"tailor" poems - Hello Poetry

"tailor" poems

Twenty-four years remind the tears of my eyes. (Bury the dead for fear that they walk to the grave in labour.) In the groin of the natural doorway I crouched like a tailor Sewing a shroud for a journey By the light of the meat-eating sun. Dressed to die, the sensual strut begun, With my red veins full of money, In the final direction of the elementary town I advance as long as forever is.

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Twenty-Four Years

Twenty-four years remind the tears of my eyes. (Bury the dead for fear that they walk to the grave in labour.) In the groin of the natural doorway I crouched like a tailor Sewing a shroud for a journey By the light of the meat-eating sun. Dressed to die, the sensual strut begun, With my red veins full of money, In the final direction of the elementary town I advance as long as forever is.

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Alexander K Opicho (Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected]) It is the 30th day of the months in Kenya State and corporate capitalist have now paid their workers Wages or salaries or stipends or emoluments all being remunerations While the rural bourgeoisie and urban bourgeoisie have also paid ex-gratia To relatives come over-aged workers who have declined retiring For the fear of looming starvation if at all they go home, where they were born, Nonetheless; proceed they receive will do nothing whatsoever As it will be stifled by the monster of desperate consumerism; So fat and gullible in this tiger of land in the region called Kenya; The terror peddling rent, courtesy of ruthlessness of the landlord Bills of electric power in their full monopolistic gear Bills of water devoid of quality, indifferent dysentery monger Wages for maid who keep on usurping the food of my child; milk Bills for gas, all of it redolent of comprador bourgeoisie in fashion, Hotel and bar bill - a surreptious one, as the bar girl only knows Airtime and renewal, TV channels and other screen capitalistic ploys Family trip to local resort in a feat of foolish consumerist venture, Money to the old mother at home and, sometimes depraved but patient father ARV’s money to my *** aids stricken sister at the village, my aunt also Tuition fees for my son at the kindergarten, who goes to schools but learns nothing fees balance which my wife has to pay at the tailor to ransom out her dress, M-Pesa and M-Swari loan repayment, this only for Kenyan 30th dayers They know the agony of dealing with Kenyan mega-capitalist safaricom ltd. This consumerism and **** consumerism, It is the menacing bane of the Kenyan poor It is the avaricious tube which siphons back The hard earned money from pockets of the poor Back to despotic account of the pitiless world pigshotry.

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Feb 28, 2014

Feb 28, 2014 at 9:35 AM UTC

alexander-k-opicho

END MONTHS CONSUMERISM

Alexander K Opicho (Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected]) It is the 30th day of the months in Kenya State and corporate capitalist have now paid their workers Wages or salaries or stipends or emoluments all being remunerations While the rural bourgeoisie and urban bourgeoisie have also paid ex-gratia To relatives come over-aged workers who have declined retiring For the fear of looming starvation if at all they go home, where they were born, Nonetheless; proceed they receive will do nothing whatsoever As it will be stifled by the monster of desperate consumerism; So fat and gullible in this tiger of land in the region called Kenya; The terror peddling rent, courtesy of ruthlessness of the landlord Bills of electric power in their full monopolistic gear Bills of water devoid of quality, indifferent dysentery monger Wages for maid who keep on usurping the food of my child; milk Bills for gas, all of it redolent of comprador bourgeoisie in fashion, Hotel and bar bill - a surreptious one, as the bar girl only knows Airtime and renewal, TV channels and other screen capitalistic ploys Family trip to local resort in a feat of foolish consumerist venture, Money to the old mother at home and, sometimes depraved but patient father ARV’s money to my *** aids stricken sister at the village, my aunt also Tuition fees for my son at the kindergarten, who goes to schools but learns nothing fees balance which my wife has to pay at the tailor to ransom out her dress, M-Pesa and M-Swari loan repayment, this only for Kenyan 30th dayers They know the agony of dealing with Kenyan mega-capitalist safaricom ltd. This consumerism and **** consumerism, It is the menacing bane of the Kenyan poor It is the avaricious tube which siphons back The hard earned money from pockets of the poor Back to despotic account of the pitiless world pigshotry.

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Would you judge me? Do y'know i wont judge you? Can I be anything I want to be? Or are there rules I have to conform to? Spaceman cowboy hippie gangster stoner rockstar chef painter poet playwright carpenter inventor scientist mathematician author actor gardener tailor sailor musician comedian doctor pilot barista volunteer partyplanner spiritualist director engineer psychologist beautician Please do forgive me but there's more. I'm greedy, I know, I want it all. Immense experiences galore. Money to me means null.

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Jan 6, 2014

Jan 6, 2014 at 8:52 AM UTC

Coteries are not for me.

Would you judge me? Do y'know i wont judge you? Can I be anything I want to be? Or are there rules I have to conform to? Spaceman cowboy hippie gangster stoner rockstar chef painter poet playwright carpenter inventor scientist mathematician author actor gardener tailor sailor musician comedian doctor pilot barista volunteer partyplanner spiritualist director engineer psychologist beautician Please do forgive me but there's more. I'm greedy, I know, I want it all. Immense experiences galore. Money to me means null.

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whom do you trust solider, sailor, tinker, tailor.... what eyes see the meaning of the blind what tongues listen...which lies in the picturesque morning beauty spins its deceptions with golden hued sunlight weaves its hand puppet theatricals made of fleeting wisps of smiles kissing gestures weakly delivered solider, sailor, tinker, tailor... they gather round the dead man some come to mourn the lost some come to rifle through his pockets some come to silently wait for their own fate he sits in his worn chair in a pool of lamplight with a small hammer in hand his spectacles on bridge of his nose tapping tapping ever so gently the thin metal mask tinker...tailor...sailor...solider the uniform of his mind shifts according to his lie his tool is always the deceptions and misdirections a sly smile...firm handshake...a signature style 'to whom do you trust' is a phrase that troubles him her perfume lingers in the air years have buried the cold war but not its warriors not their handiwork they dress the dead man for his burial with his decorations and platitudes with his shiny sword and neat uniform with honors they lay him with truths his secret they bury him why did he do thus....to whom did he answer to the tomb with his truths and lies to the tomb he gathers the long coat and the umbrella walks out in london's chill spring night to a bridge and throws a small box into the river long years after the cold war died these men of shadows still play these keepers of the gate still watch for hannibal and his horde solider, sailor, tinker, tailor whom do you trust

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Aug 1, 2014

Aug 1, 2014 at 11:03 AM UTC

mark-john-junor-1

solider, sailor, tinker....

whom do you trust solider, sailor, tinker, tailor.... what eyes see the meaning of the blind what tongues listen...which lies in the picturesque morning beauty spins its deceptions with golden hued sunlight weaves its hand puppet theatricals made of fleeting wisps of smiles kissing gestures weakly delivered solider, sailor, tinker, tailor... they gather round the dead man some come to mourn the lost some come to rifle through his pockets some come to silently wait for their own fate he sits in his worn chair in a pool of lamplight with a small hammer in hand his spectacles on bridge of his nose tapping tapping ever so gently the thin metal mask tinker...tailor...sailor...solider the uniform of his mind shifts according to his lie his tool is always the deceptions and misdirections a sly smile...firm handshake...a signature style 'to whom do you trust' is a phrase that troubles him her perfume lingers in the air years have buried the cold war but not its warriors not their handiwork they dress the dead man for his burial with his decorations and platitudes with his shiny sword and neat uniform with honors they lay him with truths his secret they bury him why did he do thus....to whom did he answer to the tomb with his truths and lies to the tomb he gathers the long coat and the umbrella walks out in london's chill spring night to a bridge and throws a small box into the river long years after the cold war died these men of shadows still play these keepers of the gate still watch for hannibal and his horde solider, sailor, tinker, tailor whom do you trust

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I hate it when dad comes home He is ***** and he has smelly feet Having spent long ours at construction site Smelly and filthy.. what a sight! I loath him, I look down on him When I walk pass the working site I turn my face, pretending he is out of sight I constantly accuse god, I said he isn't fair I want a different dad.. who drives a much better car goes to work wearing tie and suit The perfect dad I always think I should have... At school one day My best friend cried She was devastated Her rich dad left home left for good with a pretty woman... She has a house as big as a castle Fat bank accounts and pretty outfits Constantly travel around the world Houses, condos, hotels just name it where but she has no dad to cuddle anymore at night when she gets scared of storms and thunder I remember my dad's smelly feet instantly annoying.. disgusting.. frustrating.. This dad of mine I used to loath... But he works all day his sweat is his labor of love to bring food on the table... so we kids don't sleep hungry This dad of mine doesn't own expensive car has never been overseas has never worn a tailor made suit and but he loves us wholeheartedly... and always want to give only the best for us. This dad of mine whose smelly feet will annoy me forever but he loves his family truly and will never leave our side at anytime when we needed him most... I love you daddy All your perfect imperfections I am sorry................

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May 4, 2016

May 4, 2016 at 12:11 AM UTC

My daddy's smelly feet

I hate it when dad comes home He is ***** and he has smelly feet Having spent long ours at construction site Smelly and filthy.. what a sight! I loath him, I look down on him When I walk pass the working site I turn my face, pretending he is out of sight I constantly accuse god, I said he isn't fair I want a different dad.. who drives a much better car goes to work wearing tie and suit The perfect dad I always think I should have... At school one day My best friend cried She was devastated Her rich dad left home left for good with a pretty woman... She has a house as big as a castle Fat bank accounts and pretty outfits Constantly travel around the world Houses, condos, hotels just name it where but she has no dad to cuddle anymore at night when she gets scared of storms and thunder I remember my dad's smelly feet instantly annoying.. disgusting.. frustrating.. This dad of mine I used to loath... But he works all day his sweat is his labor of love to bring food on the table... so we kids don't sleep hungry This dad of mine doesn't own expensive car has never been overseas has never worn a tailor made suit and but he loves us wholeheartedly... and always want to give only the best for us. This dad of mine whose smelly feet will annoy me forever but he loves his family truly and will never leave our side at anytime when we needed him most... I love you daddy All your perfect imperfections I am sorry................

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This is now. Now is. Don't postpone till then. Spend the spark of iron on stone. Sit at the head of the table; dip your spoon in the bowl. Seat yourself next your joy and have your awakened soul pour wine. Branches in the spring wind, easy dance of jasmine and cypress. Cloth for green robes has been cut from pure absence. You're the tailor, settled among his shop goods, quietly sewing.

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Jul 16, 2016

Jul 16, 2016 at 4:22 PM UTC

This is now. Now is. Don't postpone till then. Spend the spark of iron on stone. Sit at the head of the table; dip your spoon in the bowl. Seat yourself next your joy and have your awakened soul pour wine. Branches in the spring wind, easy dance of jasmine and cypress. Cloth for green robes has been cut from pure absence. You're the tailor, settled among his shop goods, quietly sewing.

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This morning as I walked along the lakeshore, I fell in love with a wren and later in the day with a mouse the cat had dropped under the dining room table. In the shadows of an autumn evening, I fell for a seamstress still at her machine in the tailor’s window, and later for a bowl of broth, steam rising like smoke from a naval battle. This is the best kind of love, I thought, without recompense, without gifts, or unkind words, without suspicion, or silence on the telephone. The love of the chestnut, the jazz cap and one hand on the wheel. No lust, no slam of the door – the love of the miniature orange tree, the clean white shirt, the hot evening shower, the highway that cuts across Florida. No waiting, no huffiness, or rancor – just a twinge every now and then for the wren who had built her nest on a low branch overhanging the water and for the dead mouse, still dressed in its light brown suit. But my heart is always propped up in a field on its tripod, ready for the next arrow. After I carried the mouse by the tail to a pile of leaves in the woods, I found myself standing at the bathroom sink gazing down affectionately at the soap, so patient and soluble, so at home in its pale green soap dish. I could feel myself falling again as I felt its turning in my wet hands and caught the scent of lavender and stone.

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Mar 1, 2014

Mar 1, 2014 at 11:04 AM UTC

Aimless Love (by Billy Collins)

This morning as I walked along the lakeshore, I fell in love with a wren and later in the day with a mouse the cat had dropped under the dining room table. In the shadows of an autumn evening, I fell for a seamstress still at her machine in the tailor’s window, and later for a bowl of broth, steam rising like smoke from a naval battle. This is the best kind of love, I thought, without recompense, without gifts, or unkind words, without suspicion, or silence on the telephone. The love of the chestnut, the jazz cap and one hand on the wheel. No lust, no slam of the door – the love of the miniature orange tree, the clean white shirt, the hot evening shower, the highway that cuts across Florida. No waiting, no huffiness, or rancor – just a twinge every now and then for the wren who had built her nest on a low branch overhanging the water and for the dead mouse, still dressed in its light brown suit. But my heart is always propped up in a field on its tripod, ready for the next arrow. After I carried the mouse by the tail to a pile of leaves in the woods, I found myself standing at the bathroom sink gazing down affectionately at the soap, so patient and soluble, so at home in its pale green soap dish. I could feel myself falling again as I felt its turning in my wet hands and caught the scent of lavender and stone.

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Screaming What's the use----?? Flower of the Graces "The Tenth Muse" "Everyday Use It" The earth revolves Around the sun Minerals Love it Drink it vitamin C Mass of energy A-B-C The gravity every day We cannot use it_ Became the play money Copied tainted not the Bee's honey here's The everyday economy One lick of hope the envelope not much company Everyday- Einsteins Big profit scope The brainstorm Reign All signs detour cabin Choo Choo train caboose You nailed it the moose One footloose The one-man show Two women know The odds to their advantage Someone is the traitor Mom is the Tailor The zigzag lines Crazy cat felines "That's It" punctuality, Use your capability "Technet Technology" take a walk favorite park Shiba Inu rollover The bad ones the Millionaires homes flip over the do or dare We cannot pay NYC token fare Words are our power For Sale quick sales Being sold Too hot whats cold Those emails trying to delete (More casualties Tombstone mummies Democracy leading us like dummies chewing Bear Valentine gummies) Like the "Elephant Stampede" New Orleans parade Every day please donate We never know about our fate too early or late Every day new Providence Demon computer virus Love comes with confidence Love yourself and Venus Apples and oranges minus Use it You have a voice!!! City clean up cockroaches Swap your fake Rolex Watchtower index Trump tower complex "Eiffel Tower Use It" to be kissed Every day we need to cleanse The "Godly Shower" be blessed Practical Everday Use It Magical write poetically Precisely the right piece puzzle You are the one World it's you to dazzle*

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Feb 2, 2019

Feb 2, 2019 at 9:54 AM UTC

Everyday Use IT

Screaming What's the use----?? Flower of the Graces "The Tenth Muse" "Everyday Use It" The earth revolves Around the sun Minerals Love it Drink it vitamin C Mass of energy A-B-C The gravity every day We cannot use it_ Became the play money Copied tainted not the Bee's honey here's The everyday economy One lick of hope the envelope not much company Everyday- Einsteins Big profit scope The brainstorm Reign All signs detour cabin Choo Choo train caboose You nailed it the moose One footloose The one-man show Two women know The odds to their advantage Someone is the traitor Mom is the Tailor The zigzag lines Crazy cat felines "That's It" punctuality, Use your capability "Technet Technology" take a walk favorite park Shiba Inu rollover The bad ones the Millionaires homes flip over the do or dare We cannot pay NYC token fare Words are our power For Sale quick sales Being sold Too hot whats cold Those emails trying to delete (More casualties Tombstone mummies Democracy leading us like dummies chewing Bear Valentine gummies) Like the "Elephant Stampede" New Orleans parade Every day please donate We never know about our fate too early or late Every day new Providence Demon computer virus Love comes with confidence Love yourself and Venus Apples and oranges minus Use it You have a voice!!! City clean up cockroaches Swap your fake Rolex Watchtower index Trump tower complex "Eiffel Tower Use It" to be kissed Every day we need to cleanse The "Godly Shower" be blessed Practical Everday Use It Magical write poetically Precisely the right piece puzzle You are the one World it's you to dazzle*

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The tiny town's talented tailor swiftly sews silken suits, in his shop he plays the Wailers, Bob Marley fills his boots. Beside his shop sits Susie's Sushie, she serves him lunch every Tuesday, he leaves a tip because she treats him well, he's got a crush and she can tell. After lunch it's back to work, measuring here and stitching there, everything is done just savoirfaire. All the town folk say he is the master, he smiles at this and works all the faster. Then on the corner the clock strikes five, with the last suit hung he says enough of this jive. He shuts the light and locks the door, nine bells tomorrow he'll be back for more.

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Jun 16, 2012

Jun 16, 2012 at 8:33 AM UTC

irving-macpherson

Talented Tailor

The tiny town's talented tailor swiftly sews silken suits, in his shop he plays the Wailers, Bob Marley fills his boots. Beside his shop sits Susie's Sushie, she serves him lunch every Tuesday, he leaves a tip because she treats him well, he's got a crush and she can tell. After lunch it's back to work, measuring here and stitching there, everything is done just savoirfaire. All the town folk say he is the master, he smiles at this and works all the faster. Then on the corner the clock strikes five, with the last suit hung he says enough of this jive. He shuts the light and locks the door, nine bells tomorrow he'll be back for more.

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/ Many days I do not read any newspaper Even do not see television At all Many days have gone After You I do not read any poetry How to feel that since this morning! Repeatedly hear identifying tunes on the air Your arrival in the sky, The air reverberates Looks like another day In the Paradise, In another song, Which brings the soul The Aroma Everyone is coming out From all sides Young Old Babies Boys Women Men Everyone Everyone is clapping Singing the song of the same tune This song is not the song of Rain Not even a lamentation The Southern breeze whispering your words Slowly Said, The Little Tailor Bird No, No, Not such a summer afternoon Not even a hurricane warning Each of the human eye Follow the Eastern Sky Tireless Eye Watching the sun, The Red Sun, You went to bring dreams for us From the Sun Hundreds of thousands of people In his next question Hand with Flower Shoulder to Shoulder Today will be the day of strangers, The poet will come We are standing in the flowers Fist full of dreams to take Float in the sky with white clouds My dreams are calling again Today is not such an Autumn But Still feel like an Autumn Indeed, The poet will come, A poem in the New Where each word will be spoken dream Love to be evacuated Poems that will repay The debt to my Ancestor Take revenge on thee For their injustice, Torture Poems that would bring the stars For our next generation A poem that would bring the red rose for my darling, Would bring such a smile to my mother's face As Moon that smile And that is simply killed false dreams Will we ever Released Sing Freedom Songs The Poet, My beloved Poet You will come, Will surely come And will recite your immortal poem / @ Musfiq us shaleheen

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Jan 23, 2015

Jan 23, 2015 at 11:11 AM UTC

musfiq-us-shaleheen

The Poet Comes and Recites an Immortal Poem

/ Many days I do not read any newspaper Even do not see television At all Many days have gone After You I do not read any poetry How to feel that since this morning! Repeatedly hear identifying tunes on the air Your arrival in the sky, The air reverberates Looks like another day In the Paradise, In another song, Which brings the soul The Aroma Everyone is coming out From all sides Young Old Babies Boys Women Men Everyone Everyone is clapping Singing the song of the same tune This song is not the song of Rain Not even a lamentation The Southern breeze whispering your words Slowly Said, The Little Tailor Bird No, No, Not such a summer afternoon Not even a hurricane warning Each of the human eye Follow the Eastern Sky Tireless Eye Watching the sun, The Red Sun, You went to bring dreams for us From the Sun Hundreds of thousands of people In his next question Hand with Flower Shoulder to Shoulder Today will be the day of strangers, The poet will come We are standing in the flowers Fist full of dreams to take Float in the sky with white clouds My dreams are calling again Today is not such an Autumn But Still feel like an Autumn Indeed, The poet will come, A poem in the New Where each word will be spoken dream Love to be evacuated Poems that will repay The debt to my Ancestor Take revenge on thee For their injustice, Torture Poems that would bring the stars For our next generation A poem that would bring the red rose for my darling, Would bring such a smile to my mother's face As Moon that smile And that is simply killed false dreams Will we ever Released Sing Freedom Songs The Poet, My beloved Poet You will come, Will surely come And will recite your immortal poem / @ Musfiq us shaleheen

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I'm done trying to make myself beautiful I'm bored with mascara, weighing down my eyelashes gunking up my sight like a city sewer I'm finished with lip gloss a pop of shiny color on my wet mouth pulling you in for a sticky kiss I want to be ugly to let my pores gape wide and let in the air my skin breathing for the first time in years I want to claw off my clothing my fabric fittings sewn to slim me down to tailor me into something worth loving I want to be repulsively human maybe all of this is because you said how you always love the most disgusting things

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Jan 22, 2015

Jan 22, 2015 at 9:30 PM UTC

I'm done trying to make myself beautiful I'm bored with mascara, weighing down my eyelashes gunking up my sight like a city sewer I'm finished with lip gloss a pop of shiny color on my wet mouth pulling you in for a sticky kiss I want to be ugly to let my pores gape wide and let in the air my skin breathing for the first time in years I want to claw off my clothing my fabric fittings sewn to slim me down to tailor me into something worth loving I want to be repulsively human maybe all of this is because you said how you always love the most disgusting things

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Sailor, sailor You lost your anchor You lost your atlas Sailor, sailor You killed your comrades And there's no place on land for you Sailor, sailor They told you to never come back They told you to stop breathing Sailor, sailor And how about all the pain that you felt? Have you lost your heart? Sailor, sailor They hate you You are death itself, they say Sailor, sailor Are the tailor and the midnight boy in peace? Are their ghosts still haunting you? Sailor, sailor Have you lost the fear of that boat? That old broken boat that is you Sailor, sailor Did you feel the smell of home? Your comrades are on land Sailor, sailor How do you navigate on the gorge? How do you fight with the despair? Sailor, sailor I found your anchor and your atlas But they belong to another sir Sailor, sailor Did you give up on your destiny? You abandoned your crew Sailor, sailor Where will be your burial? Because you're dead after all Sailor, sailor If I say that I hate you Because you left your crew? Sailor, sailor You would answer me If I said that I hate you? Sailor, sailor If you're dead after all Why am I a ghost? Sailor, sailor Where is your heart? Because I don't want to suffer anymore Sailor, sailor Who are you after all? Because I'm a spectre of who you've been Sailor, sailor If I **** my comrades And leave the crew Sailor, sailor Am I going to be free from this despair? Will the darkness leave me? Sailor, sailor Why am I so sad If I'm a lonely ghost? Sailor, sailor They say that you are the worst The one who should never have existed Sailor, sailor What does it say about me? If you had not been born after all How could I be here? Sailor, sailor If you recover your anchor and your atlas If you recover your crew Do you accept me? Sailor, sailor If you are alive after all Can you lend me your name? Because I'm tired of suffering Sailor, sailor If I'm your heir Do you let me sail on that old boat? Sailor, sailor Do you let me be the death itself? Because I don't want to suffer anymore. Sailor, sailor Do you let me be just a ghost Wandering aimlessly through the darkness? Sailor, sailor Do you let me **** myself In order that I don't make anyone suffer anymore? Sailor, sailor Why did everything change? It was easier when we were all dreamers Sailor, sailor I want to be a sailor again In order that I can feel the smell of home Sailor, sailor If I'm not a sailor anymore Can I leave the boat? Sailor, sailor I want to embrace the sea Sailor, sailor I want to bleed with the sea. Sailor, sailor I want to understand completely Why I stopped being a sailor Sailor, sailor I'm going to become your comrade We will be dead after all.

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Dec 3, 2016

Dec 3, 2016 at 10:43 PM UTC

serafeim-blazej

Sailor, sailor You lost your anchor You lost your atlas Sailor, sailor You killed your comrades And there's no place on land for you Sailor, sailor They told you to never come back They told you to stop breathing Sailor, sailor And how about all the pain that you felt? Have you lost your heart? Sailor, sailor They hate you You are death itself, they say Sailor, sailor Are the tailor and the midnight boy in peace? Are their ghosts still haunting you? Sailor, sailor Have you lost the fear of that boat? That old broken boat that is you Sailor, sailor Did you feel the smell of home? Your comrades are on land Sailor, sailor How do you navigate on the gorge? How do you fight with the despair? Sailor, sailor I found your anchor and your atlas But they belong to another sir Sailor, sailor Did you give up on your destiny? You abandoned your crew Sailor, sailor Where will be your burial? Because you're dead after all Sailor, sailor If I say that I hate you Because you left your crew? Sailor, sailor You would answer me If I said that I hate you? Sailor, sailor If you're dead after all Why am I a ghost? Sailor, sailor Where is your heart? Because I don't want to suffer anymore Sailor, sailor Who are you after all? Because I'm a spectre of who you've been Sailor, sailor If I **** my comrades And leave the crew Sailor, sailor Am I going to be free from this despair? Will the darkness leave me? Sailor, sailor Why am I so sad If I'm a lonely ghost? Sailor, sailor They say that you are the worst The one who should never have existed Sailor, sailor What does it say about me? If you had not been born after all How could I be here? Sailor, sailor If you recover your anchor and your atlas If you recover your crew Do you accept me? Sailor, sailor If you are alive after all Can you lend me your name? Because I'm tired of suffering Sailor, sailor If I'm your heir Do you let me sail on that old boat? Sailor, sailor Do you let me be the death itself? Because I don't want to suffer anymore. Sailor, sailor Do you let me be just a ghost Wandering aimlessly through the darkness? Sailor, sailor Do you let me **** myself In order that I don't make anyone suffer anymore? Sailor, sailor Why did everything change? It was easier when we were all dreamers Sailor, sailor I want to be a sailor again In order that I can feel the smell of home Sailor, sailor If I'm not a sailor anymore Can I leave the boat? Sailor, sailor I want to embrace the sea Sailor, sailor I want to bleed with the sea. Sailor, sailor I want to understand completely Why I stopped being a sailor Sailor, sailor I'm going to become your comrade We will be dead after all.

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Images extracted from the tapestry of my dreams. Sewn intricate... Into a patchwork. A quilt, embroidered with lavish sequins and ornate beads. Bringing forth fantastical motifs... A dazzling display upon the backdrop of my dreamscape. Yet... This mosaic of dreams does not warm me so. It never lasts. They fall away like autumn leaves come the dawning sun. They get washed out and pulled into the tide, as the waves beat upon the shore of wakefulness. They fade into fragmented memories that make no sense... Incoherent and disjointed. Eventually, they disappear... For they do not belong in a world of worldly things and ticking clocks. Their intangible and mismatched nature render them inconsequential... Naturally... They get misplaced. But I am stubborn. I will fashion such a blanket. One that skirts the boundary of this realm and the other. I will tailor it so... So that... I will sleep tonight, swaddled tight and cocooned within its glorious seams. Tucked within the safety and warmth of this blanket... Woven immaculate... Out of worldly things and breathtaking dreams.

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Sep 30, 2016

Sep 30, 2016 at 10:14 AM UTC

Images extracted from the tapestry of my dreams. Sewn intricate... Into a patchwork. A quilt, embroidered with lavish sequins and ornate beads. Bringing forth fantastical motifs... A dazzling display upon the backdrop of my dreamscape. Yet... This mosaic of dreams does not warm me so. It never lasts. They fall away like autumn leaves come the dawning sun. They get washed out and pulled into the tide, as the waves beat upon the shore of wakefulness. They fade into fragmented memories that make no sense... Incoherent and disjointed. Eventually, they disappear... For they do not belong in a world of worldly things and ticking clocks. Their intangible and mismatched nature render them inconsequential... Naturally... They get misplaced. But I am stubborn. I will fashion such a blanket. One that skirts the boundary of this realm and the other. I will tailor it so... So that... I will sleep tonight, swaddled tight and cocooned within its glorious seams. Tucked within the safety and warmth of this blanket... Woven immaculate... Out of worldly things and breathtaking dreams.

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1371 How fits his Umber Coat The Tailor of the Nut? Combined without a seam Like Raiment of a Dream— Who spun the Auburn Cloth? Computed how the girth? The Chestnut aged grows In those primeval Clothes— We know that we are wise— Accomplished in Surprise— Yet by this Countryman— This nature—how undone!

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3.5k

Emily Dickinson

How fits his Umber Coat

1371 How fits his Umber Coat The Tailor of the Nut? Combined without a seam Like Raiment of a Dream— Who spun the Auburn Cloth? Computed how the girth? The Chestnut aged grows In those primeval Clothes— We know that we are wise— Accomplished in Surprise— Yet by this Countryman— This nature—how undone!

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I meet a girl, her name is Kateryna A little angel, a ballerina Amazing eyes, a perfect smile She´s tailor-made, a unique style I try to impress, make her laugh I try to show, my other half She glances at me, what does she see? The invisible man, we can agree And if she knew, what I'm feeling And that my heart, she is stealing Would she change and look at me Setting the Invisible man, free.

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Jan 30, 2015

Jan 30, 2015 at 6:01 AM UTC

maddox-von-herzog

The invisible man

I meet a girl, her name is Kateryna A little angel, a ballerina Amazing eyes, a perfect smile She´s tailor-made, a unique style I try to impress, make her laugh I try to show, my other half She glances at me, what does she see? The invisible man, we can agree And if she knew, what I'm feeling And that my heart, she is stealing Would she change and look at me Setting the Invisible man, free.

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When, like a running grave, time tracks you down, Your calm and cuddled is a scythe of hairs, Love in her gear is slowly through the house, Up naked stairs, a turtle in a hearse, Hauled to the dome, Comes, like a scissors stalking, tailor age, Deliver me who timid in my tribe, Of love am barer than Cadaver's trap Robbed of the foxy tongue, his footed tape Of the bone inch Deliver me, my masters, head and heart, Heart of Cadaver's candle waxes thin, When blood, spade-handed, and the logic time Drive children up like bruises to the thumb, From maid and head, For, sunday faced, with dusters in my glove, Chaste and the chaser, man with the cockshut eye, I, that time's jacket or the coat of ice May fail to fasten with a ****** o In the straight grave, Stride through Cadaver's country in my force, My pickbrain masters morsing on the stone Despair of blood faith in the maiden's slime, Halt among eunuchs, and the nitric stain On fork and face. Time is a foolish fancy, time and fool. No, no, you lover skull, descending hammer Descends, my masters, on the entered honour. You hero skull, Cadaver in the hangar Tells the stick, 'fail.' Joy is no knocking nation, sir and madam, The cancer's fashion, or the summer feather Lit on the cuddled tree, the cross of fever, Not city tar and subway bored to foster Man through macadam. I dump the waxlights in your tower dome. Joy is the knock of dust, Cadaver's shoot Of bud of Adam through his boxy shift, Love's twilit nation and the skull of state, Sir, is your doom. Everything ends, the tower ending and, (Have with the house of wind), the leaning scene, Ball of the foot depending from the sun, (Give, summer, over), the cemented skin, The actions' end. All, men my madmen, the unwholesome wind With whistler's cough contages, time on track Shapes in a cinder death; love for his trick, Happy Cadaver's hunger as you take The kissproof world.

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3.4k

When, Like A Running Grave

When, like a running grave, time tracks you down, Your calm and cuddled is a scythe of hairs, Love in her gear is slowly through the house, Up naked stairs, a turtle in a hearse, Hauled to the dome, Comes, like a scissors stalking, tailor age, Deliver me who timid in my tribe, Of love am barer than Cadaver's trap Robbed of the foxy tongue, his footed tape Of the bone inch Deliver me, my masters, head and heart, Heart of Cadaver's candle waxes thin, When blood, spade-handed, and the logic time Drive children up like bruises to the thumb, From maid and head, For, sunday faced, with dusters in my glove, Chaste and the chaser, man with the cockshut eye, I, that time's jacket or the coat of ice May fail to fasten with a ****** o In the straight grave, Stride through Cadaver's country in my force, My pickbrain masters morsing on the stone Despair of blood faith in the maiden's slime, Halt among eunuchs, and the nitric stain On fork and face. Time is a foolish fancy, time and fool. No, no, you lover skull, descending hammer Descends, my masters, on the entered honour. You hero skull, Cadaver in the hangar Tells the stick, 'fail.' Joy is no knocking nation, sir and madam, The cancer's fashion, or the summer feather Lit on the cuddled tree, the cross of fever, Not city tar and subway bored to foster Man through macadam. I dump the waxlights in your tower dome. Joy is the knock of dust, Cadaver's shoot Of bud of Adam through his boxy shift, Love's twilit nation and the skull of state, Sir, is your doom. Everything ends, the tower ending and, (Have with the house of wind), the leaning scene, Ball of the foot depending from the sun, (Give, summer, over), the cemented skin, The actions' end. All, men my madmen, the unwholesome wind With whistler's cough contages, time on track Shapes in a cinder death; love for his trick, Happy Cadaver's hunger as you take The kissproof world.

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the politics of mirrors lies out of sight while the frogs in the pond fashionably late sing the swan song of separation no-mind-all-one the ******* tree fruits teeth and eats itself on impact leaving behind no trace of heart beat or throbbing veins but instead remembers itself on the earth as a skeleton bones made of the finest silver set of dining wares for to feast on the slack remaining weightless brain of a thing that spins the circles is sails like a tailor in a fire

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Jun 19, 2012

Jun 19, 2012 at 6:00 AM UTC

the politics of mirrors lies out of sight while the frogs in the pond fashionably late sing the swan song of separation no-mind-all-one the ******* tree fruits teeth and eats itself on impact leaving behind no trace of heart beat or throbbing veins but instead remembers itself on the earth as a skeleton bones made of the finest silver set of dining wares for to feast on the slack remaining weightless brain of a thing that spins the circles is sails like a tailor in a fire

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Once, I was excluded from love, in bitterness I cursed all that I saw, not knowing that this bitterness made me anathema to the very sensations I pursued. I spread hateful ideology, made every effort to share my misery, shouted condemnation at every pair of clasped hands, every kiss I saw made me retch. The bitterness welled up and poured forth from me, reppelling loves valiant attempts at liberating me from my tower cell. From my relatively pleasant existance I fashioned my own tailor fitted hell, which I wore everyday, steadily collecting filth, so soiled I had become. As I lifted the last shovelful from my early grave, and prepared to climb down within with my list of grievances against God stapled to my shirt, so I might never forget, my foot stepped out into the pit but a gentle hand clenched my shoulder and pulled me back from the hole, and I turned and discovered love... It does exist, none need be excluded, if the feeling exists for some all can be included. Love not for the pleasure of it, but for the pain, and strain, so that we may constantly measure it against the ache of loneliness and remind ourselves, that while love may be a neverending battle, surrender to hate brings nothing but ruin.

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Oct 7, 2012

Oct 7, 2012 at 11:28 AM UTC

Surrender To Hate...

Once, I was excluded from love, in bitterness I cursed all that I saw, not knowing that this bitterness made me anathema to the very sensations I pursued. I spread hateful ideology, made every effort to share my misery, shouted condemnation at every pair of clasped hands, every kiss I saw made me retch. The bitterness welled up and poured forth from me, reppelling loves valiant attempts at liberating me from my tower cell. From my relatively pleasant existance I fashioned my own tailor fitted hell, which I wore everyday, steadily collecting filth, so soiled I had become. As I lifted the last shovelful from my early grave, and prepared to climb down within with my list of grievances against God stapled to my shirt, so I might never forget, my foot stepped out into the pit but a gentle hand clenched my shoulder and pulled me back from the hole, and I turned and discovered love... It does exist, none need be excluded, if the feeling exists for some all can be included. Love not for the pleasure of it, but for the pain, and strain, so that we may constantly measure it against the ache of loneliness and remind ourselves, that while love may be a neverending battle, surrender to hate brings nothing but ruin.

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The Rav of Northern White Russia declined, in his youth, to learn the language of birds, because the extraneous did not interest him; nevertheless when he grew old it was found he understood them anyway, having listened well, and as it is said, 'prayed with the bench and the floor.' He used what was at hand--as did Angel Jones of Mold, whose meditations were sewn into coats and britches. Well, I would like to make, thinking some line still taut between me and them, poems direct as what the birds said, hard as a floor, sound as a bench, mysterious as the silence when the tailor would pause with his needle in the air.

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2.9k

Denise Levertov

Illustrious Ancestors

The Rav of Northern White Russia declined, in his youth, to learn the language of birds, because the extraneous did not interest him; nevertheless when he grew old it was found he understood them anyway, having listened well, and as it is said, 'prayed with the bench and the floor.' He used what was at hand--as did Angel Jones of Mold, whose meditations were sewn into coats and britches. Well, I would like to make, thinking some line still taut between me and them, poems direct as what the birds said, hard as a floor, sound as a bench, mysterious as the silence when the tailor would pause with his needle in the air.

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You might think you need a tailor But here's the only one you've got: A poor choice of cloth Married to a poorer thread Spawning knock-offs Over budget shops. So you may as well invest, For it matters not a jot What you think you choose to wear, It never really lasts. A tear here, a cut there; With cheap cloth, It does not take much To turn your life ragged.

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Apr 27, 2015

Apr 27, 2015 at 4:47 PM UTC

You might think you need a tailor But here's the only one you've got: A poor choice of cloth Married to a poorer thread Spawning knock-offs Over budget shops. So you may as well invest, For it matters not a jot What you think you choose to wear, It never really lasts. A tear here, a cut there; With cheap cloth, It does not take much To turn your life ragged.

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Here is a thimble. Your finger is protected from ****** when sewing a passionate garment. Yet the blood of a tailor, is a blessing in dark garb. Discard metal and thread carelessly. My skirt is wine red and parched.

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Apr 1, 2014

Apr 1, 2014 at 7:55 AM UTC

A kiss or a thimble

Here is a thimble. Your finger is protected from ****** when sewing a passionate garment. Yet the blood of a tailor, is a blessing in dark garb. Discard metal and thread carelessly. My skirt is wine red and parched.

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അ** Getting closer, to the just bloomed flower that bewitched him in an instant, the honey bee gets intoxicated by the web of love, the sweet flower threw around, it felt more like a gentle caress to which his heart jumped! He starts to do an ecstatic dance, never thought he could, till this sweet moment arrived, merely touching her soft petals he flies high as if to proclaim his pleasure buzzing a new tune he composed for this special moment, he circles the flower as if to adore her beauty form all possible angles making the moments of love so special for them both.. ആ** A butterfly enchanted by the flower,next has a dance of love so different, he would flit around and hover above adore her beauty in a more relaxed pace, he appreciates her silence to his soft declarations, his love songs have no words, on air written by the sprightly moves of his colorful wings, he knows she loves it and his dance tells it all. Like a kite on the waves of wind, he bobs on air gently descending,looking at her eyes. ഇ** The tailor bird who never misses mother nature's children all,big and small, in their myriad ways of loving and living watches what's going on, without batting an eye lid, she has a doubt "Who among these lovers are more intense?" she thinks aloud.** ഈ** The sonorous singer, Bulbul watching it all from the hanging branch of a Champak, flowered in riotous profusion answers: ഉ "Both are poets, no doubt, of distinction too, each of their deeds spontaneous demonstrates, with hearts full of love they wave poetry around us in ways ingenious paired with flowers. why compare them? Mother nature's brush dexterous paints each one of us with such loving care and kindness to infuse celebratory spirit,to the world, never forget that,learn from the bees and butterflies."*

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May 10, 2017

May 10, 2017 at 12:07 AM UTC

Nature paints her poetry around us

അ** Getting closer, to the just bloomed flower that bewitched him in an instant, the honey bee gets intoxicated by the web of love, the sweet flower threw around, it felt more like a gentle caress to which his heart jumped! He starts to do an ecstatic dance, never thought he could, till this sweet moment arrived, merely touching her soft petals he flies high as if to proclaim his pleasure buzzing a new tune he composed for this special moment, he circles the flower as if to adore her beauty form all possible angles making the moments of love so special for them both.. ആ** A butterfly enchanted by the flower,next has a dance of love so different, he would flit around and hover above adore her beauty in a more relaxed pace, he appreciates her silence to his soft declarations, his love songs have no words, on air written by the sprightly moves of his colorful wings, he knows she loves it and his dance tells it all. Like a kite on the waves of wind, he bobs on air gently descending,looking at her eyes. ഇ** The tailor bird who never misses mother nature's children all,big and small, in their myriad ways of loving and living watches what's going on, without batting an eye lid, she has a doubt "Who among these lovers are more intense?" she thinks aloud.** ഈ** The sonorous singer, Bulbul watching it all from the hanging branch of a Champak, flowered in riotous profusion answers: ഉ "Both are poets, no doubt, of distinction too, each of their deeds spontaneous demonstrates, with hearts full of love they wave poetry around us in ways ingenious paired with flowers. why compare them? Mother nature's brush dexterous paints each one of us with such loving care and kindness to infuse celebratory spirit,to the world, never forget that,learn from the bees and butterflies."*

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I called to give you a rearrangement of irony and a bucket full of Jews, I tailor made a rebreather because the past connections were used . Indeed, just like a crossview that encouraged stars to collapse, then did a fix up for the X's and O's so every oxymoron followed with a laugh. A pail of shrubs, an ounce of yore, yesterday you were following your very own bated breath. Up until you challenged yourself to a duel, you didn't look so bad for a disastrous mess. Harms' Way could be the place in town where odds go to get even, or it could be the street where Blow-Pops aren't just made, but also handed out to toothless citizens. We the captured, please and thank you, sir and mam until our captors go, like if you imagine The Godfather in The Graduate, describing how the Komodo dragon roasts. We haven't made it thru a single day since they've come in packs of seven, but today we'll have the chance to share some face time with the hours that we are being given. Misty-eyed, mournful, and very sorry walked in separately from the yard. They drank cold-filtered PBR and joked about all the kids they may have fathered. Has it been four weeks or just four days, since the Ferguson, Missouri Captain resigned his post? I was always taught that for a captain to go out, he or she must go down with their boat. In time where boredom lays around with dynamite by the loads, tomorrow remind me of the basorexia I've had since we met not long ago.

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Mar 15, 2015

Mar 15, 2015 at 2:39 AM UTC

I called to give you a rearrangement of irony and a bucket full of Jews, I tailor made a rebreather because the past connections were used . Indeed, just like a crossview that encouraged stars to collapse, then did a fix up for the X's and O's so every oxymoron followed with a laugh. A pail of shrubs, an ounce of yore, yesterday you were following your very own bated breath. Up until you challenged yourself to a duel, you didn't look so bad for a disastrous mess. Harms' Way could be the place in town where odds go to get even, or it could be the street where Blow-Pops aren't just made, but also handed out to toothless citizens. We the captured, please and thank you, sir and mam until our captors go, like if you imagine The Godfather in The Graduate, describing how the Komodo dragon roasts. We haven't made it thru a single day since they've come in packs of seven, but today we'll have the chance to share some face time with the hours that we are being given. Misty-eyed, mournful, and very sorry walked in separately from the yard. They drank cold-filtered PBR and joked about all the kids they may have fathered. Has it been four weeks or just four days, since the Ferguson, Missouri Captain resigned his post? I was always taught that for a captain to go out, he or she must go down with their boat. In time where boredom lays around with dynamite by the loads, tomorrow remind me of the basorexia I've had since we met not long ago.

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I fashioned myself a dress of black lace; Dark and elegant, epitome of grace; Soft on my skin, caress like a lover's, My comfort, my design, a haven of covers. They called it macabre - filled them with unease; Dangerous, they said, termed it a disease. And yes, I'm unwell, but darkness is my veil - A reprieve from hell, solace without fail. I am the tailor, the sculptor of shadows, The reaper of melancholy my art sows. And yes, it is odd, fragile, morose - The marble thorns of an obsidian rose. The judging whispers that follow in my wake, Can't comprehend I do this for my sake: The sharp edges they call jarring and cold - They are my palace, impenetrable stronghold. Where others see emptiness, I notice lace, The gossamer threads of a misty embrace; They are but blind to the kingdom of nothing, Only see moats, and wall canons jutting. My castle of ghosts, the court I control, Those remain hidden, deep in my soul. The siren song, my foggy lullaby, The velvety clouds on which my thoughts lie. It is morphium, made in my mind Embroidered dullness only I can find. The words bounce off my protective bubble, Your bombs shatter into a gray rubble. I blow it away, along with my fears, I got good at this, during the years. Give me some credit, I am no fool, Where others would drown, I can rule; I know not to freeze, when water's too cool, The fire you'd burn in, I use as fuel. Yes, it's a thin line, I know it best, But I'm a trapeze-artist, can pass the test; A veteran of trade, the air is my nest, I've learned to live without getting rest. And I know my limits, how far I can press, Worry you not, I've survived on much less. I'm not glass, disperse your concerns, If need be, the lace to razor wire turns.

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Sep 20, 2020

Sep 20, 2020 at 6:16 AM UTC

I fashioned myself a dress of black lace; Dark and elegant, epitome of grace; Soft on my skin, caress like a lover's, My comfort, my design, a haven of covers. They called it macabre - filled them with unease; Dangerous, they said, termed it a disease. And yes, I'm unwell, but darkness is my veil - A reprieve from hell, solace without fail. I am the tailor, the sculptor of shadows, The reaper of melancholy my art sows. And yes, it is odd, fragile, morose - The marble thorns of an obsidian rose. The judging whispers that follow in my wake, Can't comprehend I do this for my sake: The sharp edges they call jarring and cold - They are my palace, impenetrable stronghold. Where others see emptiness, I notice lace, The gossamer threads of a misty embrace; They are but blind to the kingdom of nothing, Only see moats, and wall canons jutting. My castle of ghosts, the court I control, Those remain hidden, deep in my soul. The siren song, my foggy lullaby, The velvety clouds on which my thoughts lie. It is morphium, made in my mind Embroidered dullness only I can find. The words bounce off my protective bubble, Your bombs shatter into a gray rubble. I blow it away, along with my fears, I got good at this, during the years. Give me some credit, I am no fool, Where others would drown, I can rule; I know not to freeze, when water's too cool, The fire you'd burn in, I use as fuel. Yes, it's a thin line, I know it best, But I'm a trapeze-artist, can pass the test; A veteran of trade, the air is my nest, I've learned to live without getting rest. And I know my limits, how far I can press, Worry you not, I've survived on much less. I'm not glass, disperse your concerns, If need be, the lace to razor wire turns.

Continue reading...