"trenchcoat" poems
A story, a story!
(Let it go. Let it come.)
I was stamped out like a Plymouth fender
into this world.
First came the crib
with its glacial bars.
Then dolls
and the devotion to their plactic mouths.
Then there was school,
the little straight rows of chairs,
blotting my name over and over,
but undersea all the time,
a stranger whose elbows wouldn't work.
Then there was life
with its cruel houses
and people who seldom touched-
though touch is all-
but I grew,
like a pig in a trenchcoat I grew,
and then there were many strange apparitions,
the nagging rain, the sun turning into poison
and all of that, saws working through my heart,
but I grew, I grew,
and God was there like an island I had not rowed to,
still ignorant of Him, my arms, and my legs worked,
and I grew, I grew,
I wore rubies and bought tomatoes
and now, in my middle age,
about nineteen in the head I'd say,
I am rowing, I am rowing
though the oarlocks stick and are rusty
and the sea blinks and rolls
like a worried eyebal,
but I am rowing, I am rowing,
though the wind pushes me back
and I know that that island will not be perfect,
it will have the flaws of life,
the absurdities of the dinner table,
but there will be a door
and I will open it
and I will get rid of the rat insdie me,
the gnawing pestilential rat.
God will take it with his two hands
and embrace it.
As the African says:
This is my tale which I have told,
if it be sweet, if it be not sweet,
take somewhere else and let some return to me.
This story ends with me still rowing.
7k
there's a spy inside the airport
Don't ask me how I know
Just believe me when I tell you
It's your job to make him show
He's somewhere in there hiding
watching, doing spy like things
he has a spylike briefcase
tied with spylike strings
He wears a spylike trenchcoat
He's hiding in plain sight
Looking for a spy at the airport
Can occupy a child's night
You know that someone's spying
But you don't know who
And you might be the spy in hiding
If their parents act as you
A child is alerted
By a man who wears dark glasses
He's looking for an airport spy
It's speeds up how time passes
You can keep a child busy
Looking for a secret spy
You know ones at the airport
Waiting for their time to fly
May 8, 2012
May 8, 2012 at 5:08 PM UTC
On chilly, weird wet nights in Seoul
lonely trash cans cuddle up for warmth,
feral alley cats zydeco in the rain,
street folk sip from brown-bags,
that will get them through the night.
Our umbrella slips through fog,
stealthy as a U-boat through depths.
I confess a fetished fondness for the click
of her heels upon the cobblestone walk;
the Angel Falls of raven hair down
the leather shoulder of my trenchcoat.
We will harbor heat within the sultry sheets,
toss carnally upon waves of sensuality,
opposites secluded in the Yin and Yang of night.
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 3:46 AM UTC
So here we are, just you and me. On the edge of everything and nothing, we sit staring out into the ocean of things we wish we’d done.
We hold hands, it’s a formality. I’m scared. You soothed my anxiety, because even though I was scared of you, I knew everyone else was too.
I miss making you coffee in the morning, I wish I’d loved YOU more. You always had that massive mug with two teabags or two tablespoons of coffee.
I wish your family and I could have worked. Please don’t think for a second I didn’t try. Most of my time spent at yours was on eggshells, the ones they had placed.
I miss our first year, your second. Remember that? We were so silly and full of joy. Gimmick Puppets, Plants. You and your stupid trenchcoat that ended up smelling awful no matter how much you washed it. Your long hair was nice. I liked it. It framed your smile that was as bright as the Sun that set in the West over Zephyr’s strawberry field.
The light sank in your eyes the more you were with me. I drained you, I knew that. I stayed. I lied. You didn’t trust me anymore.
I’m happy, admittedly lonely. But I know you’re happy, scared but happy. It’s always been my job to appear, do what I must (whether I know what that is or not) and watch over. The bear finds another like him, and as I remember mentioning a few times, as we lounged lazily on the sofa with our cereal, playing every bit the monsters others cast us out to be;
What on Earth is a bear doing with an angel?
Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 5:05 PM UTC
Shuffling sidewards
Off he walks
Heavy black trenchcoat
Eyes on stalks
Custom trousers
Eight legs wide
Henry the Half-Crab
Woe betide
Awkward scrabbling
Can't hold keys
Narrow little doorway
Tangled knees
Toilet adjustments
Bean bag chairs
Henry the Half-Crab
No one cares
Can't be an astronaut
Never play guitar
Can't use a keyboard
Won't go far
Hiding from the fishermen
Far from shore
Henry the Half-Crab
Somewhat raw
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 12:44 PM UTC
it is cold, and you're walking, and you can't see your feet
you're numb
not just your face and hands
but everything
detached
unable to distinguish from emotions now
and emotions then
you're walking down the road
and the stars are shining
headlights flying past, rocking your body
threatening to pull you under and break you,
crush you and your mind
and everything else
you're walking down the road, and the moon is low and dark and the sky is otherwise empty
lets say that your eyes are closed
but the drivers eyes are also closed
in the car behind you
and you, perched precariously
toe the white line between death and a dirt road
everyone, it seems, is waiting
for something unknowable
a feeling
a thought
a pat on the back, signalling that everything's okay
everything's allright
it's just fine
go back to sleep
ignore the questioning looks and just
relax
the man in the tan trenchcoat is looking for you
his brothers, his family
disapprove, but
why not
you're not a bad person
after all
you've done bad things, yeah
made bad decisions, yeah
but overall
what's so bad about sleeping in hotels when the back of your car
is not as comfortable as it looks
so you're desperate
and he's desperate
and you keep missing each other
the looks and idle touches
while comforting
scare you
you are not a person who feels
so you cannot feel the stubble whispering over your skin
and you did not swallow openly
and stare across the tables as his blue eyes watch you
he doesn't judge you
and for that
you love him
wait.
no.
you don't love him
because that would be wrong, and decades of reinforcement are telling you this
but honestly
if he just loved you back...
there's that word again
the lights over the Arby's are hovering 100 feet above the ground
and you're freezing and alive
and maybe you wish you were dead
but you're not
and that's what really matters
probably
you hope.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 4:15 PM UTC
What is it with society
it can't leave girls alone
to be the way they want to be
they have to **** and moan...
"Now this one she's too skinny
with a blatant lack of ***
legs stolen from flamingos
and arms like two matchsticks.."
"Now this one's far too chubby
observe her thunder thighs
see her wobble as she's walking
it's clear who ate all the pies.."
"Now see the tattooed freakshow
flesh tunnels, garb of black
in burly boots and trenchcoat
she must be taking crack.."
"and what of lil Miss sunkissed
with her streaky perma-tan
who dresses like a two bit *****
but never keeps her man.."
A war on flaws is raging
as media fuels the flame
mixed with the tongues of gossips
it gets stronger everyday
we're taught to judge a person
by looks and shape alone
regardless of their inner selves
their talents, dreams and goals
It really is a worry,
to watch our young girls grow
bowed under weight and pressure
with self esteem so low.
So tell them that they're beautiful
it's not too much to ask
and please be sure to tell them
that the media's an ***
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 5:36 AM UTC
Knock, knock.
Who's there?
Someone's at the door.
Hide the stash!
Get the snacks!
For Christ's sake,
make yourself presentable!
Is the door locked?
Are the hinges rusty?
Would a baby calf
be able to kick it down
in less than 15 seconds?
Don't just sit there!
Figure it all out!
It's the first thing people see
before they enter a room-
is it wood, fresh oak?
Beads from a thrift store?
Cast-iron shielding,
bolts and locks
spattered like starlight,
like smuggled jewelry
on the inner lining
of a trenchcoat?
Are you trying to
open it, or is your back
pressed against the other side,
keeping it from budging?
Are you the intruder
or the guard dog?
Nov 4, 2011
Nov 4, 2011 at 4:48 PM UTC
Lost in the seems of an Ugly Trenchcoat but I don't want to become a'frayed; seams I'm here to stay.
Feb 19, 2010
Feb 19, 2010 at 3:44 PM UTC
Whenever I visit the savage side
there's a hangover to be had,
drunk from the darkness
of uninhibited desire.
The streets there are familiar
but the characters have changed.
Not much human left in their eyes
as they glance sidelong at me,
sizing me for hunter or for meat.
I pull my trenchcoat tighter,
stand a little straighter
and emphasize each step,
staring them down one by one
with eyes hardened by
the memories of when
these streets were my home.
Feb 1, 2011
Feb 1, 2011 at 7:29 AM UTC
I wear my American Culture like
a miniskirt and crop top
underneath a
trenchcoat.
My family burdens
are burned
into my brain like
my father brands
our cows.
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 8:06 AM UTC
Christmas morning
and we got drunk on $3 red wine
given to me
entirely for free
from the creepy guy
who sits downstairs
with absolutely nothing on
underneath his trenchcoat
it was ******* freezing outside,
and I cried just a little bit
when you told me
we were out of butter.
With no bra
and a pair of XL red sweatpants
I went to the bodega on the corner
where the old man with too many fingers
never gives me the right change.
And that day I cried in my room
over what Christmas had become for me
and now I cry for that ****** apartment
four blocks from the G train
in the middle of Brooklyn, New York
and the fridge that never had
what we were looking for.
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 10:12 PM UTC
Walk with me,
I ask of you
footsteps in an aggregate illumination.
My eyelids are heavy with clues.
I'm your kind of lost detective...
looking for a way out,
of this loop, tearing me apart.
Dance with me,
make me watch
as you remove bullets of flesh
with your teeth, bare
barren
isolated
insulated heat.
A trenchcoat and glasses so thick,
I cannot even begin to see.
We're huddled around a circle
but this fire is too small for
our collective body mass.
I'm folding myself into,
two, three
or five hundred layers of
absolutely pure lies.
Whatever (it is), that you like.
Walk with me
let me feel,
watch me breed
the particular warmth of
sins - we were told to trash
by a bunch of lunatic saints.
These worlds go 'round,
but we're tired o moving.
Out of control, out of breaths.
Standing tall, still.
Waiting to crumble
underneath one massive fall.
Feb 2, 2010
Feb 2, 2010 at 12:46 AM UTC
Soft rain has fallen
And tiny jewels are fastened to the landscape.
Succulent prisms lay strewn about
And the night sky hums.
Fumbling branches, the North Wind has apples
Falling to the damp earth -
A 'thud' becomes a murmuur in the lush,
A blanket of dead leaves
Absorb ripe fruit
And clouds part, revealing the full moon
A blush of white lights
Sparkle in the wet eyes of stray dogs.
The Milky Way... gilding creation
With Giants the size of pinholes
In a black melon.
Between low hanging clouds, a billion worlds burn.
And earthworms, born without eyes...
Look up.
To marvel at the Heavens as they drown.
Sep 20, 2011
Sep 20, 2011 at 5:27 PM UTC
Soft rain has fallen
And tiny jewels are fastened to the landscape.
Succulent prisms lay strewn about
And the night sky hums.
Fumbling branches, the North Wind has apples
Falling to the damp earth -
A 'thud' becomes a murmur in the lush,
A blanket of dead leaves
Absorb ripe fruit
And clouds part, revealing the full moon
A blush of white lights
Sparkle in the wet eyes of stray dogs.
The Milky Way... gilding creation
With Giants the size of pinholes
In a black melon.
Between low hanging clouds, a billion worlds burn.
And earthworms, born without eyes...
Look up.
To marvel at the Heavens as they drown
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 12:00 AM UTC
He lures you down a misty route
Beckoning with a skeletal finger.
Wearing a long trenchcoat,
He tells you not to linger.
Obediently you step forth
Following in the shadow.
Shamelessly – of course
As the path begins to narrow.
You squeeze on through
Trying not to lose sight
As he fades from view;
Away, into the night.
Now you’re all alone,
In the darkness breeze.
The silence drones,
The walls begin to squeeze.
You struggle and strain,
As they compress your chest
But all in vain,
You did your best.
The silence is drowned
By a searing cackle.
He has you now-
Broken and shackled
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 7:37 AM UTC
A special place is held within my heart,
For that which has mattered since the start.
The first a jacket, of red and black,
And memories that take me back,
To when I wore two lapels and a hood,
And the days were long, and the nights were good.
But I traded that one, for a hoodie of grey,
That I still have, even to this day.
It seemed so calm, and cool, and still,
When life was not, and I had no skill.
Till overtop I wore the black,
That I still love, when I look back,
And I was smooth, and free, and bad,
In that fake leather that I had.
But the fake is gone, and trenchcoat's in,
But I started loosing, when I meant to win.
I liked that coat, it was brown and slim,
And is a link to accepting, being feminine.
But out with the old, and in with the new,
It's black again, like the old times too.
But who wears this coat, I know it's me,
But who is this coat, going to be?
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 7:47 AM UTC
i know a man who steals.
slowly slipping treasures
into those darkened pockets
of a trenchcoat with no soul.
tumbling down deeper,
further into an endless abyss
so that if i ever may find him
and reach into those pockets
my fingers will reach out
and merely graze the felted sides
and the emptiness below.
he will flash a crooked smile
with eyes full of mischief
and simply laugh at my endeavor,
"girl, those arms of yours
will never grow again
never be able to grasp
all that you seek."
and as tricky as he may be
he will fail to see the strength
that hides in this heart of mine.
a spirit that tears the stitching
of a conniving crook's pocket
from his very own coat.
everything of mine once stolen
-- my happiness
-- my imagination
-- my willpower
will soon be returned
as it was many years before.
the man's name was age.
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 4:04 PM UTC
They say,
"Oh but you seem happy... could you really have depression"?
Jeeze, my sincere apologies, I did not realize they made trenchcoats the shade of hopeless desperation
I should have shoes that count steps, to project my need to justify why I got out of bed
I must have forgotten to cover myself with war paint, to prove to outsiders my internal battle
But I will buy lots of velcro, so I can wear the words whispered and screamed by my depression late last night
Tell me, did you really believe I could show you by sight
The twisted demon that lives inside
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 8:30 PM UTC
Patch of soft baby blue in a soft heather gray sky
Patch of sky blue in a steel gray sky
Pearl white Herons dot a tree as it sways back and forth
The plane getting ready to soar towards anoher conference destination
Trenchcoat and umbrella at the ready when we land and deplane
Ready for take off in the silvery skies
C@rainbowchaser2022
Feb 17, 2022
Feb 17, 2022 at 2:46 PM UTC
The pompous black crow
In his black tuxedo,
a silly top hat, shiny black shoes,
and dark shades
strutted up to me the other day,
tilted his head and asked
"Hey Mister, How do you do?"
I was new in the neighborhood
I didn't want to offend Mr Pompous,
so I replied meekly
"I'm fine, thank you, how do you do?"
Then another day when the sky was pregnant
he came to me dressed like a spy
Eyes behind dark shades,
dark trenchcoat, collars turned up and all.
I wasn't sure if it was dark grey or black
Because i remember wondering
When dark grey became black
Anyway, he wore a hat
And he wore boots
And he strutted up to me
And asked me rather gruffly
"Hey Mister, how do you do?"
I said i was fine, thank you and how did he do
And he went away.
And then one day he came to see me again
When i was in my flooded garden
Rescuing drowning earthworms
He seemed ruffled, wet and miserable
In a dark but tattered raincoat
(Was it dark grey or black?)
And he looked at me sideways,
shook himself and asked
"Why aren't you indoors,
don't you know its gonna rain
for the next five days too
and there's a red alert?"
I said I was fine, thank you and how did he do
And besides, was his raincoat dark grey or black?
And the frogs and toads laughed in derision
And they couldn't stop laughing,
they are still laughing.
May 16, 2022
May 16, 2022 at 6:17 PM UTC
MY WALLS AREN’T CORKBOARD BUT THEY MIGHT AS WELL BE WITH ALL THE STRINGS AND SCRAPS OF TATTERED NOTEBOOK PAPER PASTED ALL OVER THEM, A MAP OF FALSE CORRELATIONS COMPOUNDING UPON EACH OTHER TO MAKE SOMETHING THAT COULD BE A COUSIN OF PLOT, A PORTRAIT OF SOME KIND OF STORY THAT’S REALLY JUST SEVERAL HALF-FORMED PANIC ATTACKS IN A TRENCHCOAT.
I CAN’T MOVE MY ARM. IS THIS AN INTERVENTION? MY HANDS ARE SHAKING AROUND AN OLD DEAD PEN I’VE NEVER HAD THE COURAGE TO THROW OUT. I SUPPOSE SENTIMENTALITY WILL BE THE DEATH OF ME YET.
ALL THE PATCHWORK PEOPLE I’VE INVITED INTO MY HEAD ARE TRYING TO GET MY ATTENTION. THEY’RE SCREAMING SO LOUD AND ONE LITTLE BOY WITH MIDNIGHT HAIR FULL OF STARS IS HOLDING MY FINGERS SO TIGHTLY YOU’D THINK I’D DISAPPEAR IF HE LET GO. HIS EYES ARE WIDE AND PALE AND AFRAID BUT THE CROWD OF US ARE ALL ALONE IN MY HEAD SO I DON’T KNOW WHAT IT IS HE FEARS.
DO YOU THINK HEAVEN SMELLS LIKE INK AND OLD BOOKS AND THE DUST OF CENTURIES GATHERING IN THE CORNERS OF EMPTY ROOMS? MAYBE WHEN I GET THERE I CAN FORGET ABOUT THE STATIC ENCROACHING ON THE EDGES OF MY MIND AND FINALLY TAKE A CHANCE TO BREATHE.
I HAD A TALK WITH GOD LAST NIGHT. THEY TOLD ME I SHOULD TRY TO SLEEP AND IN THE MORNING I WOULD BE ABLE TO SEE STRAIGHT WITHOUT LIGHT FILTERING INTO A KALEIDOSCOPIC FRINGE AROUND THE EDGES OF MY VISION. I LAUGHED AND TOLD THEM SLEEP IS FOR THE WEAK. THEY ONLY SIGHED AND REPLIED IN KIND WITH AN ASSURANCE THAT VULNERABILITY IS NO WEAKNESS AT ALL.
MY SEVEN-YEAR-OLD DREAM BOY IS HOLDING UP MY WEIGHTED BLANKET AND PEERING OVER IT WITH WET EYES. I SUPPOSE IT WOULD BE CRIMINAL TO MAKE AN IMAGINARY CHILD CRY.
h.f.m.
Aug 21, 2020
Aug 21, 2020 at 9:00 AM UTC
Black Jack looks into the distance
where the graveyard trees stand stark.
Cold grey day with drenching drizzle,
fungus grows on rotting bark.
Northern winds they show no pity,
leaves fall through the tomb-damp air;
Jackie pulls his collar up and spits
as passing youngsters stare.
(Spare a thought for Black Jack Garside,
spare a thought for such as him.
Spare a thought for Jackie
when the nights are drawing in.)
Army trenchcoat old and battered,
snake-belt fastened round his waist;
hob-nailed boots and moleskin trousers,
flat cap shields a ***** face.
None could say how old was Jackie,
seemed he’d always been around;
as a babe, an old tale had it,
on a doorstep he’d been found.
Black Jack always was a loner,
trudging through the village streets;
folks said you could smell him coming,
never washed and didn’t speak.
Mothers with their children walking
down the road to village school,
all would cross when Jack approached them,
“Just ignore him, he’s a fool!”
In his house he kept some chickens,
in his bath he kept his coal;
Black Jack burned a constant fire,
lived on eggs and on the dole.
Modern times were not for Jackie,
internet and mobile phones;
with his hens all pecking round him,
Jackie lived and died alone.
And sometimes when drenching drizzle
fills the streets with cold and damp,
teenage kids outside the Offy
throw stones at a passing *****
Jackie pulls his coat around him,
and as laughing youngsters sneer,
spits a curse of pure wind-chill,
turns and slowly disappears.
(c) Hodgsongs 2018
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 5:31 AM UTC
A woman who
walks toward her car
wears a black dress
under her trenchcoat
Mar 11, 2017
Mar 11, 2017 at 3:23 PM UTC