Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Moon Child Jan 2014
If you tell me I'm meaningful
Then *******
The loyalty fades
When her zipper starts unhooking
And you hum to her smile
Leaving no thoughts for our flickers
Cyril Blythe May 2015
Growing up in Northern Alabama means you know that WalMart sells crickets and those crickets are on sale Sunday afternoons. The art of wetting a line was mine to claim from, a young age. Dad and I would spend weekends on various simplistically named bodies of water (Gunterville, Goose Pond, the Elk, the Flint) equipped with an alarming amount of crickets, ZOOM bait, honeywheat bread and cheap ham. Riptide Rush Gatorade and Michelob Ultra were the choice drinks to ensure proper hydration. The days we filled with a simple formula: cast, reel, catch, release. Bass love lake-**** and Crappie muddy banks. Catfish are not worth the effort involved with avoiding their poisonous whiskers when unhooking even though they look like Dinosaurs. After a lunch of sweaty ham and blue-bag doritos a quick swim in the water is absolutely crucial to cool down and finally get rid of the weariness sitting on a rocking boat gives you.  The big fish bite during dusk and dawn. Some only after the sun goes down. Sleep came when the green and white light rods on the boat become too bright for tired eyes. Finding a random small island in the water, tying the boat to an Hardwood Oak, and rolling out the sleeping bags on the red-clay will always provide the best sleep of your life-just don't think about snakes. The stars are always brightest and the cricket and cicada harmony the most melodic on this little Alabamian islands.

With each year the opportunity for these ventures dissipated. The fishing never stopped-the creeks in the neighborhood, pond beside our family home, and lakes on the Robert Trent Jones golf course (the 18th hole on the River Course was the best) provided ample opportunity to cure the itchy thumb syndrome.

I remember in high-school my father would fish alone by the lake with our dog by his side and an Ultra in his cup-holder almost every night. It was his time to unwind and process. I always appreciated his dedication to the art and the mastery of skills he passed on to me, but I never understood why he fished every single evening.

Until now.

I have been in the so called real world for a mere two year since college graduation. I have completed a post-graduate program, dated and broken up with various women, obtained a full time position doing honest and difficult work for those in need, and recently became a Dad to a hound of my own.

There in a river that flows through my city, but it is to far to venture to every night. The rivers surface in most places reflects bright lights. On weekends you will find kayak enthusiasts paddling against the current like wasps in the wind. The river, here, is a place of fast motion and has forgotten the beauty of a restful yellow bobber downing crickets.

Fishing equates opportunity for breathing. I still wet my line most weekends, but at 24 there is not enough time to recapture the dreams only found on red clay riverbanks. The river remembers and the fish still look like dinosaurs to me.
SøułSurvivør Jul 2015
... that's HUGE.

my little dog got a dew claw
hooked in her bottom eyelid.
don't ask me how.
i had a heck of a time
keeping her still...
she was struggling.
when the claw was finally
extracted (i spent 5 minuets
praying. calming her) i found that
i had not pulled it up and
out (unhooking it so to speak)

IT HAD BROKEN OFF
SAVING HER EYE.

i pray for protection for this
beautiful little creature.

GOD HEARD ME. and answered.

♥ Catherine
This may sound trivial to you.
But the nail broke off almost
PERFECTLY SQUARE.
Ask anyone who owns a dog.
How often does THAT happen?
Opening up to Monday
I unwrapped myself from the duvet
Pasted my limbs to the floor
Slippers winked at me
Invitingly, I settled my feet into their snugness
As I stood, I was thankful that today
Is Monday, wonderful Monday
Free as a song bird to create
My own melody, a chorus of hurrah
I caught up with the shower
On hot house temperature
Scorching...I fumbled for the cool
Climate, turning it sufficiently to
Bathe and recycle myself
As I stroked the cat meowing
A feline opera, making her presence known
The outside world had a dismal feel
The window onto the day told me so
Yet, blue escorted the clouds
Pushing the doubting rain packages
To another realm
Introducing the blue yonder that
Had won the day
We all gathered up into the aroma
Of a new week, stretched our
Arms towards one another
I joined the links for a few hours
Tattooing their conversation into my
Subconscious indelibly
Unhooking ourselves we separated
Turning towards the duties of the day
Swiftly we deposited out parting gifts
Hugs
Kisses
Our best
Our loving wishes
MereCat Apr 2016
You can never skip an opportunity to call yourself that
Because you’re your ma’s son:
Didn’t get caught up in the tool shed
Got spiked through with the hooked art of repeating yourself instead

Should I feel insulted then
That these cracked, digited fringes
These rejects of your diminutive anatomy
Are how you love me?

You love me with the unvoiced, unexplained idiocy
Of fingers that make Mexican waves
To one particular song
And lure mine to come dancing too

You love me with the whorls where you keep your DNA
Counting the concaves in my skeleton:
Explore them, soothe them
Wonder if you made them

And I think you fear that
If you ceased to trace me as I grew –
A carpenter sifting through the age rings in my spine –
I’d only feel the dislocating vagueness
Of an absence too menial to be mourned.

“Cack-handed”
But I remember different:
I remember your hands like leather,
All heated and scratchy from your pockets,
Unhooking the problems from my mouth.
And how the weather’d teethed on them,
Gnawed away chunks down around the cuticles
Until they were dry and scarred like February –
February getting lost in its own bleak cavernousness

They stir the rag in the shoe polish,
And the burnt spoon in the bean tin.

I used to try to pinch them
But my nails were too soft
And your palms too crusted
But when they tell me “thick-skinned”
I shake my head and think
“No, beautifully cack-handed”
scarlett Apr 2018
i miss our soft touch
my smooth fingertips grazing your shoulder blades
unhooking your bra
kissing your neck
our soft skin melting together
plush
****
gone
CA Guilfoyle Apr 2015
Redolent rain
steel train
streak of blue
racing through
night lands
rainy window
sallow moon glow
no reservation
nor hesitation
time to travel
some things
to unravel
go looking
unhooking
my mind
drift into peace
float in my seat
high in the sky
sweet sighs
to feel again
finally
understand
there is
no plan
only
a dream
within
a dream
to feel
a life time
so surreal.
Lynn Hamilton Jul 2016
Queued
Right
From
The start

Snake like
Cloth
Barriers
Slid
Through

Going
Under
Unhooking
Running
Straight
Through

Someone
Shouted
‘Stop that’
Come to
The front

Just
You, you
And you

No tick
Box
Selection
On age
Religion
Gender
Or view

Just
You, you
And you

Depart….

Queue
Slows
And
Shuffles

And
Goes
Back
To the
Start.
Jess Hays Jul 2016
Masks and fiction we wear as protection
To keep us safe from vulnerable situations
Make-up we plaster as our happiness
The mentality of only you... no trespassing,
Because self-inflicted hurt is less agonizing
Than others getting to close to our truths.
Covering the life lessons with a layer of skin,
Cautioning any soul we begin to let in,
Keeping our mindless thoughts ever-dwelling.

This life promised happiness, tragedy, forgiveness.
But, in adulthood, it doesn't provide protection.
Rather, it hands us elders and guardians
That remind us vulnerability is unhooking your
Body from the steel-anchor of problems.
That the winds may knock you off your feet, but
We'll fly again as the water flows along the breeze.
Vitis Lio Apr 2014
His hands on my body
Were cold, cold,
Cold hands on warm flesh
Like when you open
The back of the bra
On a cold winter day
Cold hands on warm flesh
I can feel them again
Goosebumps run down
My back and I double over
Like I didn't then
Cold hands on warm flesh
That make you want to
Run away from your own fingers
Only those weren't my fingers
And I wasn't the one
Unhooking my bra.
This is the first time I've written about this. Actual, physical stuff. It seems somewhat detached from me, but still I want to throw up.
The man I fall in love with will not be perfect
My guy is gonna be a hott mess
He will be gentle and kind
But an overworked mind
Confused and clumsy too
He will fumble when unhooking my bra
And be kind of unsure of what to do
He will snort like a pig when he laughs
And slip on his ***
Banging his head
While laying down in the bath

I’m the type to fall in love with a
Beautiful dork
Everything worth having
Will need lots of work
Tom Atkins Oct 2020
The Squeaking of Hinges

It is cloudy with a spit of unexpected rain
as you make your way to the barn,
unhooking the latch pulling the door. Open.

It creaks. The hinges are old and iron,
They rust without care, and need to be used
to stay limber. You have been gone a time

and they are stiff with neglect.
Still, they open. And as the week of your presence
falls back into the routine of letting animals in and out,

the hinges will fall back into their comfortable habits.
They will grow quiet as you oil them and use them,
until you no longer notice them in the morning

and nothing is left but you
and the wildstock.
I have been away a few days. I used to be terrified when I had been away from my writing for a while, even for just a few days. Terrified that like an unwatered plant, my ability to write would dry up and die. There is a long story behind that that I will leave for another time.

I know better now. Rusty is not dead. Far from it. At times, it brings new color.

Tom
the dirty poet Feb 2020
dear ultimate phone number marie whateveryourlastnameis who

just graduated somerset high school, imaginary aroma of whose
thick, ready thighs and *** (and car!) woke me up this morning
at a boil, who told me anytime I want and wrote your number
on a slip of paper that I stripped my entire room to find, even
unhooking the radiator cover but no good:

WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH

— The End —