"pleat" poems
Side by side, their faces blurred,
The earl and countess lie in stone,
Their proper habits vaguely shown
As jointed armour, stiffened pleat,
And that faint hint of the absurd -
The little dogs under their feet.
Such plainness of the pre-baroque
Hardly involves the eye, until
It meets his left-hand gauntlet, still
Clasped empty in the other; and
One sees, with a sharp tender shock,
His hand withdrawn, holding her hand.
They would not think to lie so long.
Such faithfulness in effigy
Was just a detail friends would see:
A sculptor's sweet commissioned grace
Thrown off in helping to prolong
The Latin names around the base.
They would no guess how early in
Their supine stationary voyage
The air would change to soundless damage,
Turn the old tenantry away;
How soon succeeding eyes begin
To look, not read. Rigidly they
Persisted, linked, through lengths and breadths
Of time. Snow fell, undated. Light
Each summer thronged the grass. A bright
Litter of birdcalls strewed the same
Bone-littered ground. And up the paths
The endless altered people came,
Washing at their identity.
Now, helpless in the hollow of
An unarmorial age, a trough
Of smoke in slow suspended skeins
Above their scrap of history,
Only an attitude remains:
Time has transfigures them into
Untruth. The stone fidelity
They hardly meant has come to be
Their final blazon, and to prove
Our almost-instinct almost true:
What will survive of us is love.
8.8k
If you're gonna be lonely,
maybe learn how to cook.
Parade the smoke to the rafters
after doubting the book.
Alert the parents in vowing the earnest
salt in the brook.
A fervent effort relays to bacon kisses you took.
Brine is cheap,
and on days like this
find a Mrs. or friend,
apply the bread crumb crisp.
Buy the egg to allure.
confide that "this might miss."
If not to them to yourself.
Try the odd light whip.
Find a guide or a dozen.
Fire doesn't necessarily deny the pleasant after math.
Passable dishes levy comfort on cold nights,
dying for treasure dancing in the lights,
and forming function digging diamond from plastic wrap.
"I could serve a candied berry
pair it fairly cold below a lighter cream."
See the finer things elaborate below the theme.
Mise en place allowing,
yolk to heat,
folk wreaths are crowning.
Found a leek to brown,
found out what friends to feed can mean
Be the barer
taste your food
silk confections
social fruit
Buck the system
Find connection
tuck the mood in
ginger root
get your list out
pay it forward
take the order
grab a whisk
make an impact
Pleat the border
break the silence
wrap a gift
Oct 23, 2019
Oct 23, 2019 at 6:56 PM UTC
I now delight
In spite
Of the might
And the right
Of classic tradition,
In writing
And reciting
Straight ahead,
Without let or omission,
Just any little rhyme
In any little time
That runs in my head;
Because, I’ve said,
My rhymes no longer shall stand arrayed
Like Prussian soldiers on parade
That march,
Stiff as starch,
Foot to foot,
Boot to boot,
Blade to blade,
Button to button,
Cheeks and chops and chins like mutton.
No! No!
My rhymes must go
Turn ’ee, twist ’ee,
Twinkling, frosty,
Will-o’-the-wisp-like, misty;
Rhymes I will make
Like Keats and Blake
And Christina Rossetti,
With run and ripple and shake.
How pretty
To take
A merry little rhyme
In a jolly little time
And poke it,
And choke it,
Change it, arrange it,
Straight-lace it, deface it,
Pleat it with pleats,
Sheet it with sheets
Of empty conceits,
And chop and chew,
And hack and hew,
And weld it into a uniform stanza,
And evolve a neat,
Complacent, complete,
Academic extravaganza!
3.1k
the doom puke treacle of our dim sum sundays, asunderous.
the bluff of our taurus. the trim thumb, green on the terrace
of our epiphanies; wondrous.
the crease in the pleat of our borealis. the allusive chalice
of our majesty. the dead kingdoms we relinquish to the roiling unjoy.
the thunder of our feet to the heel of a shadow. our peter pan in the fire.
our kettles black.
the opposable lovelies. the lovelies that preen jewels. the extreme youth of our gods
now at the hour of our foolishness. our funny bone. and the fracture.
the actual damage to our heaven. and the near after.
the gross bloom of our anguish
and parade.
and the bells. and the comma. and the laughter.
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 10:24 PM UTC
I’m not a hideous wall flower;
school girl steam pleat, designer girl,
Nike or Jordon’s silly Preteen, air heads
I’m gifted, provocative,
I am the teen princess.
I able to fuss, blush and rebel,
I’m awkward, backward,
I am Peppy long stocking;
I’m all that!
I am teen of the pack;
I am not likely to turn back
I am your commercial, billboard cover story
Smarter than you can imagine,
I am passionate,
but a little old fashion, yet modern,
bold and witty,
Oh yes!
I’m so ambitious, super delicious, super fly
with an upbeat modernize Hollywood red carpet style
I speak in a youthful way;
that’s my urban thesaurus
I am not curse, the curse that invades your privacy,
sometimes, I am sluggish and downright lazy?
I am mommy baby and Daddy maybe
However, I’m no wall flower
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 7:11 AM UTC
Pleat, pleat, pleat,
Fix that drape,
Cantankerous petticoat,
Is all bent out of shape,
The mirror jeers,
That's a singularly inelegant drape,
What are you gawping at,
It's time to undrape,
Watch those ankles,
Stop dancing like an ape,
How hard could it be,
To simply undrape,
In walked Mum,
Her mouth agape,
Laughing uproariously,
Got me shipshape
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 5:48 AM UTC
Round and round and round I whirl
I exist to pirouette, to twirl.
A sea of jewels at my feet shimmer,
They twinkle, glisten, shine and glimmer.
A rich array of cherished treasure,
Of value far too great to measure.
I hear the music as I turn…
The only tune I’ll ever learn.
My pose is ever full of grace,
A smile is fixed upon my face.
My hair is twisted into a perfect pleat
My ballet points laced on my feet.
My pink tutu stands out starched and straight,
As I mechanically revolve, rotate.
My spinning trajectory gently slows
My jolting pivot draws to a close.
And I’ll stand stock still until rewound
To again start swirling round and round.
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 12:18 PM UTC
Through my lungs to my heart , smoked you like a volatile joint ,
Your love proposition , holding my impotent life at gunpoint.
As you embroided my life with lacerate scars of pain and deceit,
Which I merely clothed myself hemming my love pleat by pleat .
Stripping me down you flung me like half smoked cigarette ****
That’s when I knew you created that crater deep till my gut
But life is a drama backstaged with chances,
Once again it would rain on you a downpour of judgement,
Then ill be the sky to judge with a turbulent temperament.
I want the thunder to clap in approval and gain ,
The darkness to blanket my self inflicted pain .
But again you breathe I love you into the air …and I melt my life once again before you .. because simply I love you.
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 4:32 AM UTC
The city bus jostles down the street
On every other seat a *** rests
As I glance around I see shoes
Instead of bare feet.
As I glance around I see pants
Instead of shorts.
When I look down
I see my gladiators, fuchsia accented
When I look down
I see my ten piggies with coral paint
I ascend up to my loosely pleated
Polka-dotted, monochrome smock
Sliced in half by the strap of my
simple, salmon, cross-body satchel
Sitting ever so obediently at my hip
I reach to eliminate a treacherous itch
Feeling my perfectly formed pleat
A pleat adorned with a moss rose
Itching without disturbing a pleat
Is always a tricky task to undertake
I find myself asking if it's in my head
If it's floating through my mind
like the smoke of the mind altering substance
That floats through my brain
I glance around the stopped bus
No one is moving, we are stopped.
So why am I still jostling in my seat
Like the bus is jostling down the street?
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 8:43 AM UTC
*the man of light
knows darkness all to well
he possess sacred knowledge
of source
a living experience with in
radiant
and self effulgent
he knows all is permitted
in the acculturated labyrinths of mind
rooted in bias
and incalculable distortions
a hell house ride
constructed of warbled mirrors
Leprechauns gold
an abusement park
of crepuscular
subconscious ethers
and concertized form
on shape shifting sands
creativity gone mad
where time undoes all
its weary inhabitants worn
they are the color of sleep
attaining misguidance
oh the vacuous business
of guided meditations
through azure skies and verdant fields
while the certified uninitiated
whisper
their pale voices against sonorous winds
as if they could lever boulders with broken twigs
stone churches
gothic crosses
temples of man
monoliths to the imaginary
fantastical man god
re-pleat with beard and cock....how quaint
adulations and prostrations
to there man made deity
through myth that binds
group think
other directed
un-individuated individuals
like tribal ants
a world of shattered light
a white knuckle ride
on a spinning mud ball
yet who knows the secret
of the inner light
the illuminated door
the portal through which
Scottie will really beam you up
The man of the mystic light
in a darkened freakish world
is he not an inconvenience
like a mentor to the deaf dumb and blind
he is rarely recognized
almost never believed
the light is not a metaphor
the source that emanates all
although formless and self effulgent
it is not a religion yet all abide with in it
in the dark funnel of conceit
man turns everything into a noun
as if naming is claiming
when what he seeks is beyond
for it is a great dimension of another order
konx om pax
light in extension*
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 1:08 PM UTC
The legion of mine zeal for thee
Outreaches unknown boundaries,
No barbed wire to holdeth me back
Just a ( I loveth thee to mine mami) ( to mine love)
And a ( I needeth thee now) oh papi ( from mine love)!!!!
From the one I sit on hold....
Slang we shalt speaketh as peasants
But ourn amare richer than most,
To guide her by mine allegiance
To bathe with her in comet lighting toast...
Her jazzy sensual patois
To pleat me in mine king throne bassinet,
The queen to taketh mine angst
And lie me in a dream I canst forget.
She whispers deeply secrets
As mine ears perk in excite,
Her eyes burn voluptuous through mine
She comforts me at night!!!!!
I canst never tread off
From the only familiar ***** rose,
I've toldeth thee all long ago
We were past life amour's of long beginning show.
The asteroids we used as projection
To maketh ourn way here,
Yet now the earth's ending
We must return to infinate angel years...
Ourn Chronograph's don't telleth Pace's
Only ourn soul's affection for eachother,
As a monarch of the Luna atmosphere she is
Twas I was sent here to bring her back into her home
Mine arms.....
Mine eyes
Mine mind
Mine soul
Mine spirit......
Wherein she already knoweth she belongs!!!!
As tis
She was mine
Long before she ever kneweth it..
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 3:23 PM UTC
delicate folds into endless
creases, the wrinkles
in mother's hands. asking for
more, taking
& creating new faces
when you think the last of you is gone.
& though the world may
tuck away your
flaws &
pleat you into
origami stars,
take to the earth,
uproot the trees.
stand tall as your last in-
carnation,
become the called bluff
& bloom in the space
between sky
&
ground.
before you hit the earth,
become the bird that you
are & perch on
opportunity.
Aug 7, 2019
Aug 7, 2019 at 9:23 PM UTC
Raindrops descend, puddles form,
A stream engulfed, a river is born,
A course is set, the sea to reach,
Meandering ponderously to a far off beach.
The sea reclaims its myriad young,
Kidnapped by clouds, thunder-slung;
The storm is long past with calm all around;
Albatross glide, with a whisper of sound.
Seagulls circle, dogfish sleep,
Gannets dive and dolphins leap,
But black clouds return and lightning flashes
O'er storm-tossed seas, as thunder crashes.
Once more a stealthy cloud abducts infant water,
The sea's own offspring: a son ... a daughter;
The thief sets off at a wind blown pace,
The anguished mother unable to chase.
The criminal finds refuge in a partisan crowd,
A formless body in a vaporous shroud;
The cloud has no guilt, shows no remorse,
But heads inland on a predestined course.
A hill stands guard, like a customs post;
It stabs the guilty, but allows past the host;
The rogue cloud is ruptured, severed seam and pleat,
Releasing its captives and accepting defeat.
Raindrops descend, puddles form,
A stream engulfed, a river is born,
A course is set, the sea to reach,
Meandering ponderously to a far off beach ...
Mar 22, 2018
Mar 22, 2018 at 10:38 AM UTC
this thing called distance
we got it beat
for now every instance
can not be complete
experienced bluebirds
the tuff, the pleat,
down Rues, sidewalk words
…………………………………………
love walking with four feet
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 1:01 PM UTC
A seed found furrow in my brow
Awaiting harvest, hungers now
Through my fertile mind’s palimpsest
A vine breaks soil where memories nest
Pushing on with a writhing stem
From deep brown earth toward blue welkin
With nostalgic rays, a star unfolds
a leaf, a story, yet untold
Each bud a poem that’s yet to bloom
In flowered couplets for the moon
awaiting dawn, for petals pleat
to release a blossom’s fragrance sweet
And from one strand a spider weaves
a gossamer web on trembling leaves
to capture prey that seeks to read
Poetic verse among the weeds.
Plant and spider thus conspire
conscripting minds of like, inspired,
to sew words of thorns, that never wilt
till every bough, a bookshelf built
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 6:01 PM UTC
And I find myself seeing everything pertaining to her.
The sunset on seagreen waves reflects off the sand like her creamy white skin and ice warm eyes.
Some stranger’s smile in the park seems to glisten just as hers does when her rosy blood-drained lips spread so even.
A character from the TV screen seems to match her perfectly perfected pitch or create the same unthought delicate gesture that is more graceful than the ballerina’s pleat.
And I think maybe if I fill the utter corners of my heart and soul with these minute details of her mere existence I will become closer to her.
Closer to grasping her heart and her hand.
Closer to holding her soul and her face with mine.
But, it has occurred to me that no one person in the world can symbolize this woman.
No person in the world has her beauty and her rhythm.
And I can try all I can to be with her. Even when she is right next to me.
But, I know that I will never have her.
Because this woman cannot be had.
Dec 17, 2012
Dec 17, 2012 at 7:19 PM UTC
*in the house of poems
there are no words
only sheaths of rapture
color and puzzle cutouts
on an empty table
mute
composed of shadow thin
aching smoke ghosts
desires
aphotic and tender
twisting souls in labyrinths lurid
*** shake sweet inky *******
that turn earth
to pleasure domes
and shadows
like cimmerian children
in harsh judgment
******* on
purple night shade candies
burning incense and black candles
uncrossing energies foreboding
while subterranean crystals
refract burnished glows
pulsing blood diamonds
in sacred heart manias
throb with warm breathy kisses
on plates of ash
engulfing
a terrace of pink flickering tongues
drooling and biting
that turn mere pleasure
into inflammations of ecstasy
oozing creme de menthe saliva
where souls levitate and flutter
on bilious stained beds
copulating
being impregnated with verse
smelling of warm **** cauldron
fetuses curl
in their little crib's
and bubble tapioca lyric wrangles
afterbirths purged
poems emerge
like sand bars and palm tree islands
from
sopping woven tunnels
and
caress upturned poetic posteriors
dancing in glitter frilly word tutus
while torrid confessions
dreaded breakdowns
and resurrections
dress themselves in garments
of language re-pleat
quickened by eloquence
in the house of poems*
Jun 16, 2017
Jun 16, 2017 at 3:04 PM UTC
we've been perched on the hot seat
from this weather there's no retreat
a week of the sun pouring scorn
no wonder we're feeling so worn
day break confirms more of its beat
reprieve not coming to the pleat
air temps truly stifling of bleat
they're so draining our seared corn
we've been perched on the hot seat
summers not being a pleasant treat
consistent the burn of defeat
far too much of it did adorn
we await a cooler fall morn
to breeze in with a notice neat
we've been perched on the hot seat
Feb 10, 2018
Feb 10, 2018 at 7:07 AM UTC
In the house of poems
there are no words
only sheaths of rapture
color and puzzle cutouts
on an empty table
mute
composed of shadow thin
aching smoke ghosts
desires
aphotic and tender
twisting souls in labyrinths lurid
*** shake sweet inky *******
that turn earth
to pleasure domes
and shadows
like cimmerian children
in harsh judgment
******* on
purple night shade candies
burning incense and black candles
uncrossing energies foreboding
while subterranean crystals
refract burnished glows
pulsing blood diamonds
in sacred heart manias
throb with warm breathy kisses
on plates of ash
engulfing
a terrace of pink flickering tongues
drooling and biting
that turn mere pleasure
into inflammations of ecstasy
oozing creme de menthe saliva
where souls levitate and flutter
on bilious stained beds
copulating
being impregnated with verse
smelling of warm **** cauldron
fetuses curl
in their little crib's
and bubble tapioca lyric wrangles
afterbirths purged
poems emerge
like sand bars and palm tree islands
from
sopping woven tunnels
and
flow stone stalactites
as pink ballet pastries
with architected calves
caress upturned posteriors
dancing in glitter frilly word tutus
while torrid confessions
dreaded breakdowns
and resurrections
dress themselves in garments
of language re-pleat
quickened by eloquence
in the house of poems
Jun 17, 2017
Jun 17, 2017 at 4:18 AM UTC
There is too much
hardness in this life
too many knife-straight
utilitarian edges
offering too little
pleasure for the eye
and no comfort for the soul
Here and there
a bit of curviness
helps with balance
--slope of chair back
pleat of drapery
a table that won't
bruise your hip
as you stumble
around in the dark.
Not much but
better than nothing.
The poet, the painter
and makers of music
have a better handle
on soft creations
that wrap themselves
around you like
wooly comforters
or crack your heart
wide open with beauty
like being impaled by
shards of broken glass.
Eileen Auger
12/30/06
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 8:26 PM UTC
To my Mom,
Folded amid the pleat of your pleading phalanx
The polished stones perspire against the liquid
Metal. Pleasing among ladies the most placid
Alas the precious possessing them does not mix,
With the muzzled and mild-mannered muted muses
Or with mischievous ones pummeling the world’s walls
Grumbling in their baleful and poisonous houses
Masters of the sapphire which in their hands falls.
And binding the blessed garland along the long line
Of your blinding blazing gorgeous blond golden hair
I thus hope it is to you a fine and a fair,
Sign of a love whose ripeness has just bloomed like wine
This gift could be detailed the echo of a dart
That is, in this sole spring repeated by my heart.
Lyon, May 23, 2014
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 12:11 PM UTC
Steady was the motion
rpm ten fifty five in emotions
let that arrow finish me
on that day in twenty sixty three
They will fly to calm me
some of the brave will try to disarm me
but they know I am from the warrior clan
when the word is said.... all hits the fan
The silent and dead will walk the streets
not one word will be uttered
as in their ruffs of silver
with every fold a pleat to many defeats
Let the swords of honor never die
let light fill my eyes
we and ready and steady and waiting to go
from the darkest days of sweet wind rain sleet and snow
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Oct 23, 2016
Oct 23, 2016 at 7:32 PM UTC
Pennilessness shadows black
unemployment endless track
rails tie-er less lee when dumbly staring
overdrawn account issues
another clattering smack.
Income pleat undergraduate degree
contributed to the role of a sporadic employee
time to acquire handy dandy blues clues key
lost within vacillating undermining spree.
Mental state can be a precarious widget-like thing
directly at the whim of financial sliding swing
self-destruction demonic ring
courtesy of pauperism
delivers the destructive poisoned scorpion sting.
Immortal force of please hear my cry
provide support while
under the sheltering sky
steady (just out of reach)
sought income bolster up high
mirage vision brings transient delight
to this great (former
Civil War Yankee) supreme guy.
If no breakthrough I do not foresee
charity not for profit (but only prophet) I will bee
and this blurb carved outside my cave-like hovel
many moons and break of the day find me
imploring existential vagaries this baby boomer
sans middle-aged man who hankers to be free
thus though aye to be a schnorrer
who scrounges parking lots for scattered change
yet...decries blubbering the beggar's credo
write out a check and mail to me.
Philanthropic persons
may rightfully balk and get irate
at such brazen plea to squelch
ma pecuniary financial state
yet where the crossroads of mine future
most likely crop up which
would cause far a tete a tete
meanwhile, stoicism bids me wait...
For Godot, Curly, Shemp, or Moe
the stand-in for a Stool Pigeon
or even an odd antagonist
or protagonist dreamt
by Edgar Allan Poe.
Jan 20, 2018
Jan 20, 2018 at 3:48 PM UTC
Miller Moth
Promises were made
that dress of yours
yellow as a Miller moth
batting about the bulb
of a painted porch light
yearning on hanger
to caress a slope of shoulder
ride a swell of hip
bell the well-turned ankle.
Pleat and dart pooled about
first one foot
then the other
rose to lip
a halting smile of neckline
assumed an aspect
of sail gathered wind
sung vows in the rigging
where I madly batted
drawn, ensnared.
Oct 4, 2016
Oct 4, 2016 at 7:47 AM UTC