"tilley" poems
Cold, crouched with hands numb
The light flickers and the wind cuts deep
Leaning over the warm glass globe
It provides heat and light
Pumping the fuel, building pressure
All is well when you hear the sound of a hissing Tilley lamp.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 5:22 AM UTC
Lost to the in-mind,
Eyes almost teary with exhaustion as city exhaust expends my already weary body, (... mind... soul!...)
I walked into the washroom at Tilley's travel emporium (you know those hats you see on Steve Irwin? The stereotypically Australian saucers with a tilt like a collision? Tilley hats. They were invented by the creator of this store.)
and it smells like you.
all my weary head can imagine
is your
midnight mouse
of a snore
and
your
soft
lava-stone skin
the solar system of freckles on your shoulders
the stars of
birthmarks
on your
arm.
I say good night
as
Canada
tucks the 2 of us in
for the last time
until
April.
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 12:20 AM UTC
A tilley lamp
of Venus held,
immaculate, on solemn spurs
commands the fetid soul
to flourish, purged of
rancid frippery,
At last!, that mitred puritan
from white and treeless latitudes
returns a term of Nordic lore
to thorn this morning glorious.
Nov 11, 2017
Nov 11, 2017 at 10:52 AM UTC
scouts turned on tilley lamps
as night encircled their camp
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 7:27 PM UTC