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You've got a white scarf, but it's unreliably so
I could count on it to be white for many years
Until last year, when it didn't quite resemble snow
It changed colors, and brought up many fears
Like will you make it til tomorrow?
and will you still be here?

You used to wear it like it embodied majesty
Like you were a lion and it was your mane
Curling around your neck and screaming of divinity
I know that mane better than I know your name

(buddy)

The leaves will change and your scarf will too
Your head will bump mine, and I'll bump yours too

I'm running from my thoughts and the truth
This might be all for naught and tomorrow you
Will be here still, and I won't have to say goodbye
To your scarf, your mane, our collective life

Maybe your heart will still be kept in mine,
Released only when our heads collide

Your personality is truth
Your personality is you
I try to ask others to be like you but they can't
That plight is wrong and an ineffective chant

Your heart, your personality, your truth
Will be held in my heart regardless
of whether or not tomorrow I see you

And I do see you.
For a while there, you were hiding behind your disease
But now you're able to come out of your shell with ease
And now I can have another collection of moments with you
Your personality
Your truth

And you are truth.
For a year I thought you were gone and that the next
Moment I saw you, you'd be descending into a grave
You would be gone and only accessible through memories
Your truth
Your personality

And you are personality.
It pained me every time I saw you, thinking I wouldn't see
It and how you walked and how you cried for water when
You needed it. I'd trip over you, and trample you, but you
You are truth
You are personality

You're here today, eternally in my heart
You're here tomorrow, and when we are apart
A year down the road, and a plethora more
You'll be in my heart forevermore

The part of me that you bring out will never exist again on this earth
And your white scarf will never be seen by my brown eyes
But I can hold you here
Right here in my heart
And you can pur
And I can contemplate when you'll bump my head again
this one's about my deceased cat who had a ring of white fur around his neck (2/18/16)
Lila Valentine Nov 2014
It's amazing the difference a piece of cloth can make
Could it be that his scarf is really all that it takes
For me to blissfully leave the pain in this world
With the softness of this scarf around my fingers curled.

He gave it once, then I stole it again
I was slightly surprised he didn't complain
Now its absence has left inside me a void
That can only be filled by his scarf and Pink Floyd.

It's kind of amusing that I want to return
Back to that school, if only to yearn
And notice as my pain away can be carved
Just by feeling the softness of his scarf.
This was kind of a spontaneous poem. I wrote it about my crush's scarf. Dur. But seriously, that is one soft scarf....and it smells like him :")
Cyril Blythe Nov 2012
Janie pushes the metal book cart back into its parking space in the Document Delivery Department of the St. Louis Public Library and hangs the last sticky note for October 30, 2012 on the wall by the head of the department’s closed door. She retightens her brown scarf under her chin, tucking the wispy hairs above her ears back into hiding. Having your hair begin to prematurely gray as a teenager has dramatic effects on a person. Her mother wore scarves around her wrists when Janie was growing up and when Janie begin to wear scarves to conceal her salt-and-pepper hair, her mother just smiled. The clock hanging on the wall above the children’s section reads 11:28pm.
Two more minutes.
She reorganized the pens and books on her desk and set the box reading NOTES onto the right corner or her desk with three blue pens and a stack of note cards. Her coworkers learned fast that Janie does not like to talk. She does not like eye contact. She loves the silence, and never ever to ask her about her hair. Her manager gave her the NOTES box after about a month of horrible miscommunication and everyday it fills with requests for books or tasks that Janie has to complete. She completes the tasks one by one, alone, in her back office in the Reference Department and hangs the completed sticky notes on the wall by her manager’s door. She works the night shift and locks the library up every night. When she’s alone she can talk out loud to herself and those are the only voices she cares to hear.
“Goodnight, books. Good night, rooms.” Janie shut the heavy wooden door to the library, placed the color-coded keys in the front right pocket of her jacket, and began her walk to the bus stop one corner away. She avoids the main road, taking her first right onto a side street that she knows would spit her out right beside the bus stop.
“Goodnight Taco Bell Sign. Goodnight Rite-Aide. Goodnight Westside Apartments. Goodnight Jack-o-Lantern smile.” She stopped in the middle of the alley and peered up at the Jack-o-Lantern grinning down at her from the third story window above. “Mother wouldn’t’ve liked your smirk, Jack. She would’ve slapped that **** right off your face.” Janie, satisfied the pumpkin was put in its rightful place, smiled as she trotted on.
“Mother carved smiles into her arms and that’s why Daddy left, it is, it is.” She kicked at a crushed Mountain Dew can as she remembered that night from years ago.

“Mommy?” Janie pushed opened the door to her mother’s bedroom and saw the moving-boxes torn open and all their contents scattered across the floor. She tiptoed through piles of scarves and silverware and corkscrews until she reached the bathroom in her mom’s room.
“Come to us like rain, oh lord, come and stay and sting a while more, oh lord…” her mother’s voice was slipping off the tiled bathroom walls. Janie pushed open the door and saw the blood for the first time pouring from her mother’s wrist. Her mother was naked and perched on the bathroom sink, singing to a red razor blade.
“Mommy?”
“GET OUT!” Her mother jumped from the counter and perched on all fours on the floor. She began to growl and speak in a voice too deep to be coming from her own throat.
“Mommy! It’s Janie!” She began to cry as her mother, still naked and bleeding, twisted and writhed onto her back and began to crawl towards the door that Janie hid behind.


“Thirty-Three percent, dear. Just a thirty-three percent chance.” She shivered trying to clear the last memory of her mother with the words that all the shrinks had echoed to her over the years. “Schizophrenia is directly related to genetics, little is known about the type of Schizophrenia mother was diagnosed with except that it is definitely passed on genetically. But, there is only a thirty-three percent chance you could have it, dear. Thirty-three percent.” The sound of the bus stop ahead reminds her it is time to be silent again.
“Disorganized Schizophrenia.” She mouthed to herself as she stepped back out onto the busy street from her alleyway. She tightened her scarf and saw the bus pull into the pickup spot. She walked forward to the bus, again immersed in her self-imposed silence.
Stepping out of the February cold, Janie removes her wool scarf as the bus doors close behind her.
“Where to baby?” The driver smiles a sticky smile. Her nametag reads, “Shannon” and has a decaying Hello-Kitty sticker in the bottom left corner.
“The Clinton Street drop.” She hands the driver her $2.50 fare and avoids the woman’s questioning eyes. The night drivers are always more talkative, curious.
“Your ticket hon.” She tears Janie a ticket stub. “Everything is pretty dead this late, I’ll have you there in ten minutes top.”
Janie begins to shuffle towards the seats, ignoring the woman.
“You mind if I crank up the music?” The bus driver asks, purple fingernails scratching in her thick blonde hair. “I need to keep my eyes open and blood flowing and music is my fire of choice you know?”
“Sure.” Janie shrugs her bag onto her shoulder and walks on before the woman can say anything else.
“Route E-2, homebound.” Shannon’s voice crackles over the loudspeaker.
She shuffles down the bus towards her usual seat; second from the back right side.  Shannon starts the bus rolling before she reaches her seat and Janie can hear her singing along to “Summertime” by Janis Joplin. The bus floor, today, is sticky because of the morning rain. Two years of riding public transportation has taught Janie that staring at the floor as she walks to her seat is better than the risk of making eye contact. The bus is usually empty this late but if there ever happens to be anyone else on, it’s better not to converse. Safer that way.
She plops into her seat filling the indention that ghosts of past passengers left. The seat is still warm and Janie squirms around until the stranger heat is forgotten. She tightens her scarf and sighs. The brown pleather seatback in front of her is peeling towards the top. Janie leans forward and idly picks at the scab-like dangles of brown as she watches the sodden city canvas roll past her out the foggy window. As she picks, the hole grows. She twists and digs her unpainted nails into the seat until her hands feel wet, warm. Looking down, they are covered in blood and mud.
“What. The. Actual. ****.” she whispers, wiping her hands on her pants leg. She cautiously picks off another piece of pleather and a trickle of deep red begins to run from the seat back, clumps of mud now falling onto her knees. A puddle of blood and mire splatter down her legs and pool around her feet as she picks at the seat. Her white tights are definitely beyond saving now, so she digs faster until her thumbnail catches on something, bends back, and cracks. She gasps and withdraws her shaking hand, watching her own blood mix with the clotting muck in the seat, half of her thumbnail completely stripped off.
Looking around, all else seems normal. The driver is now muttering along to some banter by Kanye West, completely unaware of Janie’s predicament. She closes her eyes.
This is a dream, this is a dream, wake the **** up.
She opens her eyes to see the pool of filth around her feet trickling towards the front of the bus. Panic sets in with a whisper, They’re going to think it was you, your fault, you’ll be thrown in jail.
“But I didn’t do this.” She lashes out to herself. “I didn’t hurt anyone.”
Next stop, E-2. Shannon blares on the intercom.
“It’s just a dream, get your **** together, Janie.” She laughs at herself, manic.
Prove it! Her subconscious screams.
Convinced to end this moment she has to continue; Janie plunges her hand into the pleather grave one more time. Frantic and confused she laughs as she digs, spittle of muck splashing on her bus window.
Faster, faster, faster.
Deeper, deeper, deeper.
Realer, realer, real.
Wake up, now!
Then, as the bus slows, one last chuck of mud splatters to the floor and Janie sees a pink piece of her thumbnail stabbed into the white of a bone in the bottom of the seatback pit. Her white Ked’s were becoming so red they were almost black. She pulls her knees up to her chest and begins to rock back and forth. Clenching shut her eyes she begins to hum. Janie’s sweet soprano harmonizes with the buses deep droning purr, their wet melody interweaving with the driver’s alto and Lil Wayne’s screech made her feel dizzy as the bus turned right.
She take my money when I'm in need
Yeah she's a trifling friend indeed
Oh she's a gold digger way over town
That dig's on me
The bus slows to a stop and the bass is shaking. Janie is cold. She slowly peeks out of her right eye, expecting to be instantly immersed into the same dismal scene. The seatback is whole again. Releasing her knees, her feet fall back to the floor and her shaking fingers stroke the solid pleather.

“Ma’am? We’re at the Clinton Drop.”
Janie hurriedly picks up her bag and flees down the aisle to the bus doors.
“Everything alright, dear?” The bus driver asks, smiling.
“Fine, just fine.”
“You be safe out there tonight. The night is dark and only ghouls stroll the streets this late.”  Shannon laughed as Janie’s jaw dropped. “Happy Halloween, dear. It’s midnight, today is October 31st.”
The bus doors opened and a cold wind ****** the warm bot-air surrounding Janie into the streets. She begrudgingly followed, her mind spinning as she stepped onto the pavement. The doors slammed behind her and she turned to see Shannon pull out a tube of lipstick and smear it, red, across her cracked lips. Shannon made a duck-face in the mirror and reached down to crank up the music as loud as it would go. The bus exhaled and rolled forward, leaving Janie behind as it splashed through the potholes.
She surveys the surrounding midnight gloom and the street is quiet and dark. Even the stars are hidden behind swirling clouds. She begins to hum, hands in her pocket, and shuffle towards her apartment.
“Goodnight, stars. Goodnight, street.”
As she approaches her single-bedroom apartment, digging through her coat pocket for her keys, her thumb pulsates. She grasps the keys and pulls them out as she steps up to the apartment. Sticking the cold, silver key in the lock she looks down at her thumb and in the shadows of the porch sees half of the nail completely missing. She laughs as she pushes the door open to her bare apartment, light flooding out. Without any hesitation she closes the door behind her, sheds her clothes, and slips onto the mattress in the corner of the room gripping her thumb tight. She reaches out for the glass of milk on the floor beside her bed from the morning and it’s still cold. Nursing the milk, surrounded by blankets and solitude, she reminds herself,  “Only a thirty-three percent chance. A nice, small, round number. Small.”  
She sets down the empty glass and curls into the fetal position under the heavy blankets, pointer finger tracing circles on her thumb. Only when she has heated her blanket cocoon enough to feel safe does she remove her scarf and allow her thick white hair to fall around her face.
“Goodnight, room. Goodnight, mother,”
PrttyBrd Nov 2014
It turned cold quickly
Almost skipping Autumn
Reluctant to wear a jacket
Or a hat, or gloves
Too distant for my arms
To keep him warm against my chest
He said he never wore a scarf
But if he did, he would go Dr. Who style
I had to laugh as i looked up the reference
Fifteen feet of mismatched stripes
Maybe not the stripes, he said
I happened upon a huge skein of yarn
It felt like a warm blanket in the oddest,
Most interesting colors
Manly, neutral, and perfect for Fall
So i crocheted a scarf and pictured him warm
The pattern in those colors was a mess
I chuckled at why they would make such an ugly pattern
I crocheted every stitch with love
Through arthritic hands that felt no pain
I crocheted a scarf, stopping only when it dragged the floor when i put it on
Two feet short, but ridiculously long
I bordered it in shades of green to match
Not realizing it was variegated into Brown's and maroons along the way
But it matched the odd mix of colors
And finally made it almost pretty to me
I covered myself in perfume
And put it around my neck
As I turned I caught a glimpse in the mirror
It wasn't a horrible amalgamation of hideous colors
It was camouflage, with a matching border
I laughed so hard, and felt so bad
My hillbilly in camouflage
Wearing a scarf way too long
Maybe he would hate it
Maybe he won't wear it
I knew better
So, I packed up his bag of gifts
And sent it to the frozen mountains
He never wore a scarf
He opened it and put it on
It smells like You, he said in blssful remembrances
It's definitely camouflage, he laughed
It's perfect baby, I'll wear it whenever it's cold
And in the picture he sent
I saw its beauty
It wasn't in the patterns of crisscrossing colors
It wasn't in the accidental way
The border perfectly complimented the body
It wasn't in the fact that he would be able
To wrap himself up in me to stay warm
It was in that picture
It was the joy that filled his smile
It was in his eyes that danced in love
It was in the fact that he believes
Because i made it, it's perfect
Yes, i accidentally crocheted a thirteen foot camouflage scarf
And he loves that I can keep him warm.
11414
Micheal Wolf Mar 2013
Indulge me for I'm sat looking at a scarf
As I transport rather splendid G and T
To its final destination
Not mine I hasten to add, my scarf that is not the gin
Purple not my colour you see
I had issue with burgundy as a child, frightful memories
I digress but it was left behind like a signature
Not intentionally just in a sweet forgetfulness
I can't pick it up, crazy as it sounds
I mean if I did it would be real not imagery
The moment lost, but no real moment as I can't feel it
Do you understand ? Perhaps not
I have admittedly been reminded of its presence
I imagine it's scent, no I imagine her scent
Her presence in the room, her smile lifts me
I mean it's just a scarf I mean it can't exist can it?
Do we leave a little of ourselves behind?
Emotion like lost property
I don't know, I honestly don't
Is there a course for metaphysical disorientation and the re repatriation of lost purple scarfs?
I guess not. I'd probably fail in any case.
It will still be here tomorrow. In plain sight, just hidden from my reality
Goodnight scarf.
Bo Burnham Mar 2015
I wear a scarf
                  to keep my words warm.
So you will smile when
                     they smack you in the face.
I walk into a grocery
to do my shopping.
I grab a cart;
and in the basket,
a scarf.
I hold it up...soft wool,
brown, beige and rust striped.
I hold it to my nose...
and catch the scent of a clean,
healthy young woman.
I close my eyes and imagine.

She's vibrant and pretty
in the fullness of life.
Small with firm *******
and wide welcoming hips...
her eyes brown,
with long dark hair bounded
by a soft wool scarf.
Maybe she's an art student...
meeting up with her lover.
Its a cool late autumn day,
and flushed faces show
the pleasure of their meeting.
Holding hands
they shuffle through the fallen leaves
planning for a future
blissfully unaware
of how now shapes us more.
They go shopping for dinner,
and she accidentally
leaves the scarf behind.
Some paths close now,
others open
and life moves on.

I open my eyes smiling
and gently fold the scarf.
Laying it down
I think
it will make a lovely addition
to my collection.
The parts about finding the scarf is true and it did smell of a healthy, clean young woman, and I did keep it.
Tamanna Oct 2014
She's staring at her favorite scarf and weeping away at her life.
Mother doesn't love her,
Father doesn't understand her.
And the image of her scarf is constantly appearing in her mind.
She has come to the conclusion that she'd look best wearing it,
Hanging from one foot from her ceiling.
Funny how something meant to make someone so warm,
Can be used to make a body stone-cold.
Should she wear the scarf with butterflies on it?
Or the one her sister gave her for Christmas,
The day they stopped talking to each other altogether?
Should she wear the one she wore on her first date with him,
Or is that too much?
Mother is screaming at her,
Telling her that her room is too cluttered.
There are scarves laying everywhere on the ground,
The girl is comfortable with it.
But I wonder what she'd do when her mother sees her cluttered mind.
"Mom, how does this scarf look on me?"
The girl will ask from up above,
Or maybe down below.
But she won't care, because she's too preoccupied with the girls flaws.
Her room gets too explosive,
Shes not exactly like the mothers firstborn.
She hangs out with friends too often to avoid being home.
Scratch that, at her house, because a home is where the heart is,
But all I see are carbonated feelings being bottled up,
And shaken,
But the girl doesn't dare pop open the cap.
Now the mother is pushing the girl away
And throwing everything she has,
Both literally and figuratively,
And the mother officially wages a war against the girl.
The mother is armed with the girl's dear father,
And her words,
And all the girl has to offer are scarves.
She has an assortment of 13 exactly,
But she doesn't know which one to wear.
JG O'Connor Jun 2017
The Moon searches out the night
During the day sits in the background
Probably knitting a scarf of clouds
Pick one drop one, Cirrus follow by Cumulus
Allowing the Sun it’s all day brilliance
At night trumping all that coloured time
With a soft monochrome thrill
Wrapped in its unravelling grey black scarf
Bit of a night owl our Moon

Throws quite a few shapes
During it’s month
Revealing a little Edwardian anklet
And then to tantalise
Following with its full scandalous magnificence
A bit of a flirt our lovely Moon.

Our Moon has many beautiful scarfs
Holding hands and touch shoulders scarf
Or soft hand on the cheek while lips meet scarf
Hide under here together and pretend we are alone scarf
Let’s do something mad and feed the ducks at night scarf
And that warm promise don’t break my heart scarf
Bit of a romantic our lunatic moon.
Ilene Bauer Apr 2018
The thing about a scarf is that
I know just how to buy one
But I don’t do it often ‘cause
I’m clueless how to tie one.

My friends look chic and classy
With a scarf around their throats.
For hiding saggy skin like mine
That style gets all my votes.

A neck stays warm when breezes blow
If it is scarf-protected
And sometimes boring outfits,
With a scarf, can be corrected.

Yet somehow I have never learned
The skills that are required
To knot a scarf so that my neck’s
A place to be admired.

We’re either born with savoir-faire
And everyone can spot
That stylishness so cool and hip
Or else, like me, we’re not.
I am loud,
Demanding attention.
I know when I am being charming
Because I try.
I put on my impressing face
And do my impressing hair
And speak my impressing words.
I tell you my embarrassing drinking stories
And everything else about me
That you probably shouldn’t know.

I am not good at being quiet
Because that’s not who I am.
I am not the sweet girl
Who will leave you with a smile
And a touch
And a glance
Or a single word.
There is nothing of this fashion of romance
About me.

I am the girl who will point out your flaws,
And take you outside to see the stars,
And remind you how human you are,
And what a wonderful thing that is.

I am the girl who will talk about science,
And music and theology and history,
And point out constellations, laughing,
When you don’t know the big dipper’s name.

I am the girl who will make witty references,
To classic literature and science fiction,
And will tell you stories of how I once,
Made a gingerbread replica of a lighthouse.

I am the girl who will stand on a table,
And sing at the top of my lungs on the highway,
And act like a chicken or quail or velociraptor,
Or nuzzle your face like a lion to make a point.

I am the girl who takes too many shots
And then coaxes you to bed on a Russian liver,
And knows all the right places to bite, and tease,
And follows with exceptionally coherent pillow-talk.

I am not a thin silk scarf on the wind.
I am not a thing hard to capture.
You would not spend a perilous journey
Through a wild, perfumed jungle,
Searching for my slender garments
Hung beside a pool
As I wail to the breeze.

Rather, I am the bird who flies overhead
Making too much noise
Distracting from the trail ahead.
A bird whose plumage proves
What an interesting life it must be…
What a colorful life for me…
Perpetually strange
The lone comic relief.

I am many things.
But I am not quiet.
Of this I am sure.
09/07/12




A personal statement.
Alice Dmitriov Feb 2013
There’s a pink scarf that hangs out of the
Window of your car
Creating a mystery that no one fully understands
And we all know you’re broken
You’re like that window that we pieced
Back together last year with bits of glass and cardboard and duct tape
During the winter and it was cold
But you’re not that cold

There’s a golden ring that stays off of your hand
And I pretend it doesn’t hurt that you don’t wear it
Though I don’t get why you won’t just give in to it
And I know that you’re lonely
You’re like that tree that we planted by the old folks home
Two months ago
When we just planted it away from the others to see
If trees could feel relationships or closeness
Even though people don’t seem to be able to

And you’re tired and broken and lonely
And life can be a ten foot mud hole sometimes
The kind that they use to trap animals in India
But humans aren’t animals
We understand that we are stuck and alone

There’s a part of you that’s always out of reach
Always just a little too much of a stretch
For me to try to grasp
And you’ve told me before that I should just take
The leap and try to trust
That you’ll be there when I fall
But you owe me nothing because remember

We’re not together

Every time I see you drive by
I remember that the pink scarf belongs to
That someone else
And that ring won’t be worn
Because you belong
To that someone else
And I just wish that you’d let me meet that someone else
So I could know why her, not me

And I know I’m not the one to judge you
Or try to change things
You blame me for what happened, don’t you
I know
I understand that because I blame myself too
But I know there’s got to be a part of you that still wonders
Sometimes about what would have happened
If you’d just kept the ring
And kept the ******* scarf out of the picture

It’s like I’m trying to put a puzzle together
But half of the pieces are missing
Well, I guess they never showed up
In the first place
And I’ve tried to decide
What she must have that I don’t
But I can’t put a face to anything
And the name doesn’t ring a bell
Because you’ve never told me her name
And I’m tired of irony

And I’m starting to wonder
Why you won’t answer your phone
And why you won’t give me a call
Or why you ignore me when I see you
Or why you can’t seem to get over it

Did you know that the wind blew the cardboard
Right off of the window that night
And the lonely tree was pulled out this week
And I’m staring at nothing and beginning to wonder
If maybe you really are that cold
Mallow Jul 2015
My white silk scarf
keeps me warm for five minutes
it slips away and i have to keep catching it

My learned karate is getting sharper
but my legs keep buckling after the kick

My white silk scarf
is pulled out of my pocket
It twists and knots around my neck too tight

My words rush by like rhymes trapped in rivers
but my tongue gets rough once it brushes the rock

My white silk scarf
is tied to my ankles forever
it stops me from moving towards the light
It stops me from moving towards the light
Josh Oct 2015
I'm like a bird, I want to fly away.
Wrapped in a billowing yellow silk scarf
which shines gold in the light of day.

Perched on a tree branch, face the horizon.
Hope and sunlight glimmer reflected in
each determined eye which widens.  

Ruffled feathers are my warm, windswept hair.
I will leap into the sky, stretching high
To glide through the air if I dare.
  
Music from Cape Town, a bird's song my ears
spread their wings and feel the song's lift beneath
and sing sweet as the horizon nears.

I am a  bird and as I fly away
wrapped in my billowing yellow silk scarf
I shine gold in the light of day.
Elizabeth Novak Jul 2014
The wind makes a funny
pattern along your skin,
swirling up to wrap
around your neck like a scarf.
Whipping around to tug at your ears.
Kastoori Barua May 2016
The scarf that you took off with a graceful flourish,
From your warm throat, and covered my head
On one beautiful, wintry afternoon long ago;
That memory intensifies and weighs me down,
Like photographs that develop in the darkroom
But are never shown the broad daylight.

My head now stays uncovered with snow;
I wear your scarf on my shoulders.
Betokening my will to carry
The burden of the emptiness,
You left behind with your departure.
Josh Feb 2018
Scarf thieves beware.
Cold necks belong to snakes and lizards.
Snakes make snug scarves.
I always wanted a really long scarf
I had one
and it's gone now.

My eyes never close
and I never stop tasting
or shedding my skin
I have many many scales,
none of them in equal temperament,
all of them intricately camouflaged
speckled and striped
coiled and waiting to strike at anything that comes within reach.

Lucky you've got a scarf to protect your neck.
My new scarf was stolen
Deb Jones Dec 2018
A little Asian man
Stood at the counter

He rung up my purchase as my then lover put a male scarf on the countertop

My lover said
Hey babe, Mind buying this for me?

I said sure. Just as the Asian man raised his eyes to meet mine.

His face was expressionless
But his dark inscrutable eyes, which normally I would find difficult to read without an expression to pair....

But I read his eyes as if he were writing words in the air.

Why are you buying that for him?
I thought “It’s only twenty five dollars”

Why does price matter? He asked
“I have the money.
It’s not an issue.”

When was the last time he bought something for you?
“Well, today he bought me orange juice.”

But didn’t you give him the money for it?
“Yes, but...”

But what?

I looked at my lover and instead of telling him the truth I told him I didn’t have the money for it.

Immediately moving my eyes to meet the Asian mans.

I think my lover was embarrassed because I said this in front of the man.

Instead of agreeing he argued. Does it take 2 to argue? Not in this instance.

I paid for my purchase and knowing my lover had money in his wallet I asked him if he still wanted the scarf.

He knew I also had money in my wallet.
So as he understood the question
To mean I was now prepared to buy the scarf for him

He enthusiastically replied yes.

The Asian man’s eyes never left my face.

I told, the man I knew was never going to warm my bed again, that no, I really didn’t want to spend the money.

His face turned red. I could hear the redness in his voice.
“What a ****** thing to do”

The Asian man’s eyes finally left my face and looked at the man I was with.

And he finally spoke.
“May you live in interesting times”

I was slightly disappointed that he had not wished such a blessing to me.

It was only after thinking about it for awhile that day that I realized he actually cursed him.

For me I realized uninteresting meant happiness and peace
'Perspective betrays with its dichotomy:
train tracks always meet, not here, but only
    in the impossible mind's eye;
horizons beat a retreat as we embark
on sophist seas to overtake that mark
    where wave pretends to drench real sky.'

'Well then, if we agree, it is not odd
that one man's devil is another's god
    or that the solar spectrum is
a multitude of shaded grays; suspense
on the quicksands of ambivalence
    is our life's whole nemesis.

So we could rave on, darling, you and I,
until the stars tick out a lullaby
    about each cosmic pro and con;
nothing changes, for all the blazing of
our drastic jargon, but clock hands that move
    implacably from twelve to one.

We raise our arguments like sitting ducks
to knock them down with logic or with luck
    and contradict ourselves for fun;
the waitress holds our coats and we put on
the raw wind like a scarf; love is a faun
    who insists his playmates run.

Now you, my intellectual leprechaun,
would have me swallow the entire sun
    like an enormous oyster, down
the ocean in one gulp: you say a mark
of comet hara-kiri through the dark
    should inflame the sleeping town.

So kiss: the drunks upon the curb and dames
in dubious doorways forget their monday names,
    caper with candles in their heads;
the leaves applaud, and santa claus flies in
scattering candy from a zeppelin,
    playing his prodigal charades.

The moon leans down to took; the tilting fish
in the rare river wink and laugh; we lavish
    blessings right and left and cry
hello, and then hello again in deaf
churchyard ears until the starlit stiff
    graves all carol in reply.

Now kiss again: till our strict father leans
to call for curtain on our thousand scenes;
    brazen actors mock at him,
multiply pink harlequins and sing
in gay ventriloquy from wing to wing
    while footlights flare and houselights dim.

Tell now, we taunq where black or white begins
and separate the flutes from violins:
    the algebra of absolutes
explodes in a kaleidoscope of shapes
that jar, while each polemic jackanapes
    joins his enemies' recruits.

The paradox is that 'the play's the thing':
though prima donna pouts and critic stings,
    there burns throughout the line of words,
the cultivated act, a fierce brief fusion
which dreamers call real, and realists, illusion:
    an insight like the flight of birds:

Arrows that lacerate the sky, while knowing
the secret of their ecstasy's in going;
    some day, moving, one will drop,
and, dropping, die, to trace a wound that heals
only to reopen as flesh congeals:
    cycling phoenix never stops.

So we shall walk barefoot on walnut shells
of withered worlds, and stamp out puny hells
    and heavens till the spirits squeak
surrender: to build our bed as high as jack's
bold beanstalk; lie and love till sharp scythe hacks
    away our rationed days and weeks.

Then jet the blue tent topple, stars rain down,
and god or void appall us till we drown
    in our own tears: today we start
to pay the piper with each breath, yet love
knows not of death nor calculus above
    the simple sum of heart plus heart.
Tyler Nicholas Oct 2012
The Mill sits comfortably among the sea of red.
Unwavering, unyielding, and thriving.

Cafe Espresso and oolong tea.

The booths are occupied with
reminiscence of the glory days,
contentment between mothers and daughters and sons and fathers,
appreciation of music and art and literature.

All the while sunlight illuminated
the scarf and the starfish
of the girl across from me

as our minds were slowly revealed to one another.
For E.
nichole r Jun 2014
You pick up your needles
and knit together your lies
you make a scarf
of all different feelings
blue, red, green, yellow
beautiful
but that doesn't mean
i don't hate it.
You drape it around my neck
wounding it around and around
tight, tighter, too tight
i choke back my words
i now look beautiful
but that doesn't mean
i don't hate you.
L B Jul 2018
For my cousin, Chris Goldrick

Lacing my skates
after walking two miles
in girl-strictured delight
Mom's stories of Sonja Henie--
No, not ever

Lacing my skates
with  snow-ball pompoms
felt skirt
and nylon tights
Cute little hat with matching scarf
My thighs and fingers
already freezing
icy burn
from miles on foot

to get there
the lake where--

I must get out
I must get OUT!

Knowing what
to expect from my body
the quick-twitch of muscle
Could always sense
specific--
gravity of water    
at 22 degrees

Desiring to feel
the motion between ice and steel
Read speed's vibrations through my body
The brain registers relation
to weather's effect
Tell of velocity
possibility of fall
Feel the slash of the blades beneath me
Throw my weight sideways, sudden
to hear that furious hiss
An object in motion tending, dire
to stay in motion

Threatening to stay there
always
in its heights-- of speed
away--

from the crowds of skaters
swirling distant in the lights

Seeking instead
the farthest reaches of Porter Lake
speed and speed and more
to overcome
inertia
of what it is to become
undone

at the outer edges, of humanity
A force  
centrifugal unto myself

Avoiding

Pregnant and slow
with years and babes....

The best
must be broken and tamed
of what it takes to stay free

catching the edges with every stride
catching my toe in the quick
180
spray of frost
to the sudden still

Listen to the frigid chill

and the heave of my breath
tumbling into evidence

Gliding
Once

Forever--

on, into darkness
of woods on frozen water

The wildness of it all

So infatuated with flight
so full of grace

I forgot Sonja

The moon rose
from her seat in the treetops
and applauded
Wrote this immediately from a dream a couple months ago.  With all the heat and humidity, it sounded good to go today.

This dream was an actual relived memory of being 12 years old and skating at Porter Lake in Forest Park of Springfield, Massachusetts.  22 degrees F is minus 5.5 C --Just a reference
MJ XSJ Feb 2015
It is a lovely day here at my hometown
Going to do my routine. Running everything down
Decided to stop, in this lovely cafe
Ordered coffee and get back on my way
Bump to a stranger, dropped my belongings
I stared at his eyes, full of longings
Started to stand up, he offered his hands
I accepted it, and told him my apologies
He offered a drink but I declined
I decided to go
But he grabbed my arms
He said what's your name beautiful?
I said my name.
We talked and talked
We forgot everything that we had to do
It's like a spur in the moment
He sadly had to go
I saw his back turned to me walking
Suddenly he looked back
He yelled "Lovely scarf"
That's when I know
He'll be back
Hi

~Myheartsmiistakes
Eddie Matikiti Apr 2016
Make me a scarf
For winter is approaching
Make it blue and grey
To match the style of my heart

Make it with nothing but love and knitting needles
With wool woven from your soul
The scarf should be long and thick
To cover the emptiness in my life

Hasten to make it
Winter is approaching
Cover my heart
judy smith Dec 2016
As excited as I am about the end of the semester and Christmas approaching, the bitter cold this week has almost frozen me. Don’t get me wrong, winter is a great time for fashion, but the cold weather is not for me. I would prefer to stay inside with a huge glass of hot chocolate. Aside from cocoa, he secret to staying warm is to dress in layers. I’ve tried to do that with this outfit but I’ve failed a bit.

The majority of this outfit comes from The Yellow Rose, which is a locally owned boutique in my home town. The blanket scarf and shirt are both from the Rose. These boots are from Maurices, but could be swapped for converse or duck boots. The coat is from Aeropostale.

It’s safe to say that I have fallen in love with the blanket scarf. Not only are they adorable, but they also provide ample warmth. They can be worn with nearly anything, including this great shirt. This shirt has a tassel tie underneath the scarf which means it could be worn on it’s own, if you aren’t as big a fan of the blanket scarf.

This jacket is a life-saver to say the least. The reason it works with this outfit so well is because the green in the scarf is the same green on the jacket. Army green goes with just about anything. The sleeves are a sweater material which makes them warmer than normal. You could dress this up a bit which a nice trench coat or long cardigan. You could also change the boots out for black booties or flats.

This outfit is perfect for Christmas parties or Christmas dinners. It has all the traditional Christmas colors and it will keep you warm.

However isn’t only for Christmas. You can easily wear this at any time during the winter.

Hopefully this has given you a bit of holiday wardrobe inspiration. I know holidays can be a stressful time for some, but the outfit you wear should be one thing you don’t have to stress about. Stay warm and stay comfortable.

I hope your break is wonderful and filled with joy. I know we all need that after those finals. I’m sure we’re all ready for present, family time, and much needed sleep. Spread Christmas cheer this year and enjoy the time off. May your Christmas be merry and bright, and don’t forget the Christ in Christmas! He is the only eternal Gift that keeps on giving.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-brisbane | www.marieaustralia.com/vintage-formal-dresses
Conor Letham Mar 2012
A thin, red trail
slaps the pavement,
becomes so swollen,

strands trip around
the neck and cut
deep where there,

in the slick trickles
pulled to small floods,
sinking out, a tip

of the tongue cry
never quite confirmed,
stays strangled. Drips

and ebbs with bottle
in hand, a scarf
in the other. Like ribbon

it weaves into spaces,
drenches the ground
until everything is art.
Wuji Nov 2012
There's a serpent around me,
Coils me close.
Rough skin scratching,
Holes in my coat.
It's rolling like waves of sand paper,
Tearing the life outta me.
But the closeness,
Reminds me of a time of peace.
Funneling poison down my own throat,
Grind my flesh on jagged rocks and roads.
Walking on hot stones to the motivate my step,
Putting on my anaconda scarf to keep warm from the daft.
If I am hurting,
Then how can you hurt me more?
Can't be drowning,
If I'm beached at shore.
My snake protects me with pain,
Chokes the hopes outta me.
I'm turning from blue to purple,
But let me drown in my own sea.
It is rather cozy.
Fling your red scarf faster and faster, dancer.
It is summer and the sun loves a million green leaves,
     masses of green.
Your red scarf flashes across them calling and a-calling.
The silk and flare of it is a great soprano leading a
     chorus
Carried along in a rouse of voices reaching for the heart
     of the world.
Your toes are singing to meet the song of your arms:

Let the red scarf go swifter.
Summer and the sun command you.
Louise Aug 2014
~

Pretty, soft scarves
are my 'shoes'.

I love to wear them
with every outfit
and have many
in different colours
and designs.

They just seem to
'add something'
to what I wear
and they feel
such a comfort
around my neck,
offering a warmth
that I need.

On Summer evenings
when it is just too warm,
very occasionally,
I'll wear nothing
but
a scarf


~
; )
its a blue Monday
after Super Sunday
Americas 45th funday
yesterdays spectacle

the dip is done
the broken bones
of buffalo wings
fill giant glad bags

the ridged ripples
of broken Doritos
scattered on the floor
wait for a vacuums hum

dead soldiers rattle
a melodious cascade
the aroma of flat Bud
plunge into recycle bins

ribbed Trojans
dripping bagged ****
rim plastic trash cans
confirm an ****'s frenzy

the game forgotten
commercial reveries remain
seared into the briney mush
of compliant olfactories

collective hallucinations
successfully branded
a new and improved
global consciousness

Madmen Shamans
ebulliently channel
transactional zeitgeists
from the ripped boxes of
Best Buy plasma screens

Monday morning
water cool scuttlebutt
the planet is buzzing about...

Google's cool slap
of IPod clad automatons
the vanquishers of IBM's evil empire
Apple's brave new world is next
("meet the new boss,
same as the old boss?")

we all dug
rolling with Eminem
through the glitzy
streets of Motown

How cool is 8 Mile?
The hoods lookin good
angelic chorus lifts spirits
Swing Low Sweet Chrysler

The artistic types
faun over
the graphic beauty
illustrious aestheticism

moving story line
the epic journey
of the worlds
greatest brand

heroic product marketing pros
rival Jason and the Argonauts
sojourning trans-formative odysseys
of clever packaging and fat tail shelf life

holding precious real estate
of living imaginations
infecting hearts and minds
of future generations

realizing
everything
ends better
with coke

The State Farm Pre-Game
Jimmy Johnson's new coiff
jawed away with his old boss
rattlesnake booted Jerry Jones

A poignant embrace captured in
living color on grand jumbo trons
lording over a cavernous palace
a new stadium for Homeboys

Jimmy J asks Jerry J
"Why you overpaid
for The Boys New
Crib?"

"A billion 4,
a palace for the masses".
Jerry breaks some news
with an impish wink.
"No expense is spared
for the peeps."

"I always make out,
get a good return. I
make a profit. Ain't
America great."

This year Super Bowl
went Hollywood
and installed
a long red carpet.

Mike Strahan, collared
Harrison Ford.
Bagging his greatest sack
on a dazzling red rug.

"How many Super Bowls
is this for you?"
Strahan whistles
through his gaped teeth.

The aging Indiana Jones
came to promote his new flick,
"Cowboys and Aliens"
(I'm told an early Cannes
favorite. And it should be. Spoiler alert,
the movie is a moving story of an American tragedy.
Romo blows another one
throwing an interception in overtime.
The Aliens return it 95 yards for a touchdown.
Boy's lose again. America's Team vanquished by bubble headed Martians.
All of Texas weeps.)

Indy
coolly quips an answer
whipping with sarcasm,
"after today, one."
yuck yuck
lol

Strahan continues
to stalk Ford like a
scrambling quarterback,
"where will you be sitting?"

Ford shrugs
"dunno,
somewhere
up-there,
I guess",
he points to
the lofty
luxury boxes.
Royalty sits
next to God
in Jerry Jones
house of the
people.

Ford dons a green scarf.
He's down with the Pack.
Another sunshine *****
in the seat.

Michael Douglas and Zeta Jones
arrive in time to hear
Keith Urban sing
"Who Wouldn't Want to be Me?"

"He's alive
He's free
Who wouldn't
want to be me?"

Indeed who?

The parade
of heroes
continue.

The walking,talking
little S Corp, LLC's
dance their way
into the stadium
on resplendent
cushions of red.

Terrific brands
all earnestly
questing to
urgently
deliver
messages
to promote
themselves
and plug
shameful
products.

A Black Eye Peas
teaser
blinks onto
my giant
flat screen.

Will I Am
a black man
in a blacker mask
marches down the street
zapping people
with a ray gun.
(fascist culture is so cool, a
little light on liberation,
but **** does he look bad as all get out
in that leather rumble don't **** with me
outfit)

Jamie Foxx on the royal carpet leaks
that he yodeled three tunes
at a pregame party for Jerry's Kids;
T Boone and the Big W among them.

Quick cut
to Jamie's
new movie
Rio.
(I wonder if its
about Mexicano's
crossing the river?)

Wealth
Power
the perfect
image of ourselves
take a pill

I am Limitless
a new movie?
I've seen this one before.
I think I'm watching it now.

Just Go With It
Adam *******,
Jennifer Aniston
Americas sweetheart
teamed with Americas
kosher jokester.

He looks hot
in his droopy
pretend
don't give a ****
orange sweatshirt
and acid washed jeans.

Jennifer's ****, legs
what can you say
about America's sweetheart?
I think Brad Pitt
made a big mistake.

Bill O
is next.
Posturing,
arm wrestles
with the Prez,
shadow boxes
with the Big O.

"Muslim Brotherhoods
Rendition
Mubarack goes off the reservation
knows where the bodies are buried"
***!
***!

(Do we really need a dose of Fox Fear?
Is there no escape from the pernicious harangue?
Don't they know its Super Bowl Sunday?)

Bill O's drive by continues,
"Obamacare,
why do Americans hate you?"
Great journalism by this Fox ****.

Bill O is
haughty,
arrogant,
disrespectful
a despicable bully
and a self serving blow hard.

(My bladder is busting.
Its a great time to take a ****.)

We escape to
the freshness
of Owen Wilson's
smiling face,
playing two hand touch.

His bent nose
shining
he trots about
Jerry's field
carefree as a child.
(Is this a pitch, pass and punt
contest for A Listers?)

Other stars
join the light fun;
goose cheerleaders
give the cabana boys
hand-jobs
and themselves
a well earned blow-job.

Its an **** of photo ops
product placement
a sizzling collection
of dancing brands
prancing on the gridiron
of the New Cowboy field.

Ashton Kutcher
peeks over the shoulder
of a tweeting W.
I'm impressed
W knew
how to use
his thumbs.

Mrs. W's
permanent smile
was clearly visible
from the stadiums
cheapest seats.

Condie sat
way to the right
quietly stewing
lamenting
lost opportunities
of a gig as NFL
Commissioner.

On the stadiums floor
the frenetic dancing
of the
bumping
brands
fast
approaches
ecstatic elation.

Hollywood's version of
Whirling Dervishes; is
immediately stilled
as the solemn portion
of the program
commences.

The Declaration of Independence
is read by a bright galaxy of stars
accompanying armed service personnel
and other diligent American's.

"We hold these truths
to be self evident"

"United colonies
levee war,
dissolve bounds,
our day of allegiance
lives, fortunes and sacred honor
freedom is common sense,
free, equal, united"

CEO's
imprisoned
in Jerry's
luxury boxes
overcome
with
emotion
pound fists
on the glass
smearing
cocktail sauce
on the windows
of the suites.

Illegal
Chicano's
bravely
step forward
with rolls
of Bravo
and Windex
to wipe
it clean.

The focal point
of festivities
seismically
shifts like a
tectonic plate
almost as large
as Jerry's Stadium.

The stampede
of cheers
thunder like
canon shots,
the patriotic
ramparts of
militant
free market
capitalism
supplants the
shallow frivolity
of consumer slavery.

We are
compelled
to kneel
to celebrate a
Eucharist of
nationalism.

My partner explodes,
"Can't watch a football game
and view it for what it is,
a ******* football game."

The Fox
broadcasters
dedicate
this segment
of the show
to our military.

I squirm in my seat.
Sorry,
but the declaration is about
free people in free societies
not militarism.

Next up
dis old cowboy
Sam Elliot.
He knows
how to speak
the language
of real football fans.
Finally, a man of the people.

Sam introduced the cities.
He starts with Pittsburgh.

"Built on steel
a place where
terrible is good
these are the
enduring qualities
of this great American City."

The Steelers
make a timely entrance
onto the floor of the stadium,
as millionaires erupt
shaking their terrible towels.

Sam's
fuax
folkism
for
Fox Sports
continued.

"Green Bay is Title Town
the people never quit.
Crafty veterans are winners
exhorting all to greatness"

Images
of Lombardi's
toothy grin
fills my 72 inch screen.
A visitation by
America's Saint,
the sanctifier
of all competition
anoints the proceeding,
the quest to claim
the trophy named
for the games
very own
Archangel
of the
Gridiron.

The extended gig of
Lombardi's ghost
has haunted America
for over half a century;
has reportedly been seen
stalking the stage
on Broadway.

The anointed
Packers sprint
onto the field and
millionaire cheese heads
taking big bites out of life
erupt in cheers.

My hi def wide screen
made by Sharp reports
Battle of Los Angeles
opens 3/11/11.
The Chicago Code
premiers on Fox
sometime in March.

Walter Payton
Man of The Year Award
is presented
to an NFL Player
watching the game
with the troops
in Iraq.

The millionaires
don't cheer,
but the Fox announcers
are verklempt
overcome with patriotism.

Michelle Lee,
star
of Fox'***** show
Glee,
poses in front of a
sanitized choir
in blue uniforms to sing
America the Beautiful.

The beautiful song
is but an opening act
for the musical centerpiece
Star Spangled Banner.

The cameras cut
to a smiling W.
He can't get into Switzerland
but ******, he won't be turned out
of JJ's OK Corral.

Christina Aguilera
takes center stage.
She mounts
the silver football
crowning the
Holy Logo of the NFL
to sing the hallowed
Star Spangled Banner.

She fumbles her lines!
She forgot the rockets red glare!
The Steelers are crying.
The Packers are angry.
Ice melts from the stadiums roof.
The foundations of Jerry Jones
new stadium shakes.

A fly over of 4 fighters in formation
appears to be unaffected by the flub.
The planes do not crash.
They stay in formation.

The pilots spare Christina
a strafing and drone strike.
The republic remains
secure for now.

An unfamiliar announcer
addresses TV land.
He offers an apology to the fans
who cannot be seated.

The fire marshals
have revoked
Jerry's seating plan.
Greed got the better
of this man of the people.
Cowboy Stadium
is overbooked!

What is happening?
Is this America?
An ATT commercial
arrives just in time.

ATT has a new plan for America.
They encourage us to live social
with the new ATT AG.
Free market solutions
always work best.

Michael Douglas
reads another
patriotic exhortation.

"United we,
see the journey
of Acme Packers
as our journey."

"We see the resolve
of US Steel
as our resolve.
Big dreams
believe the best
journeys are
celebrated together."
(I'm down with that.
Whats good for Jerry Jones
is still good for me.
Right On! Check this stadium.
Power to the people!
It may not apply to the people who
will not be seated but tough nuggies.
This is America ******. Everybody
can't be seated at the table.
Even if they paid for their seat.
This ain't Red China.)

Neon Dion and other inductees
into the Football Hall of Fame
tosses the coin.
Steelers' call tails.
Heads it is.

At half time
The Black Eyed Peas
descend from
an upper Valhalla.

Still attired in
black fascist threads
The Righteous Peas
start wailing as
white metallic minions
dressed as
Imperial Storm Troopers
gallop to surround
their idols.

Precise formations
goose steppin bops
choreographic steps
the visceral *****
perfect counter-point
to swabbles of wiggling Peas.

Slash,
Guns and Roses
guitar hero
gunslinger
strode on stage
winging
this gal of mine
in choreographed
unison with
the leggy
Fergie.

Pumping it louder
the spectacle incites
the dancing
Imperial minions
quick steppin
and fetchin it
as Usher descends
in white unison
to leap and dance
over nasty
black peas.

The Gods
are descending
upon us.
Their words
have become
flesh.

The BEP's bleat
"kids are dying
wheres the love?"
Art does mirror life.

The neon hearts
of cheap
glow sticks
light up
the time
of our lives.

We are
cubed box heads
happily dancing along
the 50 yard line
answering China's
resounding drum
of frantic proletarians
bashing away
neocolonial disgrace
during the opening
ceremony of the worlds
greatest Olympian
display of
the pounding will
of an emerging nation
arriving on the world stage
with urgent insistence.

In America
we party on
every night
swiping
revoked
credit cards
for express lane
exits at the
local Walmart.

We are proud
highly personal
bar codes!

We refuse to be
marked down and flung
into discount bins at a
Tupelo Dollar Store.

Our light of life
flashes across screens
directing the trading pits
at the Chicago Board of Trade.

Each Super Bowl Sunday
souper bowl beggars
collect canned soup
for hungry Americans
at the local Shop and Drop

begging for larmen
boxes of Kraft
freeze dried noodles
and cans of Progresso
the feast of kings

A triumph
of the
Will I Am
BOOM BOOM
Says
Will I Am

I finish my bag of
Cool Ranch Doritos
and lick my partners
fingers clean.

Music Selection
Steve Miller,
Livin in the USA


2/7/11
Oakland
jbm
(WIP)
Vanessa Gatley Jan 2015
Sometimes  I wanna be a scarf
   Just using my hands wrapped around your neck
     To keep you warm
        May  seem like I'm choking you but I'm not
     My hands can be your mittens
Soft and silky you cross round my neck
You smell like tinted ***
your color makes me worried
for I cannot run
You encircle
hold me down
Yet your warmth is
so confound
you bring color from my cheeks
a tribe of specks and fleets
your spindled gentle down
easily sets me down
As I slowly die
Tears rundown and fly
for the scarlet brings me to defeat
my throat scattered with ribbons
as a Red Scarf flows down
Bruce Ruston Feb 2015
I awoke as a tinder wolf
growling
a cut shawl man
dreaming of scarf’s
that left the world
drifting on infinite
dependency

I know I have
to wash
my human on
there are cigarettes
to be sung

could I be
a long shank man
a conqueror
or magician

No I am tinder wolf
howling,
hunting more
tobacco

Walking silent
forever
an assassin
Michael DeVoe Nov 2009
Moments
Like ordering two mochas
Just to watch you make them
Forgetting your name five times
Before getting your phone number
Wiping chocolate off your shirt
Trying unsuccessfully to flirt my way
Out of spilling on you
Little moments
Like finally having the guts to ask you out
Running to the coffee shop full speed
Just to find out it was your day off
Sulking my way through my third cup of tea
Cursing the fates for their insolence
Right until you walked in to cover someone else's shift
And running out too scared again
Little moments like those
Remind me why I fight through
Big times like these
Little moments
Like driving over the mountains
To get to the first big storm
Just to be the first ones to kiss in the rain
After the summer sun chapped our lips so long
We forgot the taste of our kiss
Little moments
Like the first time I took you out in heels
And you spent the whole night
Whispering to yourself about not falling
Right up until I fell twice
Down a flight of stairs
And for you
Little moments
Like you running over to pick my head up
Off the concrete
Staring at me with this look
That made me want to ask you if you were okay
Little moments
Like that remind me
That the big times like these
Are worth fighting for
That the big fights like these
Are worth ending
If only for the shot to have one more
Little moment
Like
A movie perfect scene in the snow
With snow ball fights, snow angels
And a snow man with coal for buttons
Eyes, mouth, sticks for arms and a scarf
But we didn't have a carrot
So you ran upstairs, broke off one of your heels
And called him Stalleto-face for a week
Little moments
Like
Burning three attempts at chicken cord en bleu
And begging the old woman on the phone
To put in one more order before they closed
And tipping $100 just to have the chance
To eat midnight fried rice on the living room floor
Because the table was full of
Foiled attempts at cooking
Little moments
Like those
So dear to me
Remind me there is no fight too big
To give up little moments with you
A collection of poems by me is available on Amazon
Where She Left Me - Michael DeVoe
http://goo.gl/5x3Tae
Nobody Sep 2017
First he demanded I force him on the bed.
He said don’t dare relent till he’s fully spent.
So I start by removing all of his clothes,
kiss and bite him all over, so very slow.

Then he makes me bind both his hands tight,
orders a satin scarf to blind his eyes.
Next I gently bite his neck on both sides,
stirred on even more by his ****** cries.

My tongue wants to lick him just where he likes,
he trembles and shakes as I lick him up right.
He’s hard and tasty, I tease him till I’m sore;
**** and stop, he can’t take it, and begs for more.  

My mouth is so warm, he’s slippery wet.
I take it, and smother my throat in the mess;
and after he’s been pushed so close to the edge,
he rapidly pounds my mouth till the end.
John Keats
John Keats
John
Please put your scarf on.
Kate Dempsey Dec 2010
Feng collapsed into the snow,
looking up into the sky and
thinking of lost comrades, all lost
in the war against Russia.
Not far away, Nikolai was doing the same.
Both of them, neither of them
could forget the other’s identity.
Russian.
Chinese.
Feng ran, approaching the Russian border.
The sound of an accordion.
The Chinese man runs faster,
running out of breath,
long, jet black hair hitting his face like little whips
as the Russian snow dried and cracked his lips.
Finally, Feng spots what he is looking for:
a grey coat and a flourish of a red scarf.
Feng calls out. Nikolai turns around.
The accordion falls to the ground
With a soggy thud.
They run together and embrace,
the coldness and the warmth both
Redden Nikolai’s face.
Feng falls, Nikolai catches.
Feng cries.
A wetness on his head.
A summons to look upward.
Nikolai’s… tears?
Will we meet again, Russia?
No, China.
Can we speak again, Russia?
No, China.
The two men release each other and stand tall once again
like soldiers.
Can we forget, China?
No, Russia.
Can we forgive, China?
No, Russia.
Feng stares.
Nikolai stares.
Nikolai’s hard, rough hands, cracked from the cold
reach toward his own neck.
His scarf.
He wrapped the scarf around his friend’s neck.
This is yours now. Remember me.
Feng’s teary eyes said Thank you.
Nikolai stares.
Feng stares.
Red eyes.
Red cheeks.
Both white faces longed for another word.
Finally, a movement.
Feng salutes and smiles to his forbidden friend.
A soldier’s farewell.
Nikolai smiles, but turns away,
Picks up his accordion and begins to play;
play the tune that his friend knows so well,
hoping that he would remember how it goes.
Feng’s cue.
He draws a flute from his sleeve
and begins to play
the tune that his friend knows so well.
They stand with their backs toward each other
and play that one last song together,
Memories of fellow soldiers and deceased friends
their war-torn countries,
how they were forced to hate each other,
their forbidden friendship.
The song ends.
The music stops.
A heavy pause.
Without another look, they walk away,
Enemy soldiers once again
But forever friends.
The snow falls between them,
Nikolai’s black hair thrashing
In the unforgiving Russian gust
That whispers betrayal! Mutiny!
Russia’s scarf cascading down China’s back,
waving goodbye to Russia
and turning China red.
copyright Kate Dempsey 2010

Reproduction in whole or in part is strictly prohibited.

I'm not entirely satisfied with this one. I believe that it has a really good concept behind it and I think it has a lot of potential to become a great poem. However, I would really appreciate some feedback. I really want to improve this one, as I think it can be saved.
L B Jan 2018
Pulling off my scarf
letting it drape like a resignation
across the back of a chair
The sun is setting
the room is dim
and almost orange –  and is
sometimes lonely
in its loss of day

I think of you now –  

and then

We were walking with our arms around each other

Always...

through the Boston Common
The air drizzled
with late-winter
melts
the cobbles
wet
The sounds of our steps
go on –  

Forever....

I turn to hang my coat

Night replaces you again
__


1-29-18
Remembering a night from the winter if 1970.  I was only 20.
It was only a moment, and perhaps it could only have been a moment, to have so captured eternity.

For Steve K
This English Thames is holier far than Rome,
Those harebells like a sudden flush of sea
Breaking across the woodland, with the foam
Of meadow-sweet and white anemone
To fleck their blue waves,—God is likelier there
Than hidden in that crystal-hearted star the pale monks bear!

Those violet-gleaming butterflies that take
Yon creamy lily for their pavilion
Are monsignores, and where the rushes shake
A lazy pike lies basking in the sun,
His eyes half shut,—he is some mitred old
Bishop in partibus! look at those gaudy scales all green and gold.

The wind the restless prisoner of the trees
Does well for Palaestrina, one would say
The mighty master’s hands were on the keys
Of the Maria *****, which they play
When early on some sapphire Easter morn
In a high litter red as blood or sin the Pope is borne

From his dark House out to the Balcony
Above the bronze gates and the crowded square,
Whose very fountains seem for ecstasy
To toss their silver lances in the air,
And stretching out weak hands to East and West
In vain sends peace to peaceless lands, to restless nations rest.

Is not yon lingering orange after-glow
That stays to vex the moon more fair than all
Rome’s lordliest pageants! strange, a year ago
I knelt before some crimson Cardinal
Who bare the Host across the Esquiline,
And now—those common poppies in the wheat seem twice as fine.

The blue-green beanfields yonder, tremulous
With the last shower, sweeter perfume bring
Through this cool evening than the odorous
Flame-jewelled censers the young deacons swing,
When the grey priest unlocks the curtained shrine,
And makes God’s body from the common fruit of corn and vine.

Poor Fra Giovanni bawling at the mass
Were out of tune now, for a small brown bird
Sings overhead, and through the long cool grass
I see that throbbing throat which once I heard
On starlit hills of flower-starred Arcady,
Once where the white and crescent sand of Salamis meets sea.

Sweet is the swallow twittering on the eaves
At daybreak, when the mower whets his scythe,
And stock-doves murmur, and the milkmaid leaves
Her little lonely bed, and carols blithe
To see the heavy-lowing cattle wait
Stretching their huge and dripping mouths across the farmyard gate.

And sweet the hops upon the Kentish leas,
And sweet the wind that lifts the new-mown hay,
And sweet the fretful swarms of grumbling bees
That round and round the linden blossoms play;
And sweet the heifer breathing in the stall,
And the green bursting figs that hang upon the red-brick wall,

And sweet to hear the cuckoo mock the spring
While the last violet loiters by the well,
And sweet to hear the shepherd Daphnis sing
The song of Linus through a sunny dell
Of warm Arcadia where the corn is gold
And the slight lithe-limbed reapers dance about the wattled fold.

And sweet with young Lycoris to recline
In some Illyrian valley far away,
Where canopied on herbs amaracine
We too might waste the summer-tranced day
Matching our reeds in sportive rivalry,
While far beneath us frets the troubled purple of the sea.

But sweeter far if silver-sandalled foot
Of some long-hidden God should ever tread
The Nuneham meadows, if with reeded flute
Pressed to his lips some Faun might raise his head
By the green water-flags, ah! sweet indeed
To see the heavenly herdsman call his white-fleeced flock to feed.

Then sing to me thou tuneful chorister,
Though what thou sing’st be thine own requiem!
Tell me thy tale thou hapless chronicler
Of thine own tragedies! do not contemn
These unfamiliar haunts, this English field,
For many a lovely coronal our northern isle can yield

Which Grecian meadows know not, many a rose
Which all day long in vales AEolian
A lad might seek in vain for over-grows
Our hedges like a wanton courtesan
Unthrifty of its beauty; lilies too
Ilissos never mirrored star our streams, and cockles blue

Dot the green wheat which, though they are the signs
For swallows going south, would never spread
Their azure tents between the Attic vines;
Even that little **** of ragged red,
Which bids the robin pipe, in Arcady
Would be a trespasser, and many an unsung elegy

Sleeps in the reeds that fringe our winding Thames
Which to awake were sweeter ravishment
Than ever Syrinx wept for; diadems
Of brown bee-studded orchids which were meant
For Cytheraea’s brows are hidden here
Unknown to Cytheraea, and by yonder pasturing steer

There is a tiny yellow daffodil,
The butterfly can see it from afar,
Although one summer evening’s dew could fill
Its little cup twice over ere the star
Had called the lazy shepherd to his fold
And be no prodigal; each leaf is flecked with spotted gold

As if Jove’s gorgeous leman Danae
Hot from his gilded arms had stooped to kiss
The trembling petals, or young Mercury
Low-flying to the dusky ford of Dis
Had with one feather of his pinions
Just brushed them! the slight stem which bears the burden of its suns

Is hardly thicker than the gossamer,
Or poor Arachne’s silver tapestry,—
Men say it bloomed upon the sepulchre
Of One I sometime worshipped, but to me
It seems to bring diviner memories
Of faun-loved Heliconian glades and blue nymph-haunted seas,

Of an untrodden vale at Tempe where
On the clear river’s marge Narcissus lies,
The tangle of the forest in his hair,
The silence of the woodland in his eyes,
Wooing that drifting imagery which is
No sooner kissed than broken; memories of Salmacis

Who is not boy nor girl and yet is both,
Fed by two fires and unsatisfied
Through their excess, each passion being loth
For love’s own sake to leave the other’s side
Yet killing love by staying; memories
Of Oreads peeping through the leaves of silent moonlit trees,

Of lonely Ariadne on the wharf
At Naxos, when she saw the treacherous crew
Far out at sea, and waved her crimson scarf
And called false Theseus back again nor knew
That Dionysos on an amber pard
Was close behind her; memories of what Maeonia’s bard

With sightless eyes beheld, the wall of Troy,
Queen Helen lying in the ivory room,
And at her side an amorous red-lipped boy
Trimming with dainty hand his helmet’s plume,
And far away the moil, the shout, the groan,
As Hector shielded off the spear and Ajax hurled the stone;

Of winged Perseus with his flawless sword
Cleaving the snaky tresses of the witch,
And all those tales imperishably stored
In little Grecian urns, freightage more rich
Than any gaudy galleon of Spain
Bare from the Indies ever! these at least bring back again,

For well I know they are not dead at all,
The ancient Gods of Grecian poesy:
They are asleep, and when they hear thee call
Will wake and think ‘t is very Thessaly,
This Thames the Daulian waters, this cool glade
The yellow-irised mead where once young Itys laughed and played.

If it was thou dear jasmine-cradled bird
Who from the leafy stillness of thy throne
Sang to the wondrous boy, until he heard
The horn of Atalanta faintly blown
Across the Cumnor hills, and wandering
Through Bagley wood at evening found the Attic poets’ spring,—

Ah! tiny sober-suited advocate
That pleadest for the moon against the day!
If thou didst make the shepherd seek his mate
On that sweet questing, when Proserpina
Forgot it was not Sicily and leant
Across the mossy Sandford stile in ravished wonderment,—

Light-winged and bright-eyed miracle of the wood!
If ever thou didst soothe with melody
One of that little clan, that brotherhood
Which loved the morning-star of Tuscany
More than the perfect sun of Raphael
And is immortal, sing to me! for I too love thee well.

Sing on! sing on! let the dull world grow young,
Let elemental things take form again,
And the old shapes of Beauty walk among
The simple garths and open crofts, as when
The son of Leto bare the willow rod,
And the soft sheep and shaggy goats followed the boyish God.

Sing on! sing on! and Bacchus will be here
Astride upon his gorgeous Indian throne,
And over whimpering tigers shake the spear
With yellow ivy crowned and gummy cone,
While at his side the wanton Bassarid
Will throw the lion by the mane and catch the mountain kid!

Sing on! and I will wear the leopard skin,
And steal the mooned wings of Ashtaroth,
Upon whose icy chariot we could win
Cithaeron in an hour ere the froth
Has over-brimmed the wine-vat or the Faun
Ceased from the treading! ay, before the flickering lamp of dawn

Has scared the hooting owlet to its nest,
And warned the bat to close its filmy vans,
Some Maenad girl with vine-leaves on her breast
Will filch their beech-nuts from the sleeping Pans
So softly that the little nested thrush
Will never wake, and then with shrilly laugh and leap will rush

Down the green valley where the fallen dew
Lies thick beneath the elm and count her store,
Till the brown Satyrs in a jolly crew
Trample the loosestrife down along the shore,
And where their horned master sits in state
Bring strawberries and bloomy plums upon a wicker crate!

Sing on! and soon with passion-wearied face
Through the cool leaves Apollo’s lad will come,
The Tyrian prince his bristled boar will chase
Adown the chestnut-copses all a-bloom,
And ivory-limbed, grey-eyed, with look of pride,
After yon velvet-coated deer the ****** maid will ride.

Sing on! and I the dying boy will see
Stain with his purple blood the waxen bell
That overweighs the jacinth, and to me
The wretched Cyprian her woe will tell,
And I will kiss her mouth and streaming eyes,
And lead her to the myrtle-hidden grove where Adon lies!

Cry out aloud on Itys! memory
That foster-brother of remorse and pain
Drops poison in mine ear,—O to be free,
To burn one’s old ships! and to launch again
Into the white-plumed battle of the waves
And fight old Proteus for the spoil of coral-flowered caves!

O for Medea with her poppied spell!
O for the secret of the Colchian shrine!
O for one leaf of that pale asphodel
Which binds the tired brows of Proserpine,
And sheds such wondrous dews at eve that she
Dreams of the fields of Enna, by the far Sicilian sea,

Where oft the golden-girdled bee she chased
From lily to lily on the level mead,
Ere yet her sombre Lord had bid her taste
The deadly fruit of that pomegranate seed,
Ere the black steeds had harried her away
Down to the faint and flowerless land, the sick and sunless day.

O for one midnight and as paramour
The Venus of the little Melian farm!
O that some antique statue for one hour
Might wake to passion, and that I could charm
The Dawn at Florence from its dumb despair,
Mix with those mighty limbs and make that giant breast my lair!

Sing on! sing on!  I would be drunk with life,
Drunk with the trampled vintage of my youth,
I would forget the wearying wasted strife,
The riven veil, the Gorgon eyes of Truth,
The prayerless vigil and the cry for prayer,
The barren gifts, the lifted arms, the dull insensate air!

Sing on! sing on!  O feathered Niobe,
Thou canst make sorrow beautiful, and steal
From joy its sweetest music, not as we
Who by dead voiceless silence strive to heal
Our too untented wounds, and do but keep
Pain barricadoed in our hearts, and ****** pillowed sleep.

Sing louder yet, why must I still behold
The wan white face of that deserted Christ,
Whose bleeding hands my hands did once enfold,
Whose smitten lips my lips so oft have kissed,
And now in mute and marble misery
Sits in his lone dishonoured House and weeps, perchance for me?

O Memory cast down thy wreathed shell!
Break thy hoarse lute O sad Melpomene!
O Sorrow, Sorrow keep thy cloistered cell
Nor dim with tears this limpid Castaly!
Cease, Philomel, thou dost the forest wrong
To vex its sylvan quiet with such wild impassioned song!

Cease, cease, or if ‘t is anguish to be dumb
Take from the pastoral thrush her simpler air,
Whose jocund carelessness doth more become
This English woodland than thy keen despair,
Ah! cease and let the north wind bear thy lay
Back to the rocky hills of Thrace, the stormy Daulian bay.

A moment more, the startled leaves had stirred,
Endymion would have passed across the mead
Moonstruck with love, and this still Thames had heard
Pan plash and paddle groping for some reed
To lure from her blue cave that Naiad maid
Who for such piping listens half in joy and half afraid.

A moment more, the waking dove had cooed,
The silver daughter of the silver sea
With the fond gyves of clinging hands had wooed
Her wanton from the chase, and Dryope
Had ****** aside the branches of her oak
To see the ***** gold-haired lad rein in his snorting yoke.

A moment more, the trees had stooped to kiss
Pale Daphne just awakening from the swoon
Of tremulous laurels, lonely Salmacis
Had bared his barren beauty to the moon,
And through the vale with sad voluptuous smile
Antinous had wandered, the red lotus of the Nile

Down leaning from his black and clustering hair,
To shade those slumberous eyelids’ caverned bliss,
Or else on yonder grassy ***** with bare
High-tuniced limbs unravished Artemis
Had bade her hounds give tongue, and roused the deer
From his green ambuscade with shrill halloo and pricking spear.

Lie still, lie still, O passionate heart, lie still!
O Melancholy, fold thy raven wing!
O sobbing Dryad, from thy hollow hill
Come not with such despondent answering!
No more thou winged Marsyas complain,
Apollo loveth not to hear such troubled songs of pain!

It was a dream, the glade is tenantless,
No soft Ionian laughter moves the air,
The Thames creeps on in sluggish leadenness,
And from the copse left desolate and bare
Fled is young Bacchus with his revelry,
Yet still from Nuneham wood there comes that thrilling melody

So sad, that one might think a human heart
Brake in each separate note, a quality
Which music sometimes has, being the Art
Which is most nigh to tears and memory;
Poor mourning Philomel, what dost thou fear?
Thy sister doth not haunt these fields, Pandion is not here,

Here is no cruel Lord with murderous blade,
No woven web of ****** heraldries,
But mossy dells for roving comrades made,
Warm valleys where the tired student lies
With half-shut book, and many a winding walk
Where rustic lovers stray at eve in happy simple talk.

The harmless rabbit gambols with its young
Across the trampled towing-path, where late
A troop of laughing boys in jostling throng
Cheered with their noisy cries the racing eight;
The gossamer, with ravelled silver threads,
Works at its little loom, and from the dusky red-eaved sheds

Of the lone Farm a flickering light shines out
Where the swinked shepherd drives his bleating flock
Back to their wattled sheep-cotes, a faint shout
Comes from some Oxford boat at Sandford lock,
And starts the moor-hen from the sedgy rill,
And the dim lengthening shadows flit like swallows up the hill.

The heron passes homeward to the mere,
The blue mist creeps among the shivering trees,
Gold world by world the silent stars appear,
And like a blossom blown before the breeze
A white moon drifts across the shimmering sky,
Mute arbitress of all thy sad, thy rapturous threnody.

She does not heed thee, wherefore should she heed,
She knows Endymion is not far away;
’Tis I, ’tis I, whose soul is as the reed
Which has no message of its own to play,
So pipes another’s bidding, it is I,
Drifting with every wind on the wide sea of misery.

Ah! the brown bird has ceased:  one exquisite trill
About the sombre woodland seems to cling
Dying in music, else the air is still,
So still that one might hear the bat’s small wing
Wander and wheel above the pines, or tell
Each tiny dew-drop dripping from the bluebell’s brimming cell.

And far away across the lengthening wold,
Across the willowy flats and thickets brown,
Magdalen’s tall tower tipped with tremulous gold
Marks the long High Street of the little town,
And warns me to return; I must not wait,
Hark! ’Tis the curfew booming from the bell at Christ Church gate.
Farzeen Rashid Jun 2020
Hijab.
It was my choice,
And my choice only,
To wear it.
When you spat at me with your foul words,
Your words become trivial,
Because you have no say in my life.
You fail to see the illuminating beauty of my hijab,
Because to you it’s just a filthy, pointless scarf.

My hijab is more than just a silly scarf,
It’s a veil worn for chastity,
And my protection from an evil and worldly life.
I cover up to please my God and no one else.

Though a costly decision,
People I loved let me go,
And I was a centrepiece for name calling and contempt,
But I would sacrifice anything for my God.

I may have no hijabi companions,
But I remain standing strong when everyone else is silently sitting.
I withhold a story behind my scarf,
And I’ll be standing there,
Alone.
I’ll always be the elephant in the room,
But I chose to be instead of running away from it,
That is called bravery.

I have a freedom of expression,
Of practicing my religion,
And wearing my hijab.
Nothing will make me stop,
Nothing,
Not even your stupid words that run free on your tongue.

I’m not a terrorist because of my hijab,
And I’m not a ***** head because of my hijab.
I won’t mould into your words.

My hijab doesn’t stop me from being beautiful.
I shouldn’t be judged for the beauty of my appearance,
Because I’m not a display in a museum,
I’m a human.
I should be judged for the beauty of my character,
And my gracious spirit.

I’m not defined by external beauty,
I am defined by the beauty of my powerful knowledge,
And all the good that I do.
Because outer beauty does nothing but amuse,
But intelligence moves you.

I am beautiful,
My scarf may limit surface glamor,
But my hijab never fails to radiate beauty.

— The End —