"pleats" poems
I hear a wind whispering from the hills
It comes down tickling the woodland rills
From far is heard the frightened murmur of leaves
As it pounces on them like wayside thieves
It shakes the branches of flowering trees
And their weak petals drop like confetti in the breeze
Over hills and trees it loves to skip and stray
Always in motion, never inclined to stay
It moves unhampered over streams and field
With no resistance to its might, they simply yield
Like a child, it romps over the sloppy meadows
In its gentle touch, dances the gleeful flowers
It skillfully pleats the blue chiffon of the ocean
Sometimes curling waves in electric motion
Over the sea it runs puffing up the sails
And over the sky heaping clouds in bales
Sometimes it steals furtively like a lover
And disappears kissing our cheeks under cover
Often it comes capering with a lilt and a swing
We feel delighted when we hear its merry song
Like a nomad, the wind roams from place to place,
Hiding its mysterious presence from our glance
From an unknown hide out it comes like a spirit
But always making us feel its vigorous might!
At times it gains force and roars like a beast
Felling trees and wreaking havoc with its twist
In rampage, it sweeps the sea and the ground
Triggering sparks of fear and horror all around
Oct 27, 2017
Oct 27, 2017 at 9:43 AM UTC
In her closet next to a shirt
hangs a concertina pleated skirt
she slips it on with grace and ease
the tiny pleats are there to please
like a million shimmering crystal shards
all tightly pressed like a pack of cards
as she moves they sway and dance
upon her legs they tickle and prance
the feeling makes her smile and shiver
which makes the pleats start to quiver
they skim and flatter her hips and ***
like the majestic rays of a rising sun
such carnal delights found in a skirt
as she hangs it back next to the shirt.
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 6:54 PM UTC
With Good Business brewed is Good Business told
Confirmed the New Mentor who taught us well
Such swig a Sterling Medicine behold
But knowing our Skills his Avid Trust spell
Forsought this Blue Trade our Clients rely
Was that our Webbed Gifts can reciprocate
That within those Months our Service apply
To increase the Bank's volume aggregate
Such now our Eagle wears; Tri-Coloured Schemes
Weaved in pleats forth to Genious unique
And if we can prove to maintain those Seams
Will he be Proud of our Learning oblique.
Once that's done, to the Pub he tips his Zest
All the more content our Minds would not guess.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 2:29 AM UTC
avenue sounds are never agreeable, ignore the drift,
ignore the hum,
ignore the suburban neophytes in the city lights (I never did care much for hipsters).
ignore rapid eye movements, the flush red face, ignore the snapshots of you that adorn my semi-sleep state
I stare at my ceiling and see the cobblestone summer streets you once graced, long ago in the eternal occident, I want to ignore but I’m so very boozed, in a blue lucid slumber:::
eyes closed::: my head spins and sleep begins with the tidal delirium of dopamine drips, your legs, your hips, I’m drowning a bit, doused in a sanguine sweat inside a fantasy **** I’m dreaming of you**)
Synaptic friction
she is a pleasant fiction
flash/sparks segue a dormant memory ,
the two of us riding familiar highways::: she gazes at me with her usual emerald encased ocular torment, those limbal rings cast aspersions at the last vestiges of my will power, until, I’m done, done in by the divinity of her lips:::
There is no end to (your) energy
It even finds me here::: in my dystopian dream (eternal)
now
an inescapable, **myopic curse
(nocturnal)**:::
the nightmare of not having you near
Awake, I roll over to clutch for the pacifier of your comfort (violent midnight)
I find only a fragrance,
i flail, searching, when those flashbacks fall short
isolated into the banality of bedsheets and pillows pleats
(the retrograde nature of my reality, now readily apparent)
cdh
Jan 22, 2019
Jan 22, 2019 at 12:28 AM 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
My father's long fingers smooth
over the aged scratchy pleats.
The Kilt is magnificent. It has the
fleeting beauty that only a well
kept antique has, that warm
firelight glow of the past.
It has a few scuffs and holes,
but the somber reds and greens of
clan Mackintoish have settled into
the cloth and darkened pleasantly.
The kilt is always the most important detail,
it has passed from grandfather down,
and it looks as handsome now
as in the sepia photographs on our shelves.
The dirks black ornate hilt rests
heavily against his hip, and the
belt is cinched tightly to hold it up.
you can practically hear bagpipes
My grandfather's dark green cotton socks
sit near the top of my father's calf
and he leans over to adjust the frills.
And as his tan wrinkled brow furrows
in concentration, and his admittedly
attractive white whiskers scrape
across his collar, and the image
nears completion, the drum beats louder.
Reaching up from the ancient past
and grasping the future in tradition,
the ghosts of ancestors enter his poise,
and he suddenly appears less like
my father and takes on the swagger
of a cocky fisherman, of pirate.
He is swinging swords
and playing pipes, and cobbling, and
setting stones upright in ancient
forgotten ritual, and tossing cabers.
I know looking at him now,
what my own ghosts will be
when my time comes.
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 8:16 PM UTC
~
Painting a picture of porcupines playing
Pincushions out in the field
Purple and pink for this playful perception
Plans of their purpose revealed
Painful endeavors of pacified pranksters
Presenting a pie at their place
Pecan or pumpkin, pickle, pineapple
Pieces are smeared on their face
Putting the paint on some powder puff paper
Pleasure in each stroke is plied
Pausing to peer at the porcupines playing
Prancing in pansies they hide
Puzzling problems with pretzels and peanuts
Posturing people to prove
Pistachio perfume in prime presentation
Preaches that peaches will move
Polishing pastels on pre-printed pages
Prized the possessions we seek
Paisley the plumes of a peacocks posterior
Portraits now come take a peek
Pampering piccolos play the piano
Pure as a pelican’s prayer
Picking a parcel of plum flavored pudding
Poetic prose fills the air
Pleats in my pants shout in proud proclamation
Puddle my pores they perspire
Poodles on playgrounds prevent prosecution
Plotting my hearts pure desire
Passion precedes every past tense of parting
Piled with a presence so true
Painting a picture while purposely dreaming
Promising my love to you
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 4:21 PM UTC
Under the spread hazel's winter
umbrella hung with pale catkins
pulling at a black bin liner rubble
spilled, a little toad tumbles free
from under in turmoil of warty limbs.
A toad in this garden where is no pond
found a moist pocket of plastic pleats
and a larder of wood lice in the rotted
pile sits on my palm calm as a buddha
thoughtless, yellow-eyed, unidentified.
Later, returning for forgotten secateurs
he drifts down in the water *** I let in
to the ground, trailing a bubble stream,
an olive green indifferent nature god.
The lordly stars sustain his crawlspace.
Jun 4, 2011
Jun 4, 2011 at 2:12 AM UTC
One Sunday
On one of our many births
We
must become the Pappa and Mamma
of an ancient Nazrani tharavadu.
I will go in the morning
And return with
A kilo of beef meat
With bones
Two kilos of tapioca
And may be also a *** of toddy
From the toddy tapper.
While I slice the meat
You will crush the coconut mix
In the grinding stone.
I will come, now and then,
And wipe my face
In the chatta and mundu
Draped folds of yours.
Go away you shameless man
You will dub
The slogan of a coy mistress.
Meanwhile
I’ll drum quick rhythms
On your buttocks
Graced
With pleats.
The kids will see
You’ll repudiate, with your eyes
With the sun
Our bodies also will get warmer
Drops of sweat
Will make studs
On your
Nose.
With the fold of
My chequered mundu
I will wipe them off.
The sun will grow warmer
The toddy inside
Will simmer
In our bodies
An insatiable hunger will torment.
The aroma of
The beef curry with the coconut mix
That you cooked
Will drift into my nose.
Unable to control the craving
I will pick
Tapioca pieces from it and eat.
The hot bits will smolder my tongue.
“You Glutton”
You will then
Whisper to my ears
By the time I wash my hands and sit
Calling out to the kids
And you, to come for lunch
The 12.30 bell will ring in the church.
From that unexpected
Sunday
Which we spent
Stingily
We will set aside
Some memories
for the next creation.
Trans: Shyma P
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 9:41 PM UTC
Disquietude
Rustle my mind
Iron out the creases
Left me with nothing
But perfect pleats
I can't bear to understand
And flat surfaces
Lacking the wrinkles
Of chocolate
Of stories
Of moments
Maybe of passion
Maybe of clumse
Maybe of sadness
Then again
Doesn't no wrinkles
Tell the story of
A perfectly ironed shirt
A moment
A story
Maybe of passionate ironing
Maybe of clumsy ironing
Maybe of sad ironing
Who am I to judge this shirt-mind
Perhaps
The ironing
Is chocolate
In and of itself.
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 4:44 PM UTC
Her smile held my hand
As I led her up the grand staircase
She pulled on her pleats
And carefully took her place
To be gazed upon and worshipped
Buttressed by my approval
A saint of ****** desire
She could not foreshadow her removal
As the glow of my delusion shines
She is unaware
Assuming her immortality
Cloaked by the intensity of my stare
Unspoken words are felt
She believes she has been pardoned
Mere beauty enough
For her heart had softened
Soon she paces
Back and forth in her discomfort
As for a moment
She lost her golden support
I dared avert my eye
To live if only for a moment
Alone and in control
Yet it only caused her torment
Her angelic eyes turned red
Her ***** sighed
Suddenly she realized
Her subject had lied
It was not eternal love
Or forgiving grace
Instead it was seduction
In his hands he held lace
As long as she was pretty
And demure in his presence
She could live on as a goddess
While faking its essence
What happened?
How did she lose control?
Assuming her power
She failed to see what he stole
Yes the princess
Has given her virtue
To an artful lover
Who pretended to be true
Her mistake
Was failing to heed his writ
Don't mistake my kindness
For weakness of the spirit
My power to love
Can be removed at will
As long as you are worthy
It will remain still
Spoiled by her parade
The queen commands
Her subject turns away
And begins making plans
Removing the grand staircase
He prefers an indelicate fall
The music has stopped
It is the end of the ball
Shocked to be so discarded
Once prized now yesterday's refuse
Devastated by her turning fate
She lives as a recluse
The Monarch
Sheds it's wings
Crawling back to her cocoon
Solitude the sadness to which she clings
The gaze is empty
He rises from his knee
Turning to another
She hears his heart plea
Take my hand
And mount my pedestal
Let me worship you
He smiles as she becomes ornamental
Another glass to break
Another jewel to steal
His passion unending
As the conquest is greater than what he feels
Feb 8, 2012
Feb 8, 2012 at 10:43 PM UTC
The ancestral diet of Stars, being Other Stars
has left no scars, save open black and yawning vast.
No retrograde Oblivion... only galactic swirls
and elastic Space between worlds. that never last.
and Eternity.
my modernity nips and pleats my yellow teeth
after long whitening by paste and bristle. i chew the gristle
of the dead sow
and club the weaning pups of Cerberus
with an eyelash and a long blink.
i tread the narrows, flatly -
and conquer the quizzical conundrums
by simply asking.
My Rocket Science... laughing
at your grecian urn
to paint the herrings red.
i'm out of my depth.
but yes means 'yes' and we ' no' it.
if Nothing else.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 10:32 PM UTC
Coming undone from the strings in my throat
that say a little too much or a little too little
They don't know their Femalien place,
in this masculine **** race-
So with raw heat boiling from the pit of my genitals
and dew drops glistening on my *******
is it possible that we females are maybe playing the maleful jest?
At best, could a man see that he takes not
what he owns not
and what he owns not-
Is Everything.
But oh,
no no no no-
no no no no no no no,
you're a big man
with your big purply veined ****
coming out of your ears
and vomiting your man juice from your mouth,
don't you feel like a big man now?
As I slip between your skinny pleats
your manly desire,
your teeny weeny *****
and swim about the valleys of your frothy tongue-
I'll get the flooding of your wallet
the more I scream "oh yeah baby,
I want you to *** *** ***
Yet as so far as real love can be concerned
real love does not exist here and in return
it is rain rain rain.
Heavy ******* rain on the blank canvas of your face.
I'll paint a pretty picture with your blood,
you could stick your detached eyeballs
in the mud
and we'd be happy, if only you lost those ears-
pesky things, I'd rip and tear,
tasty treats, your biggest fear,
to be a deaf and blind man
with a women in your wake-
or in your way-
or leading you-
You are not sure.
But ****
it terrifies you-
To the core.
Nov 1, 2010
Nov 1, 2010 at 10:05 PM UTC
While the other children were content
To play jacks and skip rope
She preffered the company of the old oak tree
Towering in the back corner lot of the schoolyard
She rested against it's mighty trunk
Basking in the cool shade she loosened her bonnet
Only the toes of her patent leather shoes
Catching beams of wavering sunlight
As they arched through the rustling leaves
A sweet song of a robin whistled amongst the branches
As she smoothed the pleats of her dress
A leather bound book at rest on her thighs
It's jacket so familiar and a comfort to the touch
The scent of it's brown and curling pages
Reminding her of late winter nights by the fire
When her grandmother's kind smile shone so brightly
As the flames from the hearth danced in her eyes
While she spun the girl one of her many stories
As deftly as her fingers could pull stitches
From a mountain of patchwork piled on her lap
The chiming of the bell marked the end of play
And she shook herself from her daydream
Dusting off the errant leaves and grasses
She lined up at the entrance to the courtyard
A sweet smile forming on her lips
Though a measure of sorrow still lingered in her heart
A bittersweet mix both of pleasure and mourning
Her spirit pining for the solace of those precious days; of her past
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 9:58 PM UTC
I caught you with your dark side peeking past your pleats,
I saw it like a clear sky, when the mist cooks off the streets.
The unfinished irrigation I left drying hard upon your face -
It smells of history. Kindness is always born of a disgrace.
The internet hides us safe behind crowds of young minds,
A book of faces desiring something proven by the times.
A page to write our names on, photos of our shared birth,
Kindness rising from the street, proving what she's worth.
Candy for our generation is smooth stones of sense of self,
A tumbling togetherness, in natural rivers of joy and wealth.
Mood like sunset destiny sinking among knife blade peeks,
That cut you without warning, and smile while you bleed.
The prisons house the strangers you know from crazy nights,
They don't remember you, they simply dream of better lights.
The half empty charger hungers, and shifts from foot to foot,
Eyes of hope blink for wind. On the wall the news is good.
"A squirrel dying in front of your house may be more relevant to your interests right now than people dying in Africa."
"People have really gotten comfortable not only sharing more information and different kinds, but more openly and with more people - and that social norm is just something that has evolved over time."
-Mark Zuckerberg
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 12:01 PM UTC
I want to be a princess
To walk in miles of silent gardens
Each flower blooming brilliance in my wake
Each bird screeching songs of joyfulness as I pass
Each forest creature following my path, nudging me with gentle noses and tails
I want to be swathed in the simplest of gowns
So simple, that each golden curve of design makes it more beautiful than any extravagant ball gown
The slope of the neck and the light pleats of the skirt
Trailing careful sparks of magic from the places the fabric and my skin brush
Everyone will gasp at my beauty
The soft glow of my skin so humble
Each curl of every golden lock catches the sunshine, even on cloudy days
And my eyes
They shall be the bluest in the land
But I keep the tips of my lashes lowered upon my blushed cheeks for anyone who gazes too long
Is entranced by the soft waves crashing on a white shore
I want to only be troubled by my mother's tightness and my father's naivety
I want to be stubborn, to turn away every suitor stumbling in my path
I want to lose my toys and such in the garden and upon looking for them
I want to come across a toad
And the toad will hold out my toy in the palm of his slimy hand
He will say Princess! In return for this act of kindness, I only ask you of one boon!
I will kneel in the softest, greenest of grasses and ask What boon may I grant you, dear toad?
The he shall ask for a kiss and in the glory of this act, his insignificant body shall be changed into a prince
I want to hesitate before I kiss the dripping lips of the toad
Because hesitation will turn to magnificence as Prince Charming appears and says
I told you so
Aug 26, 2011
Aug 26, 2011 at 2:25 AM UTC
morning contradictories: mourning our poems, falling stars
awaken to a sunshiny Saturday,
the lazys, their coverlet of flowers,
inhibit our movements, now, as it nears
high noon, we have yet from our bed stir
August has be-come, the grass pockets
of gray and green, swaths of sunburn brown,
reveal how far along the North American
summer has poetry passed, irretrievable
reading your messages and notes from
world over, lazy licking you poems so many,
delighting, ponderous and oft heroic, as well,
weeping as too many become fallen stars
each grass blade, from earth born and returned,
the nutrients preserved in our sandy soil, intended
to nurture next summer’s poesy new birthrights,
green+browned, weep+smile, mutual contradictories
these poem best friends, passing by each other at lifecycle’s
multi-paths, metaphors for our too many morning stirrings,
most to be falling like stars that, though in motion, need not
come to rest ever, their movement attracts a one…lasting look
it nears noon, it nears this poem’s timely finishing touch,
straighten its tie, smooth its skirted pleats, a forehead
implant kiss goodbye, sent on its way to find its own weight,
no parent ere admit, it leaves, with tear-burst showers falling…
August 1
2020
noon
Aug 1, 2020
Aug 1, 2020 at 12:06 PM UTC
beholden only unto thee who art thy;the throbbing quark of
sated lust and thusly spent
and
spl
deya-
the vassal of my notes and insert your nice pain
like melodically sugary lush ventricles. a cane bent. stocks bearing
the gossamer fruit of your surly vinegar pleats
replete i in sticky coughs of light glowing pertinently of the vehicle
of your hips. in which i ride unruly and cold killing ****** of
thighs all sweated and blithe and lithe. like a slick predator
pounce uneffortful sighs of dainty lace and so pink cotton
what ami?if not thy's?then:nothing,mymoistsnappingprose
Nov 10, 2010
Nov 10, 2010 at 2:38 PM UTC
No sin
No beginning
No end
No sending it out to
laundry like tailored
sheets to be returned
with fashionable pleats
in all the right places
Sad faces
Too many **** sad faces
Forgiveness is an elusive
***** these days, her gray
shadow an unrealized
contrast to our delusional
perceptions.
Nov 20, 2010
Nov 20, 2010 at 10:52 PM UTC
Even in the apple blossom moss of your sleep
A plod across the marsh of it, is such a placid deep-
And a withering of agony
a thing to keep...
Than ever was the promise
Of a hell beneath.
The quaint and gnarly burl of frost affixed to half the stars you marvel-
Crisp dark pleats
In absolute
Garments.
Tethered to your sleep
regardless.
Heart of heartless.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 1:09 PM UTC
Walking down the city streets
Wearing a fresh new pair of pleats
See a dame with a dog in a purse
I know that soon I'll be in a hearse
Dog springs out and clutches my face
Looks like a bat flyin into a vase
Whips out the claws and scratches me up
I fall to the ground an throw off the pup
Late that nite I wake up in a fuss
Break down the door an leave in a rush
Jump in the car and punch the throttle
With my hand wrapped up around the bottle
Hauling down the streets, **** the cops
Try to stop me an I'll pop your top
Drive right up to the tallest hill
I'm feelin ill, needa pop a pill
Take a look up at the moon
And then I yell
Ahhhh oooooo!
Ahhhh oooooo!
Drop on all fours and sprout some fur
Cravin some mo so I let out a grrr
Ears pop out
That's what I'm talking about!
Sprint down the hill
And I'm ready ta ****
Pounce on some civilians
Cuttin em down by the millions
Chomp at the fools bleed em out at the throat
Bodies falling by the river, watch em all float
Spot the cops drivin a by
They don't know they're soon all gonna die!
More keep on comin
So I keep on runnin
Nowhere to go so I take a last stand
Load up on guns just like an Afghan
I whip out the gat
Make it go ratta tat tat
Pinned against the wall
I take it to overhaul
All out of bullets, **** my gun
The old fashioned way is a lot more fun
But I don't last long, shots puncture my skull
Flies out the back of my head leavin a hole
Fall to the ground in a ****** mess
But I got one last thing to profess
Werewolves in Compton!
Ahhhh oooooo!
Ahhhh oooooo!
Next up is hell!
I'm comin fo you!
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 8:48 PM UTC
Hair tied tightly in her mothers favourite pleats
as tight as the chains that aren't there.
A pretty white sundress dress
for a pretty pure girl
living in the so-called summer of her life.
A ****** touch strokes across her chest
a touch that doesn't belong to her
an *****
black as the coal she would've got for christmas
if saints existed.
cross her heart and hope hope hope to die.
a little black book called the mind
buttoned, fastened and chained
so her demons don't escape.
tormenting her freewill and appetite.
enough.
her poor mother.
if she knew they'd get her too.
keeps them locked behind her ribs and eyes.
a prisoner, master of her own dungeon.
a tormented soul
an angel living among demons
white wings torn and tainted
by their words and actions.
evil.
every man, woman and child for themselves.
you don't know who or what
is lurking.
you're not alone.
noone can hear you scream from the space inside your mind.
.
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 6:21 PM UTC
I spoke to you last Friday,
Lights dim and skirts brushing the floor.
You were wearing folds of blue,
Clad in pleats and flowers.
We talked about nothing of importance,
Pockets and converse and models.
I kept waiting for that recognition,
The twinge in my chest I always feel.
I didn't feel it.
I looked at your face, heard your voice,
Eyes shadowed with sparkle.
I didn't miss you.
I remember our late-night chats,
Endless conversations just like this one.
I couldn't see that girl in you.
I wonder, I can't help it,
If you felt that way as well?
One thought stuck in my mind,
A question you will never hear;
When you were choosing your dress,
In a colour I always loved on you,
The shade of blue I say you've always shone in.
Did I ever cross your mind?
Did you think of me?
Did you remember my praises fondly,
Remember the colour I loved you to wear?
I kept thinking of that dress after that,
Of our first conversation since you left.
I miss that girl.
But I don't miss you.
I think I could be friends with you,
The girl in the light blue dress.
The girl I used to know.
Dec 13, 2024
Dec 13, 2024 at 2:03 PM UTC
Drive to the edge,this rush to feel free,
rambling off my skin and bones,
electrifying the nerve endings.
dizzying highs of the illuminating happiness
wind rushing though my pale hair,pleats of my ruby dress fluttering in the breeze
my fingertips reaching the starry sky,
like all these vast,embellished dreams-
are finally going to come true
freeing me from the disappointing hues.
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 9:28 AM UTC