"turtleneck" poems
this table in the
shade
these commune hippies
in the river
I wrote a poem
in my sleep
I looked at the mountains
and thought
rain
staccato
metronome
irrigation
and caps
melting
but enough of this
nature
let’s go back
to the concrete
mouth
where we walk
through the city
full of cake
bloated like
balloons
but rolling
because
cake doesn’t make
you float
no
cake only makes you
fat
the conversation turns
to the stench
there’s something dying
in the air
we leave
and roll joints
spot magnums
on tree branches
and think
only monkeys ****
in trees
and we would never
want to see
monkey ***
and ******
no
we’d never try it
and the homeless man next to us
puts his spoon
away
but god
why do we sleep
when we just wake up?
why do we sleep
to dream
such ********
things
where celebrities
feed us salami in
back alleyways
and we see our mother
pooping on
world maps?
time rips of
lyrical grass
conductive smile
soap bubbles
these beautiful
dreamtime mornings
spent thinking of you
in playhouse mountains
like a child
you smile
like a friend
I offer you my hand
and we walk
to the white
together
bill withers is there
he is singing
in his yellow
turtleneck
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 11:44 AM UTC
~
Dreaming past snow drifts
Framing the distance
Starlight reflections
Closer than tomorrow
Touching my skin
~
Through soft woolen mittens
Ski jacket hugs, turtleneck wishes
Snow angel dreams and icicle kisses
Slipping my heart inside of your pocket
Where it is warm, safe and secure
~
Calling in echoes
Across the white valley
Listen to the wind
Feel the wintry whispers
Touching your skin
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 5:33 PM UTC
There are not enough
poems about manatees
If you are interested in human
rights being kicked like a dog
and justice being dragged
through mud, you can find it
If you are interested in love
that aches with a “burning
heart” or a “bleeding soul”
you can find it
If you are interested in death
that holds out its hand
to you like relief, or takes
one too early, you can find it
But where, I ask, do you find
a badger in a turtleneck?
Or a cup of coffee that doesn’t
sound so self important?
If you’re interested in the
ocean or the sea or maybe
a single “crushing wave
of emotion,” you can find it
If you’re interested in God
dying to save you, or God
abandoning you to the darkness
you can find it
If you’re interested in athletics—
especially running towards
dreams and horizons—and
losing and winning, you can find it
But where, I ask, do you find
a good left-handed centipede?
Or a wonderful, ice cold beer that
doesn’t turn into alcoholism?
If you want to find a poem about
how the “gray rain spills from
the clouds like the pain”
you can find it
If you don’t want to find a poem
about rain you’ll still find it
(cause those rain poems
are everywhere)
If you’re looking for a poem
about regret and forgiveness
and cruel mercy making false
promises, you can find it
But where, I ask, do you find
a barbarian ballerina?
Or a cigarette whose smoke doesn’t
outline the shadows of a lost soul?
Show me these things, show me
a fat manatee, and I will finally
take a deep breath and smile
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 6:07 PM UTC
I was born on a leap year
Right before the Millenium
A family of five in Mexico were stabbed
Six days before I arrived
And in the same month
(But half the days)
That Rusty won the first NASCAR race
In Japan
Call me a Scorpio, I don't mind
I was born in the year of the rat
And the zodiac says that fire's my element
But I always liked my time spent in water
Pearl is to the ancients
What Topaz is today
Though neither value much
To the people on the Boeing 747
Or the Ilyushin Il-76 cargo plane
That killed 349 people
With the force of their collision
When you look up the day
That I came to be known
As another member of the living
They'll tell you all about the fatal, terrible crash
That I was too young to remember or even witness
Being born in the '90's earns me
No extra respect
No reverent awe
No special treatment
I was born too late for the long-haired peace
Disco and drugs
A John Hughes-like high school
And only my parents got away with
Sweat pants and leg warmers
Or turtleneck sweaters
I am just another 96 baby
But they don't make them like us
Anymore
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 11:54 PM UTC
reign on my charade, but risk the dapple
the first to kayak to mars. Jester, you say?
Messers Metro, Goldwyn and Meyer shan't have floundered
if you had taken the turtleneck, roughshod
Sep 13, 2010
Sep 13, 2010 at 6:04 PM UTC
Kids like him
spending nights
dreaming about
traveling to France
and sitting
around in a
café
wearing a beret
and black turtleneck
and smoking with
a cup of wine
on their other hand
that dream about
romance in the streets
a kiss beneath
the Eiffel Tower
musky hotel rooms
I'll never
understand
you kid
I just can't
dream that.
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 6:35 PM UTC
reign on my charade, but risk the dapple
the first to kayak to mars. Jester, you say?
Messers Metro, Goldwyn and Meyer shan't have floundered
if you had taken the turtleneck, roughshod
Sep 13, 2010
Sep 13, 2010 at 6:04 PM UTC
It is August
but I have your shirt pulled up to my nose
like your scent will
protect me from another bad night.
I wear it as a turtleneck
and tuck my arms inward, making a blanket.
I am so sick of
not feeling safe.
I remember asking you to use the tip
of your fingers on my
shoulderblade
caress the flesh into small waves
(You live too close to the sea to not taste
of salt)
then fabric wrinkled in a bundle.
Make me guess what the skinstrokes mean.
I am learning braille
or just how not to be alone.
I am so tired of
waiting to know what you drew
when the sun is so high
shadows can only be cast on the oceanfloor
and everything above my clothes
breathes (I love you
too much to not taste of salt).
When summer ends
maybe I will get a good night's sleep, held
by seaweed and
reading your messages out of a bottle.
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 12:27 PM UTC
gay
/pronounced gaaaay/
noun
1. bandages through the body, old turtleneck sweaters, hidden love bites, vexed skin, a body meant for poetry, shivering, cold, like in the night, happy, but afraid, every time someone calls out your name.
2. Shivering again, happy, but afraid, again. ********** Rushed, Dim lights, pleasure without any sound, no moaning, mourning.
3. Lovers without name.
Mar 27, 2017
Mar 27, 2017 at 11:21 PM UTC
**The fairest hair, peroxide blond
beer shampoo feeding the roots
primped and pinned with paperclips
blown and set as candyfloss sticks.
Hydro-pack cream erasing the pouches
colourful lashes, stuck to the lids
with copyright brows by electrolysis
both almond eyes are now penciled in.
Lines of life filled with putty
trowelled in layers, foundations built
delicate cheeks, powdered, pampered
rouged and shaded, giving them youth.
Clinical lips, Botox injected
tattooed outlines guiding the brush
the budding artist colours by numbers
pouting, she paints in weatherproof gloss.
Turtleneck sweater hiding the wrinkles
genuine paste, drawing the eye
both purl and knit-one inside the jumper
pulled and snagged by glued on nails.
High heel shoes, stretching the sinews
of Lycra clad legs, holding them taut
a girdle of whalebone hugging the figure
gently molding, the form to behold.
With grace we age throughout the years
a time filled life, craves respect
hairs of grey are marks of distinction
an occasional blemish, a beauty spot.
Tiny crow's feet, signs of good humour
experience of life, lines proudly worn
for with laughing eyes and glowing smile
who need wear a plasticine face.**
... ... ...
Apr 30, 2011
Apr 30, 2011 at 12:15 AM UTC
you walk in
i'm standing there
spritzing lingerie
to make it reek
like high class prostitutes
do after a night
when the cash flow
is non-stop
"Hi how are you today?"
"Grumble, grrrrr, grumble."
"Can I help you find anything?"
"Well, grrrr, I want the bra, arrrggghhh, I've got on. LOOK AT IT!"
i slowly approach,
postponing the inevitable
for as long as possible
as you lift your ancient
once black, now grey, turtleneck
and release an avalanche
of layer after layer of blubber
that jiggles ever so slightly
as it is disturbed by the movement
it is covered in a thick forest
of black hairs and
i swear i see a herd of lice
scurry off as i cautiously
lift my hands to inspect
the tag laying in the depths
of the jungle that lays thick on your back
the moment i make contact
with your skin
it takes all of my willpower
not to pull away in disgust
as my fingers go
for a ride on the slip n' slide that
is your back
it feels as if you have been
bathing in Crisco since
you were just a child
as i finally grasp the
worn and stretched material
and turn it over
i'm not surprised
to find that your bra
feels as if it just went for a swim
in Onondaga Lake
mmm, sweet, sweet radioactive sweat
i fumble around looking for
any indication of a tag
as you begin to tap your
foot with no rhythm at all
and suddenly you exclaim,
"OH, I cut the tag out of this ages ago!"
and storm away back into the mall
throwing bows and ***** looks
as you go
i'm left staring
as my sweat saturated hands
thinking,
**** Victoria and her secrets."
Mar 30, 2011
Mar 30, 2011 at 10:23 AM UTC
August was a turtleneck that didn't fit.
Arrested at the crown of the head,
overheated gasp.
Don't you think- she thought,
I see the irony in everything I do?
Pressing ruthlessly against the yield of flesh,
probing against the pale underbelly, measuring
the distance between skin and bone.
is it better now? Is it better?
Imperceptible white ribbons at
the curve of the thigh, a bow tie atop
the gift of a new healthy body
swollen against the wrap.
I hate... I hate myself. Feels all wrong-
She eats her dinner and
the food digests in her brain.
Healthy, now? Is this-
Healing?
Aug 19, 2012
Aug 19, 2012 at 11:40 AM UTC
We were suckleberry sonnets
Crabapple tree climbers
Little girls in pink frills
With fire drills in our heads
from our mother's
They told us
"don't let a boy touch you"
We were rockets aimed for the moon
We always came a little too short
I always thought it was just me
Part of me always knew
I always knew it couldn't be right
I was nine
I wanted a boy to teach me things,
things my father never could
He was fourteen, I'd known him all my life
I liked his trampoline
But his hands
I ******* hated his hands
They tugged and pulled at me during hide and seek
He whispered
"Stop crying"
(I was always asking for it)
He could see it when I smiled
I guarded my smile like I guarded his secret
My nine year old mind didn't want it anymore
I wanted him less than I wanted to erase it
Erase the things he'd planted so mischievously
I was an empty nine year old casket
I rode my bike like a hurst
I wore my turtleneck like a bulletproof vest
I thought he couldn't hurt me there
I was an angry sailor without a single burst of wind
A single burst of freedom
It's all I wanted
all I ever needed
I needed someone to free my from the grips of the Devil
I prayed to my mother's God
He didn't answer for two years
I thought he would free me like the night
I thought he would let go like a never ending story
But he's always been a part of my story
My suckleberry sonnet
my first love
my broken mother
all my nightmares
Thanks, *******
I don't let him ruin me anymore
He doesn't own me like he used to
He no longer steers my so easily swayed ship
He's just a piece
(A piece of **** of course)
But only a small piece of me
I ride my bike like it's a steed now
I don't wear turtlenecks
I don't own a bulletproof vest
He's gone
I'm still here
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 3:46 PM UTC
He was cute. His baby face cheeks
were highlighted in the soft yellow glow
of the stage lights before the performance began.
He had on a blue sweater, almost too blue,
with khaki’s I’m sure his mom bought him.
But he smiled at me, constantly, before the lights dropped
while I was pretending to read my program.
Across the theater, he blushed, biting his lips
when he realized I caught him. He was cute.
I think I’ve said that already.
But he was no you.
And can you imagine how guilty, no
how stupid I felt in that moment?
Can you imagine how my heart
must have looked sitting between my heels
on the linoleum floor? Imagine all the pieces
trying to force themselves back together enough
just to smile back at this boy across the aisles.
I’m so done feeling like I’m cheating on someone
who isn’t even answering my calls. I’m done
begging myself to stop cuddling with that bear
you gave me last Valentine’s Day. Can you imagine
the actor I’ve become? Fixing myself up in eyeliner
and turtleneck sweaters that hug me a little too tight
just to seem like I still have it together. I’m just like
those dancers in Cabaret. I’m putting on a show,
smiling at the boy across the aisles, hoping you’re
in the audience, watching me shine.
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 11:14 PM UTC
You once said I was loud so I became quiet
You once said I was selfish so I started to care more for others than myself
You once said I was illiterate so I flooded my brain with books and inarticulate words
You once said I was ugly so I put on so much makeup I was borderline unrecognizable
Loud
Selfish
Illiterate
Ugly
But then it’s too quiet
Then it’s self neglectant
Then it’s nerd
Then it’s fake
I couldn’t do anything right
You once said I was ***** so I wore short skirts and crop tops just like the rest of them
You once said I was different so I fit as much of myself that I could into a perfect little mold
You once said I was husky so I stopped eating lunch
You once said I was lonely so I started befriending more guys than I could count
*****
Different
Husky
Lonely
But then it’s ******
Then it’s wanna be
Then it’s anorexic
Then it’s *****
Trying got me nowhere and i’ll never be like everyone else
But wait.
Why would I want to be?
Since when I did I care about all that?
I was not loud I am just expressive
I was not selfish I’m just not open
I was not illiterate I’m just still learning
I was not ugly I just have flaws
Why did I believe you in the first place?
I was not ***** I just rock a turtleneck
I was not different we are all unique
I was not husky I just had thighs for days
I was not lonely…am not lonely.
So why would I change myself for the likes of you?
Mar 8, 2018
Mar 8, 2018 at 8:57 AM UTC
Beep. Beep. The alarm, taking me out of bed.
I slowly, reluctantly raise my head.
My stupor is so great that I fear
Mona Lisa’s eyebrows would soon appear.
Oh Muse! Give me the strength to wake!
I cannot stand another minute drowning in this groggy state!
So my dear old desperate muse,
Drowning in his desperate blues,
Called on Zeus to set me free.
There came dear old wonderful Zeus,
And took some of his lightning juice,
And rained it down on me.
Oh! The pain and agony!
But it was the only thing that could set me free
From the unyielding grasp of sleep
Get up! I say!
It’s time to start your pitiful day!
I stumble to the floor,
Grasping desperately for the door,
Triumphant! The gods exclaim!
Your name shall be put up in the morning-risers hall of fame!
To the showers!
I go, with all due speed,
For a shower, a shower is all that I need.
I wash my hair till it resembles a great lion’s mane,
Shiningly shimmering in the shower-induced rain.
The soap, I capture, with a swipe of the wrist,
While it slips and slides in my strong iron fist.
Out of the shower, I sprint to get dressed.
I struggle with myself to pick out what’s best.
Pants or a skirt? I must make my choice.
No! I scream, with a desperate voice
Alas, it was gone, what I wanted to wear!
It was gone with my friends, when I decided to share!
Melancholy I was, but I did not fret.
On with the skirt I said,
And the turtleneck.
All fresh a clean, I realized my real pain.
Oh the hunger!
Oh the ravenous, unforgiving hunger.
I then set out for my next quest.
Food.
I searched in vein for some Froot-Loops.
The were gone last week along with the fruit juice.
Oh hunger! I say.
I must have food now!
But the question is, how?
Pancakes, I know not how to bake,
Oatmeal, I do not know how to make,
Boil, I do not know how to water,
(Or is it water I do not know how to boil? One can never tell)
Eggs, I know not how to create.
“Gram!” I scream with desperation,
“Please, for god’s sake, give me some satiation!”
In she comes, steadfast and true,
With some bacon, and eggs,
For her granddaughter-pooh.
“For me!” I exclaim, with honest delight,
And experience great ecstasy in each and every bite.
Off to school I say, and run to my doom,
Hoping each day, that it would me summer soon.
Feb 4, 2010
Feb 4, 2010 at 8:25 PM UTC
Be the recluse,
Be the hermit,
And make your assessments of others
Based on short and fleeting interaction,
Drenched in the sweat of "purpose" & "agenda,"
And be met with statements
Which really convey nothing and rarely
Encapsulate honest thought in brevity
But are said only to end the conversation.
Close knit,
The threads choke,
Living your turtleneck life.
No collar to be turned up,
The cotton already hugs your throat;
Nothing to end abrupt,
That which never saw its start.
Those who talk
Simply to hear themselves,
Do they have anything to say?
Those with the blinders on,
They never see the entrance ramp
Neither the turn-offs
Till it's too late.
Jul 9, 2024
Jul 9, 2024 at 10:11 AM UTC
Monday in the park we
purchased Messiaen chirps about
nothing and watched a red kite
lying still on the grass
it was a puppet-show to my past.
After such long last breath
-caught in throat-
full moon eyes
waiting for puppet master to leap from the guise
I saw instead an onion child
tugging his layers uncomfortably
(like a Christmas turtleneck)
pulling threads
counting minutes
you're a tiresome genius,
my pretty pianist.
Half decade to pine
over songs you
half professed to be mine
full dance card, empty wine.
The daisies said yes, you know
but I've far greener grass in my garden to sow.
The thimble is tossed. I love you... not
Go on, cryptic darling,
sing softly your loss.
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 10:10 PM UTC
It was 3 degrees outside
She wore a purple fuzzy headband that seemed to cover her entire head
Her large and puffy grey coat went to her knees
A grey turtleneck underneath
And those clunky duck boots
While everyone else smiled at the weekend at 3 on a Friday
She looked confused
I could only imagine what she was thinking about
It was 58 degrees outside
The headband gone
She has blonde hair that’s up in a ponytail more often than it isn’t
The coat is gone but the turtleneck is still there
It’s striped this time
She still wears the duck boots since the snow is melting away
And there are puddles with every step
She’s smiling and laughing on the phone
Trying to explain directions
I can only imagine who she’s talking to
I can see it
I can see my future in the way her hair is flipping back and forth as she walks
I can see my future in the way her face lights up when she laughs
I can see my future in the way she curls her hands into her sleeves
I can see my future in how she tries to avoid a puddle but then steps into a deeper one
I can see my future in the way that puddle ripples around her
I can see my future in the way the melting snow seems to glimmer when she passes it
I learned she got the headband for free once
When she spent too much money at her favorite store
Her grey coat is a family company she’s obviously loyal to
The grey turtleneck is from the place she got the headband from
Obviously, she tells me with an eye roll and a laugh
The duck boots keep her feet dry, even if they’re not very warm
She looked confused because she was leaving economics, her hardest class
She had just learned a new concept that all of her classmates understood
But for some reason, she couldn’t wrap her head around it
She likes that her hair is blonde
But knows it’ll turn brown one day, like her mom
So she gets highlights put in, knowing it won’t help, but hopes anyway
She’s always wearing turtlenecks because she’s always cold
It’s from the same store as the other one
Obviously
The duck boots are her favorite and her feet like them too much to wear other shoes
She’ll never admit it
But she steps in the deeper puddles on purpose because she likes how they splash
She was on the phone with her friend from high school
Directing her to the lot to park in
She’s staying over this weekend
I was right when I said my future was in her
It’s in the hair
The jacket
The turtlenecks
The headband
The boots
The confused look
The happy one
The eye roll
The laugh
The puddles
The snow
My future is her
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 8:18 PM UTC
After the end
she wore the beige bra that she bought for him
because he liked plain things
under a dark turtleneck that meant she was mourning
their loss even if maybe he wasn't
she shivered into the street
and watched the palm drop on the moon,
the stars pop out like street lights whose bulbs you couldn't change,
their high up light bleached the night,
falling over the Prius, bouncing off the half-bumpered Honda, sliding down the metal window connector of the neighborhood's only El Dorado before ending up on pavement like most things do
the garage seemed to radiate and
other people's windows glowed yellow
as she turned to go
a cat rolled across the four lane road
like it was a meadow
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 3:44 AM UTC
i remember i loved you so much
that i left a bowl of dry ingredients for brownies
stranded in the kitchen when you asked me
to come over.
and when you came home from toronto
and i got off of my third or fourth shift
at my first job
i left early and i ran to your house.
and for your 17th birthday (before i acquired
my majestic cupcake gig)
i spent all my babysitting money on
a worn sweater with the gucci label screened
onto it.
i had planned this months before we even dated,
i remember thinking we were going to be so close
that it would warrant me getting you a present.
i had only kissed you once and had only spoken to you
for two months.
and i still remember what i wore the first time
we hung out (rose gold crop sweater, black jeans, brown boots)
and what i wore the first time we kissed (tights, black romper, braided belt, earrings that kept falling out)
and what i wore when we broke up (flats, black high waisted skater skirt, weird 90s crop bustier)
and what i wore when i saw you for the first time afterwards (light wash jeans, grey knit top, pink sparrys)
and what i wore when we had our end of the line fight (black jeans, purple halter top)
the times i saw you after weren't overly notable, you reached out and i recoiled. you noogied me and i didn't let my friends make fun of you.
and then you asked me to start coming over again (light blue jeans, navy turtleneck)
i'm not sure what this poem was ever supposed to be.
i wish i remembered what i wore the night you told me
that you missed me.
but since you've been back, or i've been back, or we've been back
i only remember what it is to be with you.
we'll keep growing.
11:18 P.M. June/22/2014
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 2:19 AM UTC
to the beautiful quiet boy
who lives in a timezone earlier than mine
they may not know it
but your heart beats louder than how you look
i hope you're asleep
it's thirty minutes after one a.m. isn't it?
Recounting the moments i watched you sleep
With an innocent, rested face
with your hands by your sides
you're even beautiful when you sleep
but more so when those dark chocolate eyes gaze upon the windows of my soul
wish i could hold you in my arms now
Even better if you're wrapped around me
While you're with your signature turtleneck
And me with my red pashmina
These thoughts are nothing
but at least something
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 11:39 AM UTC
we all would like to sit upon a balcony,
overflowing with leafy companions,
and look out into the city, absently,
at the skyscrapers that fill the canyons;
and we all would like to float upon dark blue seas,
our tanned backs skimming the cool blue,
the sun's golden locks tickling our faces like a tease,
and, blissfully, there is nothing to do;
of course, we all would like to laugh uncontrollably,
with our beautiful friends with wild, beachy, bronze hair
and with bejeweled fingers that hold onto ours tightly,
while the loud sounds of the living city permeate the azure air;
nevertheless, we all would like a dark, rainy evening,
our warmth exponentially increased by a knit turtleneck,
and above, the moon emanates its blue light, pale and pleasing,
while we read a book about chance meetings, secret gardens, and a car wreck;
we all would like beautiful things, but life is more meaningful with the untimely thunderstorm, the unwanted acne, the enraging traffic ticket, unexpected endings, and much needed beginnings;
we all would like to not be alone in these things,
and we never need be alone in these things.
Dec 23, 2015
Dec 23, 2015 at 5:31 PM UTC
There was a boy, blue drowned eyes with the horse hair rooted from the top then drooped in the face.
Hair so itchy and greasy,
It caused acne.
He was thin, sideways toothpick and collarbone shown.
Isn't his fault he doesn't like the taste of sour dough bread and tap water.
People at school abuse him.
They don't understand why he wears the mustard stained turtleneck every Tuesday,
There's no washing machine.
Socks are worn through every winter,
They start to soak and mildew.
His toes freeze up.
He clutches his stomach and bites his lip,
If anyone heard the grumble they'll wonder.
There are no games at his house, no swing, no back porch.
No carpet to rub on, no Christmas.
Instead,
He wears his flannel pajama pants that flood to the knee.
His mama and pop love him so much,
They squeeze into a home with one room.
The boy gets the room.
The boy's heart is as big as it'll ever get.
His compassion for dance,
His compassion for learning.
He may not have a penny in his holy pockets,
Or a brush for his knotted hair,
But with the support from moma and pop,
The boy can have sky blue eyes that don't drown.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 9:50 AM UTC
Sitting on that Bowery curb,
Jackie Coogan,
Years shy of Uncle Festus and
The Addams Family,
Clasping his hands on one knee,
Wearing blue denim overalls &
A raggedy, red
Turtleneck sweater,
Jackie: the kid in "The Kid."
And Charlie’s inimitable face,
Inhaling his ****** moustache.
Nobody squeezed more out of a
****** expression than Charlie,
Back in the day when
Actors told their stories physically.
The Silent Era:
A Marcel Marceau world back then,
Economical when it came to words.
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 11:06 AM UTC