"scarfs" poems
I saw you in winter,
and thought of tree branches feathered by starlight in poorly lit neighborhoods. A hearth where the more honest parts of myself, I am bared fetal, warmed upon, welcomed.
I saw you in spring,
and thought of long drives in the countryside in the rain. Ice cream melting from our chins dancing petrichor upon our toes, kissing by the sea shore.
I saw you in summer,
and thought of sleepy boathouses, uncovering ancient childhood treasures in the woods. A secret lake somewhere, the sky's reflection in promise. Windy hilltops upon which to blame each other for the sunrise.
I saw you in autumn,
and thought of scarfs and cafes, city streets and sunsets where we watched each others breath escape. Apartment staircases where windchill hibernates, the world slowing down around us from your window.
The first time I saw You, I thought to myself, "I could live there."
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 5:24 PM UTC
I know I'm not the only one,
With scars from your lips placed on my body,
Who wears scarfs to hide because you don't want her knowing,
How dreadful that would be,
For her to know she's not the only one,
She's not the only one,
With the lights off,
As well with the clothes,
How lovely that would be,
To be the only one,
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 12:02 AM UTC
Braided brushed tied up
the princess and her jewels
hair fair platted with history
servants standing by swords ready
gold hats seamed silver pulled tight
with silk ribbons and scarfs full beaded
this is a Viking girl astride her war horse
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 10:20 PM UTC
I used to read
I used to write
Songs,
Stories,
Poetry.
I used to knit
I used to sew
Plushies,
Scarfs,
Roses.
What happened to the days
Where I found enjoyment from the little things?
Why is it now
That what I once loved
Feels like a chore
That tires me,
Bores me,
Makes me contemplate everything.
What happened to my carefree childhood
Where nothing mattered
Other than when I could write
Songs,
Stories,
Poetry?
When I uses to knit and sew
Plushies,
Scarfs,
Roses?
What happened?
And why?
Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 5:51 AM UTC
The birch tree in winter
Leaning over the secret pool
Is Narcissus in love
With the slight white branches,
The slim trunk,
In the dark glass;
But,
Spring coming on,
Is afraid,
And scarfs the white limbs
In green.
6.1k
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.
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 9:55 PM UTC
This poem is composed by: a Nonet, a Kyrielle Sonnet, a Free verse part, a Terzanelle and another Free verse part:
In a juerga there’s nothing around
But voices, flamenco guitars ,
Dancing bodies in moonlight,
Vibrant gypsy dresses,
Passion, obsessions,
Bullfighter’s blades,
Silk shawls,
Dancers,
Capes.
Old men have faces scorched and cracked,
Flamenco women to attract,
Like barks of olive trees in night.
Shirts dazzle white in the moonlight.
Girls have boot heels and huge roses,
Men clench their teeth , step opposes,
Hands clap and shout in a dance fight,
Shirts dazzle white in the moonlight.
Guitars are beaten at high speeds,
Castanets scratch the music’s seeds,
Rhythmic fingers snap air to bite,
Shirts dazzle white in the moonlight.
Old men have faces scorched and cracked,
Shirts dazzle white in the moonlight.
Hands becoming wings
In their shadows on the wall,
Red becoming black and
Black becoming white,
Motion vibrating the guitar's string,
Cubic movements of colors,
In their dance ,
Shadowy wings becoming scarfs,
Flamenco woman arching her body,
Showing her passion…
From the soul to dissolve
The dancing sounds detach
From the soul to dissolve
When the movement they catch,
They may change all around,
The dancing sounds detach.
Drums and tambourines’ sound,
Exotic wrists and swirls,
They may change all around.
The weightless grace makes girls
Steal treasures from the air,
Exotic wrists and swirls.
With beautiful black hair,
Rise like birds , fall like leaves.
Steal treasures from the air,
Having tricks up their sleeves,
From the soul to dissolve,
Rise like birds ,fall like leaves
From the soul to dissolve.
Spicy slippery steps
Waiting for a clue,
Picking up portions of pink
Of hyper-femininity ,
Overflowing screwy sounds
In heavy red chromesthesia,
Morphing themselves into glamorous ,
Red feminine movements,
Men looking like marble statues being alive,
Seemingly cracking.
Slowly diminishing their dancing rhythm,
Steps sickling sweet sounds
To hear the horn of some lost happiness.
Jun 5, 2012
Jun 5, 2012 at 4:36 PM UTC
Sticky Sticky, So **** Sticky,
Us Brits and our Weather
are so **** Picky
Sun Beats Down, Evaporates the Frowns
Then there's the complaints for which wer are so renowned
Too Cold, Too Hot, Please Just Stop...
I was waiting all winter long and now you strop
I much prefer shades to a winters coat
Up round my **** not up round my throat
Own far more Mini's than I do Scarfs
and it was the Summer Holiday's I had most Laughs
So you can keep your dreams of cosy nights in
As I excite the 'Vit D' and Tan my Skin
All trhose extra layers keeping you wrapped
I prefer the White lines where my Crop-Top Strapped
"I can't Move, Think I'm Melting",
I quickly choose 'Rays' over 'Downpours' or 'Peltings'
Sitting at this screen writing is now getting Tricky
It's Sticky Sticky....Too ****** Sticky... Yeergh!
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 7:07 PM UTC
When thou art gone, the little sunlit shadows
Still may dance, and the flowers nod,
And the trees whisper confidently one to the other.
When thou art gone, the day may be
No longer bright, but with slow tread pass on;
And the sun shall lag, and the moon be late in coming;
And the stars shall be lone-beamed,
And faintly gleaming, and the valleys shall draw
Their scarfs of mist about their *******
When thou art gone, the lilac nodding yon,
Shall make a sign of understanding.
When thou art gone,
No path shall seem to call invitingly.
When thou art gone,
The songs shall lack a tenderer chord.
But I shall not unhappy be!
For I shall follow thee,
Leaving all the mourning.
2.6k
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.
Jun 6, 2017
Jun 6, 2017 at 2:30 AM UTC
days are getting longer
colors, warm and bright
as flowers bloom,
I wonder
Is it spring outside
sweat and tastes of icecream
sunlight in my back
burning nights and feverish dreams
it's summer in my flat
rain and whirling, falling leafes
tea and halloween
wandering birds and deepest grieve
it's autum so it seems
damping breath and snow
scarfs and woolen coats
powdered, white wonderworld
and winter's shadows grow
Jan 15, 2019
Jan 15, 2019 at 2:48 PM UTC
Here’s to the poets;
Here’s to the lives
That started and ended
In short sentences,
Hiding behind the words and the commas,
In between the lines
There is a space;
There is a space for poets
To dream and dissect dreams,to
Examine the heights of their rationale
And the depth of their emotions,
Like teleporting from the tops of Adonis
To the bottom of dark alleys in Hamra.
Here’s to the artists,
Here’s to the works of art
Forgotten on sharp corners
Between the margins in a copybook
And light emerging from their classroom windows;
Here’s to the scribbles
That created life, when living
Seemed impossible.
Here’s to the outcasts,
Here’s to the girls
Who read comics
About super heroes
Hiding behind
Kashmir scarfs and ripped jeans,
Reading 6 words at a time
Because the area of a flashlight
Covers just enough to get her wondering,
To get her to forget how
Her tight jeans left scars on her untouched thighs,
And how her feet were painted red
Before and after
She had to wear twin towers to walk in.
Here’s to the jokers,
Here’s to the unappreciated laughter
To whatever happens after
Here’s to the grand stages you formed
Out of two desks put together
And a pencil/eraser microphone;
Here’s to us,
To our shattered talents and lost souls
Here’s to our oppressed minds
And distorted comprehension of ourselves
Here’s to us
And who ever falls in love with us.
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 7:42 PM UTC
*The unexpected snow, disruptive,
in ways more burdensome,
than mere fender benders and
swapping travelogue commutation miseries
ah, the tv reporters regale
with snow tales, human fails,
but where do you hear
of the children
burnt once by fire
then again, now,
again!
burnt by snow.
here, hear, listen here
technology moves forward,
grafting new shells of skin
on burnt children,
but tonite you're cozy thinking
of your valentine's heart,
not of the little ones,
whose hearts are unprotected,
by what we take so for granted
beneath our protective gloves and coats, scarfs and boots,
our prophylactic human skin,
theirs, fire ravaged,
now re-hazardous,
by southern snows burning
these children hurt,
unexpectedly,
cannot play in the snow that came so
unexpectedly,
lest it burn them worse*
"in the children's burn unit, postponed all surgeries except 'emergency'. Two days of outpatient clinic patients forced to reschedule,. That then, postpones their surgeries, second step grafting, etc. Our vents ran smoothly I heard via the generators, unlike last outage. We had to ambulance each individual patient.
I dread going in tomorrow but small comfort,
it will be warmer than my cold home."
Life first, poetry second
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 3:31 PM UTC
Known for leading charges in to debauchery.
Fearsomely handsome burning blue eyes that long outlived his passing.
“Didn’t leave life unlived, did he?”
Reformed, unrepentant; grown wraithlike, diminished.
“If you give up, don’t moan about it; go back.”
The scholar who led a rebellion against performance.
The Lion in Winter.
The Ruling Class.
My Favorite Year.
Born August- the son of Constance, he grew up.
He gave up drinking- he did not give up smoking.
Cigarettes in an ebony holder, green socks, overcoats and trailing scarfs.
Good parts few and far between.
Waiting…you could wait forever.
Together with fine people, good companions with whom I've shared my belief.
My belief,
that one should decide for oneself,
when it is time to end ones stay.
I bid a dry eyed grateful farewell.
Audiences, critics, curiosity seekers
“My Favorite Year”
unlikely to win awards,
he clutched his statuette.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 11:32 AM UTC
I want to be your scarf,
So soft and mohair,
To warm you in snowfalls
And even in rainy autumn.
I will embrace your neck
Like a mother cradles her child.
I’ll save the warmth for you.
Put on the scarf, be so kind.
I want to be your scarf.
Oh, don’t wear scarfs? Well now,
If I can’t softly warm you,
I’ll be your skin somehow.
Feb 4, 2025
Feb 4, 2025 at 5:27 PM UTC
It's getting cold outside,
The chills are settling in,
Winter has now arrived,
The sign of frost has begun.
We're stlll in the season of autumn, but
Winter has now shown its face,
The days are nice, but Chilly,
Autumn has now been replaced.
The winter is cold and it's sharp,
Get ready for a frosty chill
Please wear your gloves, coats and scarfs,
For, winter time is here!!
B.R.
Date: 11/19/2024
Nov 19, 2024
Nov 19, 2024 at 7:50 PM UTC
SPRING IS
Rainbows and flowers,
Umbrellas and showers.
Easter eggs and bunnies
And bees making honey.
Green grass and daffodils
And hiking on new trails.
Gardens and fishing poles
And leisurely strolls.
SUMMER IS
Sunflowers and kites
And kids riding bikes.
Sunshine and shade,
Hot dogs and lemonade.
Sandcastles and waves
And long lazy days.
Home runs and sliders
And flying new gliders.
FALL IS
Long walks and sweaters,
Touchdowns and headers.
Red leafs and golden,
Soon to be stolen.
Pumpkins and costumes
And witches on brooms.
Turkey and dressing
And family blessings.
WINTER IS
Snowmen and scarfs,
Getting warm by the hearth.
Ice skates and hot chocolate
And gloves in your pocket.
Trees all alight
And cold winter nights.
Santa and sneezes
And little baby Jesus.
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 6:27 PM UTC
Autumn squash soup sits on window sill of cardboard boxes.
Pumpkin pie wafts down alleyway
sits against a house.
The earthy colored scarfs. The brown boots and the blue glow from the 360 degree moon.
All look beautiful on you.
The speed limit is 30 miles an hour here
But i've been going 45 And I never look at my speedometer.
When the cop lights shine behind me glowing white and red and blue
I'm reminded why in fall, the color orange doesn't scare me.
I get a knock knock on my window from a man dressed in blue.
And when he asks me if i'm guilty i can't help but dream of you.
It's still fall season.
And I don't have snow tires yet.
But the weather man in my head said i've got time.
Mr. Officer in response to your question
Yes, I know why you pulled me over.
It seems that i'm on roadside trial for daydreaming.
And that slightly blue glow from the 360 degree moon sure does look great against your blue suit.
Mr. Officer. The color orange doesn't scare me.
Pumpkin carving flicker glow
Lantern guide you too your child home
While your there is there a rope swing?
Is the grass cut? Are you dreaming?
Is there a pie in the windowsill?
Because the baker inside.
waits for me tonight.
And i've been apple picking lazer tag
Holding soft hands in a graveyard.
Singing showtunes in our costumes that we struggled to sew together.
Mr officer. Do you even like pie?
Do you dream the scent and flavors?
Does it linger in your mouth?
Because to be honest
I think I'm going to love her.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 4:17 PM UTC
While the moon bears our blood, we
think about someone we just met but
only until the moment the trade winds
blow the dust aside
An empty saxophone fills with air, playing
sadly until the moon stops to listen
He had to leave early to care for his life
He told her he needed time to fall in love
He thought about the way she smiled
He wanted to believe in her instincts
Was it her imagination that became impatient
Or the way he wiped her brow with her scarf?
It doesn’t take long to know, ships that
pass always remember; looking through
a silk scarf feels the same way, the airy
fabric enjoys trading the dust thread for
grain
Lonely circling bleeding making people
fear for their faith; allure matchmaker,
lovers together, feeling the tides within
crashing upon their desires
It was the time to be bold
Her eyes said so
But scarfs can fool a man and dust can
fool a sparrow; how would he know the
difference when it was his imagination
that must decide between moons passing
through shadows and misty eyed longing
that for a moment begged him to stop
sailing by
Aug 29, 2015
Aug 29, 2015 at 10:10 PM UTC
Hello my old heart
i'm sorry to say
that during all the time you took off
due to being broken
you my dear
have been replaced.
For what you may ask?
Because you were always
too busy sitting under my ribcage
knitting scarfs and hats of messy emotions for me to wear.
It made it a slight bit difficult for your co-worker, the brain, to function.
And you know how important it is, that he does.
See this new heart doesn't talk much.
Its calmly sits and listens obediently to the brain.
To be honest, its wonderful.
As much as i remember how fantastic it was
to let you, let me love.
I also remember how much i hated
how you let me hurt.
So now i want you to think of this
next time you are placed under someones ribcage,
If you had only listened to the brain
maybe you wouldn't have broken
and then maybe i never would have fired you.
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 8:02 PM UTC
Snow Sleep
the promise~warning of a fresh snow delivery
by milky white angels alters the soundscape
of the city; the early traffic is major muted; the
boisterous, ribald ribbing of teenage competition
is put away in the drawer, reserved for weekend
snow ball fights and Central Park mountain sledding
but what I come to tell you is of my beloved, who nearby,
advantaged by the silence deep sleeps in the ultra
quiet of the bedroom for I have tiptoed lightly away,
nary a squeak or a tweet to sting or wrest the cool
comfort of the concoction of dark+chocolate combo
of absolute silence, the political commentators must now wait their turn, while supping my endless Blue Mountain white mug
yes, even I, wide awake for hours, sense the ulterior
sensory deprivation, the only noise is the windage
of the air conditioning that refrigerates its humming
and the body’s humming response, a choral harmony
of shhhhh…
why matters this to you, I do not know, perhaps
a mutuality of recognition as your children exercise
their snow day privileges, letting you off the hook,
for there is always tomorrow when the dragging-
out-of-bed, the stomping of snow boots, and pleas
to help them find their hidden scarfs and gloves cannot
go ignored, or be silenced…today, this sound of snow~sleep,
a rarity for us city dwellers, who, the unfortunate few, will soon venture forth to meet obligations, completecontracts, open the shop,
write the reports and do the daily diurnal or place calls to counterparts overseas to jointly prognosticate the future of
the next twenty four, but with a snowy lethargy
I write, this, to you, to my children, to the world, but
mostly to my beloved, who, drugged by snow~sleep,
yet to stir, sleeps a soundless sleep of….
*wait-a-minute, 8:00am, and I hear a bellow of hello,
a lighthouse sound of warning, and kitchen noises,
the cicadas of circadian rhythms cannot be held back,
triumphantly awaken her, the habits of a lifetime
cannot be overcome…*
8:04am
nyc
2/13/24
Feb 13, 2024
Feb 13, 2024 at 8:15 AM UTC
A mosaic of falling seeds
spins me sickly into a coma.
The only thing that saves, keeps
me from tumbling down - her aroma.
All the thoughts like ants have gone away,
they crawled through my ears, my mouth.
Oh, the mouth, the royal taste - just stay,
rave on my flesh, love well-wrought .
And there I lie - on the lips
that are not mine - neither his.
Rather die than lose those strips
of pretty scarfs I could kiss.
Nov 24, 2020
Nov 24, 2020 at 6:14 AM UTC
I sent you a letter.
I'm sorry that I didn't just say it out loud,
but I couldn't look at you as our faces mirrored each other's heartbreak.
Yours then mine.
I couldn't be there as you struggled to give me an answer,
couldn't just tell you without giving you space.
I wish I could talk to you,
that my mouth won't fill with silence when it is opened.
That I'll stop wrapping the silence around me, desperate for its warmth in freezing days.
Yet still,
I sent you this letter, dear mother, because the waves held my face under your turbulence of expectations and the currents needed to change.
I didn't want to drown.
Forgive me for this letter, dear father, I know you prefer ignorance but it only leads to hate and anyway,
mother always says there's nothing you love more than your children and I didn't want to become a stranger.
I know this is hard, but I wish it wasn't.
I wish you'd paint your face with my colors, cheer from the stands, celebrate my existence as it is.
Still, I don't expect you to understand it,
I know it's foreign and new in your eyes.
I don't want you to tell me you still love me and that your love would always be unconditional,
I want to never have questioned it at all.
I don't want your sympathy.
There's nothing to be sad about, nothing to fix, nothing to mourn.
The future you visioned for me was never real, you never asked me anyway.
I don't want your acceptance.
It's just blank pages and silent mouths, I want your support.
The world is sharp and I just want to know you'll be there to clean away the blood.
I had to tell you because whenever I thought of who I am and heard your voice carried in the wind, I flinched and tensed as if you could look into my mind.
I needed to tell you because I am tired of hiding away flags and pins and scarfs,
bite my tongue around a joke,
overthink every passing comment that falls from your mouth.
I had to tell you because most of all I needed an answer.
So now,
please,
just write me back.
Dec 21, 2019
Dec 21, 2019 at 4:21 PM UTC
Image by UW Digital Collections via Flickr/ Ivan Novikoff was my ballet teacher for twelve years when I was very young. Kathleen Colby/view photo on my profile facebook
Gypsies dance while the world spins on and on…
Pacing a beach in Africa a lion yearns for freedom and fun.
This old beast has known the wilds and never spun to happy tides.
The girls have thoughts of glory in their heads; no lion tales do they dread.
The lion just wants to dance, his old legs wobble when he tries to prance.
The girls let their scarfs fly high, the wind whips them as it should into the sky.
A perfume hits the lion’s nose; he lays down dead, he is very old.
The girls dance on without a thought.
A dead lion in Africa should have been taught that ballet
dancing is for the very young when you get old you are done.
Oct 11, 2010
Oct 11, 2010 at 9:16 AM UTC