be passed down..and they were exceptionally strong.
Never has another shoe ever lasted so long.
Cannot wait til "Easter" to get new ones black and shiny
With buttons or a buckle, or a cute little bow.
By xmas a nice pair of boots were good to go.
Durability and warmth were the style you would get.
Cry all you want - Santa was not kidding.
Said: " all you get are those boots,because all year you've been fibbing".
- That's the day I Kicked Santa to the curb.
Started selling"GREETING CARDS" I was not perturbed.
Bought my own shoes, never again to be disturbed.
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 1:22 AM UTC
“I conversed with you in a dream.”
Sappho’s fragment 134
"He said 'no worries,'" she said
when she hung up. "I love when people say that." quaint little town,
they say of us – quaint little smile, I
say of her.
"When you drink, i..." another plantative little contest the context
ringing and you can tell that the "i" is not a proper noun.
"Were you alone?" it surmounts up and climbs down the treacle gavels of sensibility
this question suggests concern.
and a boy who wants to have *** with me calls me kitten. His hair is brown.
Two conversations at the same time:
"Where I'm from, twenty a gram's a ripoff!"
Standard prices.
and
"Princess, if you were my girl, you'd always walk funny."
The ice is
thin under my oxfords
the murk of my conversational devices
Lake bottom:
vices.
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 7:33 PM UTC
A young woman stands on the corner of the street.
She leans slightly to the left,
and wholly places her body against the brick wall.
An unlit cigarette is caressed beneath her gloved hands.
Snow falls and brushes itself against her black boots
as if it were a cat asking to be scratched behind the ear.
Her warm breath conceives a chilled cloud of smoke with the frigid air.
A man walks from behind her right shoulder.
He holds a collection of daisies and moves slowly.
His oxfords progress as if they are reaching a bus stop.
His black coat reaches his knees and matches the young woman's -
it fits tighter on her.
He places a hand in his pocket,
removes a sterling silver lighter,
and places it in the palm of her hand.
He rests his freezing fingers inside her embrace -
the leather feels like his armchair at home -
his only escape from anything other than solitude.
The young woman smiles,
lights her cigarette,
and allows the nicotine to coat the inside of her body.
A red lipstick shaded deeper by violets
stains itself on the cigarette.
The man holds his hand open and aloof.
The young woman dances her thin fingers around his stout ones.
The cigarette finds its new home.
The young woman smiles.
The man walks away,
carrying her bouquet.
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 11:40 AM UTC
Well hey babe, don't you look cool
You've got your spiffy clothes,
Your e-cigar, and you're good to go
Hey babe, you look so great
You've got on those ridiculous mom jeans,
And you're running on fumes
Hey babe, looking reeeeaaaal good,
Your hybrid can't go up hills but,
"Hey, I'm saving the earth!"
You can't keep up with these
Hipster habits
Tricks are meant for kids you,
Silly rabbit
You can't save the world,
You're just a silly girl,
Your life is not a trend.
Your cat pics are going viral
You've built a record player,
And you've turned tumblr into a bible
There are these clear men-wear inspired oxfords that you've "Gotta have!"
Shopping at goodwill can only get you so far,
Especially when you filled yourself with angst that's outdated.
It's not even like you're brooding in a bar
You can't keep up with these
Hipster habits
Tricks are meant for kids you,
Silly rabbit
You can't save the world,
You're just a silly girl,
Your life is not a trend.
And you could write me a strongly worded letter,
but don't make any mistakes dear, because your typewriter's not that clever.
I'm reading articles about appropriation,
And learning how to join the "body posi nation"
I dyed my hair white
And my paelo weight watchers points are out of sight!
Your Essie polish doesn't match your insta feed,
Oh look you've made a hipster out of me.
We can't keep up with these
Hipster habits
Tricks are meant for kids you,
Silly rabbit
We can't save the world,
We're just a silly girls,
Our lives are not a trend.
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 12:59 AM UTC
Ian was an only son,
Tethered by his mother's eyes.
He had a head of curls,
The envy of my sisters.
His skin shone like pearl onions,
His shirt buttoned like a zipper;
His shorts were knee high
With creases sharp as glass,
That matched his upper half.
His oxfords polished blue-black.
He stood on our sidewalk,
Looked indifferently at our house,
Looked skittish as a mouse
At enticing cheese.
As he approched our walkway,
Her eyes snapped.
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 8:43 AM UTC
Dye my hair black and drench my lips in venom red.
Snag a ticket at the bus station in town and watch the country fade away in a blur
Slither off the bus with clasped fingers around one suitcase with both hands reaching towards the gray skies, trying to tickle the glowing Citgo sign
My oxfords slapping the cobblestone as I run down the alley, blades of hair slapping my face with each stride.
I scream only once while running, I scream for freedom
I scream for Boston
May 22, 2011
May 22, 2011 at 7:19 AM UTC
there was a tiny girl
who lived in a shoe
she had so much footwear
she didn't know what to do:
itsy-bitsy teensy-weensy
sneakers and pumps
and microscopic oxfords
that made her heart jump
the little clogs she wore
were custom-made in france
they went well with leisurewear
like her blue capri pants
she loved her ballet slippers
(the ones that did not pinch)
and preferred stilettos with heels
a sixteenth of an inch
her favorite choice of footgear
was a gift that could not be hipper:
a resplendent miniature pair
of magical ruby slippers
and she looked quite lovely always
wearing a minuscule diamond crown
and was the belle of every ball
as she twirled in her wee princess gown
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 1:31 PM UTC
Across,
In amongst a crossing,
My oxfords met yours.
My trench coat entrenched
Itself into yours.
We grabbed for the same newspaper,
And I found myself peeling
Off my smile
And handing it to
You.
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 11:22 PM UTC