"untucked" poems
It took sixteen years to become acquainted with my old self.
The self that:
Could not write on crumpled papers,
Or sleep in untucked sheets,
Played her scales robotically,
Left no word incomplete.
Labelled all the cupboards,
Books were organized by name,
This was the life I led.
I never knew that it would change.
it took 4 weeks to fall in love with my new self
the
self
tha
t
writes on ollld receipts,
kicks the covers off the bed
~lets my fingers play freely~
not every sentence has an en-
stores shoes with coffee mugs!!
writes in mArGiNs to save time
not all rules need to be f o l l o w e d
not all poems need to
sound the same
who knew that little pill
would teach me how to live
not erase the 'me' that showed
but bring out the 'me' that hid
16 years of worry
of obsessive, anxious thoughts
who knew that little pill
would change me
I,
for one,
did not
.
- p. winter
May 7, 2017
May 7, 2017 at 10:33 PM UTC
"montana-says-yoga-pants-illegal" Look up on Yahoo
we got quite the stash,
under the illegal grass,
in our hidden home,
bring 'em out when
it's just the two of us,
looking to get exercised
o'course we have secret codes,
(yogurt slackers)
never call 'em by their real name
in public,
lest we get sent by drone
to the new
orange and black jail
when we be feeling
risky-frisky,
under our coats
we wear 'em semi-publicly,
but to blend in,
we only buy black,
seeing as we live
in new york seeity,
where we reside,
black be the only
legal color for approved
illegal street walking
never when we travel domestically
in case we get busted,
don't want to face
federal interstate charges
of inciting others to riot sensationally!
this land is not my land,
maybe it is yours,
but if you come alooking
for us, we got a cabin
in the deep words,
where we practice
dress code freedom,
no ties, shirts untucked,
navel (oranges) fully exposed,
button down shirts always unbuttoned,
(my high school days
revolutionary first strike)
hoping to escape
the idiots we
place above us
to "govern"
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 4:34 PM UTC
The expendable existence.
That uncomfortable rat on your skin.
The cut in your gums that bleeds when you chew.
The last feasible member to fit on an ascending elevator.
Warm.
Hot.
Itching.
The spinach in your teeth.
The tear in your jeans located too close to “there”
The treacherous unzipped jean fiasco.
That crumb on your face.
Where is it?
‘To the left’
Is it gone?
‘A little more’
How ‘bout now?
‘Got it.’
The untied shoe.
The untucked shirt.
The eyelash stranded on your face.
The rainy wedding day.
The gold earring under the fridge.
The luggage thats flying to London instead of Zimbabwe.
These are the unwanted little honeybees of everyday being.
cracked mirrors, guitar-snapped strings,
welts of fire and third wheel things.
Feb 9, 2013
Feb 9, 2013 at 7:04 PM UTC
I drive by the little green cottage,
barely visible from the street.
The property that has come to represent
love,
childhood,
adolescence,
and innocence lost.
I know that I can't go and knock on the door,
but I drive by again,
hoping to see a light on in the window
and to send some comfort to the little girl that used to live there.
She is sleeping there somewhere,
alone, afraid, and untucked...
but it won't be that way forever, darling,
I swear.
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 7:26 PM UTC
heartbeat creaks in, out, ladder creaking too--
can you feel it, can you hear the petty voices screaming at you,
can you. can you, can you.
crying out, this is what the water gave back to you:
you never liked her anyway, not the way she got into trouble,
regret doesn’t make someone more dead, anyway,
what’s the rush?
riverbed running dry, what’s the rush?
says, you have nothing to worry about
says, god told me about the paintings, god told me,
says, this is your fault
untucked button-up shirts falling from a fifth floor balcony,
this is what love is supposed to feel like
promising bitten pieces of paper to strangers and other misdemeanors
eating at the cardboard cutout suicide dream
some kind of oasis, or
at least a buried treasure, right?
that’s what we came here for, right?
says, don’t make assumptions,
says, don’t make this harder than it has to be,
says, don’t--
corpse in the river, blonde hair
blue eyes get seven sentences and a memorial
speaking in sentences only churches get to hear
lighting a cigarette and talking about the end of the world
isn’t this what we came here for?
says, what a way to die
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 9:45 PM UTC
the outhouse, and the woman in it, gone.
father’s
praying
place.
if beside it
I could see
the open empty toolbox
I knew to yank the dog homeward.
I was doing what anyway.
in mother’s voice. in brother’s
untucked
shirt.
messing around with our neighbor, the messiah.
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 3:46 PM UTC
Daydreams of you haunt me at night, the frightening sight of me holding you tight.
Breathing heavy, sweating, looking for a lip to bite.
It might be nightmarish to stare into your cold eyes, but cold stares don't lie,
they might **** and I might die, but for sure I won't cry.
These daydreams scream obscene obscenities torturing my memories,
sending me to limbos with no souls, and no way out.
I shout into silence and silence then pouts. I fear this dreaded destination,
this nation of introspective meditation. Just face it, there's no face to save it,
no place for shelter, this helterskelter is inescapable. Incapable but breakable,
for sake's sake the will is shakable. These daydreams I swear, scare themselves,
like label less books upon empty shelves. Let the faded pages delve deep into the depth of my id and ego,
let us see how far the rabbit hole goes, maybe to wonder the underland who truly knows?
Daydreams of you haunt me at night, untucked and cold I sleep in fright.
Maybe this notion of holding you tight, will send into motion
heavy breathing, sweating, and a lip to bite.
Now hurry off to bed, for this lullaby is dead, goodnight to thoughts and the whispers in your head.
May 26, 2010
May 26, 2010 at 10:09 PM UTC
i get lost,
now and then.
i confuse my here with then.
trade my "how i feel"'s for "how i am"'s.
yeah,
i get lost,
now and then.
until i'm found.
then,
my pen becomes my vessel,
and my tongue becomes the sea.
i tread it softly,
from you to me,
until your thoughts become my words,
and my pulse becomes your "me".
you found me,
once.
pressed between the yellowing pages of where i've been,
and where i'll be.
you found me.
untucked me from my paper sheets,
and set me out to let me be
m e .
free,
and untethered.
just lost
forever.
you found me.
and let me be
the cursive poet-tree i'll always be.
i knew you meant it
when you wrote me free.
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 4:52 AM UTC
She smelt of rain
Yes, I always did love the smell of rain
But she wore it in a way that the earth lowered in shame
She had walked nearly three miles to my door
I took her hand-
Led her in
And when her hair dried
The imperfections of the waves sat so perfectly on her head that they weren't imperfect at all-
They were apart of her beauty-
Precisely as she should be
Her lips were as subtle as ever but the slight quiver was something I had not seen before-
It enticed me
Drew me close
Pressed me against her chest
It untucked her blouse
And weighted gravity on my head-
Resting my lips upon hers
For minutes
And many minutes more
Until the skies drew clear
Until we laid hand in hand-
Skin to skin
Mind to mind
To this day
I could swear we were the life to that storm
(C) Tiffanie Noel Doro
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 8:58 PM UTC
“*I suppose I will never lead the ordered life my father led.
And I’ll never live in the kind of house he lived in, with its rituals,
its dignity, the smell of polish.*”
Leonard Cohen
<>
the orderly of an individual life,
guided by the guardrails of family life,
superimposed upon it by a calendar of religion,
that layers into you with a cyclicality of communal ritual,
that rules, guides, tides and hides you subliminally, the individual,
in ways that forever alters how one comprehends the meaning of
belonging
the oven~heated, banging smells of the kitchen,
the hubbub, frantic sounds of a Sabbath eve prepping,
vacuuming house cleansing, far more than just a cleaning,
the young boys in their jackets, white shirts, for Friday night
candle lighting, the girls in Sabbath frocks, assisting Mother,
but by
Saturday morning sermon time
those boy’s shirts
were always untucked, sweaty and always less white,
from running around outside synagogue from playing Ringolevio,
for which you were justly critiqued by a mother’s glare-stare
this play-within-a-play poem,
played out in homes nearby,
for community was very defined by geography,
and the candles of Sabbath oft visible in every home as
Fathers & sons returned home from Friday Night services
where the Sabbath’s peace was welcomed like
a new bride.
but the knowledge that this scenario was occurring in
homes around the world in almost identical custom,
lent a larger perspective to even the youngest, of a
belonging
As for me, I passed on that life,
not as well as it was given to me,
but as best I could, or honestly, desired,
but because I the individual inherited these
ways, words, knowledge and sensations and deemed
failing to transmit would be a grievous denial of a heritage
were I to not gift them this order,
the dignity of these rituals,
the pungent smell of a polished home,
a life of intuiting
belonging,
be longing.
Feb 18, 2024
Feb 18, 2024 at 10:09 AM UTC
I live on a small (25 sq. mile) island, accessible only by ferry.
<>
“For we are dear to the immortal gods,
Living here, in the sea that rolls forever,
Distant from other lands and other men”
—Homer, the Odyssey (translated by Robert Fitzgerald)
<>
*sea air inoculates the slowing breath-taking ferried voyager,
our landed cares felled, fall into a wake, trailing, sunk & submerged,
a ferry’s ramp contact-clangs, belling a “Here, Here!” alters our mien,
the softening airy enveloping, fragrantly, a greeting of immortal gods*
*no matter that we can vision-easy the neighboring isles, with
their trafficked-light busyness, the to and fro of mainland life,
bustle necessity of hustle, our riveted river moat cancels out
imposing surround sounds, our untucked flavor, floating free*
*wafting perfume of quiet inlet, creek and harbour, touch us safely,
alternating currents of gentle breeze, stiffer sailing winds, gusts,
bending us, these reminders, we humans too, creatures of elementals,
water, sun, forest, sand, animals, singular upon co-hosted menagerie*
*the brackish water, where fresh + marine waters mix, live + die,
reflecting our pooling diversity, so few of us born here, yet so many,
adopt and adapt the isle’s peculiarities, endearing all without any
distinction, we blessed together by Immortal Gods to shelter together,
by, from, the seas that roll us into one peaceful island, nearly, dearly,
and now departed*
<>
Shell Beach,
Shelter Island
August 2021
Aug 7, 2021
Aug 7, 2021 at 1:28 PM UTC
My freshman year is ending and I’m as busy as a one-armed juggler. Of course covid is back. It reoccurs at the worst times, like a movie slasher long thought dead.
When we have something scheduled very early in the morning, we call it an “early-burn.” This one early-burn morning I had a 7am meeting. Peter and I had met for breakfast because he’s back in my life and he’s ALWAYS up and out early.
It was snowing and we were hurrying, because somehow, I always cut things close. I think I tripped over my shoe-string on a patch of ice. I went down hard and I heard this loud ripping sound. I’d ripped my pants badly and my book bag spilled too. I’m scrambling around on the ground in an attempt to grab some loose papers the wind was scattering.
Peter says, “Wow, your ******* are really thin.”
I jump up “I feel you don’t know where our boundaries are,” I laugh, “you’re so nasty - don’t just stand there grinning - HELP me!” I indicate two papers for him to chase. I looked to see how bad the rip was (BAD). Of course, my coat was short that day, so I untucked my blouse. “How does this look?” I asked Peter.
“That works,” he said, giving my fix his imprimatur.
The two of us managed to corral the papers. “Let’s pretend that didn’t happen,” Peter said. I realized I’d ripped my pants leg and scraped my knee badly - it was bleeding profusely.
“God **** It!” I went off.
This lady comes up - seemingly out of nowhere - this old white Christian lady who we’d never seen before. She was so out of place and random and she says, “I really don’t think you should be talking like that in public.” She wasn’t harsh.
At that moment, a gust of wind came up that made me lower my head, as though I couldn’t look the old woman in the eyes but I was just ignoring her anyway - having my own set of issues to deal with.
She had a point though. I’m cursing too much these days. I feel like If I admit it, maybe it’s ok but I am trying not to cuss anymore - well less maybe - at least in a negative way.
“I think you look fu-kin’ GREAT,” would still be acceptable.
Apr 21, 2022
Apr 21, 2022 at 6:06 PM UTC
I close my eyes and feel the sun come untucked from the clouds,
bleeding blood orange through my eyelids.
No one really knows you and I the way we know our footsteps,
coming home across wood floors late at night.
The way we used to sit on windowsills,
or crosslegged across from one another on your bed.
Our arms sank into the crevices of one another,
I wanted to feel the weight of you to crush me,
if only just to feel the peace of the street.
May 26, 2017
May 26, 2017 at 4:06 PM UTC
She was the kind of beauty that was not to be heavily applied and caked,
She was the kind that rolled over in untucked sheets the next morning with a slight glimmer in her eye, and a rosy tint to her cheeks.
The kind with long eyelashes, and a wardrobe full of cotton striped tee shirts.
She was gentle, sweet, and told ***** jokes on car rides home.
She was the kind of beauty you find in low budget indie films,
The kind that warms the pit of your stomach when she walks in a room,
The kind that didn't strike twice.
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 10:05 PM UTC
The school girls
with the messiest hair
are my daughters
The ones with the
fallen socks
and the untucked shirts
So concerned are they
with getting there
so they can come home later
That nothing but
Armageddon
can stop them in their tracks
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 7:22 PM UTC
This is an ode to that bloke over there,
You see him? Glasses, very little hair.
Hunched over black coffee, holding it to a stare.
From his right hand hangs a spoon, giving it a stir.
A crumpled suit flecked with dirt hangs loose here and there.
He wears a yellowed shirt untucked and scuffed shoes a pair.
From his sockless ankles peek heels bare,
While he sits, head down, dispair.
He saved my life today that bloke over there,
I feel inclined to tell him but I doubt he’d really care.
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 7:28 AM UTC
If metal music racket and a straight jacket
can clog the corporations cogs,
then unemployable bleach blond anarchists turning white coats into black cloaks
is when tattoos and pierced ears
become a parents worst fears.
We walk with untucked shirts and short skirts, wearing a students mask
I hide a whiskey flask
in a blue blazer pocket
knowing dam well they can't stop it
if I walk with a lit cigarette in the parking lot past a parent, it's inherent that since they can't beat us anymore we won't join them.
But I'm not scared.
Because their clone army won't harm me.
Just like the microwave rays the crazies raved on about in the good old days
when disco was king and Justin didn't sing,
back when ADHD wasn't real,
and depression was just no big deal.
So call me a student psychopath armed with a devilish laugh as i bounce round a rubber room in a tin foil hat
refusing to be the systems lab rat.
So they call me a rebel as I lay back in revel watching the rabbit hole unfold
as a thousand sheep break the mold
that the man made when red writing atop a page became how we wage a child's worth.
So the sheep that march through the flames
immerge adorning robes of rebellion,
as the sounds of so many chains severed symphonies through the generation
marking many young minds escaping the confines society's shoved down indoctrinated throats.
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 6:55 PM UTC
I know a lot of things
like the capitals of most countries in Africa
and how to rationalize a denominator with a radical in it
and how to conjugate subjunctive verbs in Spanish
I know how to tie my shoes
two different ways
and I know how to tuck in the laces so I don't have to tie them at all
I know too many people's phone numbers
and how to make a cup of tea
I know that it is foolish to give yourself completely to a person.
I know that heartbreak is almost always inevitable
and that love hurts as much as it helps
I know all of these things, and
I know you take your tea with two spoons of sugar a little milk
I know your favorite Spanish word and its Aztec origins
I know that you're awful and algebra
and that you know more about geography than I could ever hope to learn
I know your phone number
and that you wish I would just tie my shoes so that the laces wouldn't come untucked when I walk too fast
I know you
and I know love
and I love you
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 3:08 AM UTC
I lay my feelings down like a tablecloth;
it sits between our still bodies,
and his fingers grasp at the edges -
twisting, twirling, and innocently tearing bits away.
And yes, he acts like a child,
but he is older, and wiser, and blissfully
unattractive to my age’s everyday gaze -
I am undoubtedly blinded.
He clears his throat to speak,
but he remains silent
while I remain in a whirlwind daydream,
worrying too often about reading between his unspoken lines.
His eyes, a stormy blue haze,
but all I see is the sun;
the entirety of my vision in awe,
enchanted by a rainbow.
He smiles,
only half of his top teeth showing,
with warmth that shades my cheeks
and beckons me to mirror his dimpled features.
The overflowing effort
he puts into making me laugh
makes me realize how easy it is
to fall for him.
And there’s something captivating
about the way he giggles
when he steals popcorn,
the way his hand softly brushes my skin when he places a sticky note on my forehead.
The freckles on his arms,
like raindrops on the sidewalk
outside my window;
the flowers in my garden grow with their nourishment.
And for every imperfect label society slaps on his untucked shirt,
I find another reason to love him.
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 8:23 PM UTC
I wonder how they do it
Those immaculate girls
With butterscotch hair and honeyed smiles
So sleek and streamlined,
So very contained
Gliding through life without a care,
They are the definition of grace.
My life is more haphazard
My room a bomb site of to do lists
My hair wild and frazzled
My shirt untucked
And my eyes bright-
Not good bright, though,
Not sweet sunlight bright,
Feverish, they dart with static-
My hands pirouette through the air
My teeth slightly crooked but smiling broadly
Dark circles under my eyes
And a liberal spray of spots on my face
Because who has time for face paint
When the mornings are reserved for catching up on the sleep you lost
Exploring the universe in your mind?
My words from my poems to my texts
Are long unending sentences
And stop-starts
Littered with exclamations!!
And I swear I'm articulate
This explosion you're hearing is vomited onto a page
A direct translation for a brain that flits and stumbles over itself
I beg of you to like me
My laughter bursts into your personal space
And I do too
I always get too close-
I come on too strong, apparently
I love too much, too hard and too fast
I fall far too easily and break my own heart
And drive people away
Because I'm not aloof or cool or distant
There's no thrill of the chase with me
Just honesty
And an eagerness to please.
I lurch between seeing these
As my most wonderful assets
And my greatest downfalls.
But **** you
If you are one of the people who has made me believe the latter
Sure, I can be intense
Sure, I can be hard to love
But you have never known loyalty like mine.
Never will you find such passion and intensity
And that's a ******* good thing, you hear me?
That's a good thing.
I am vibrant and alive
Where you see cloudy days
I can find a kaleidoscope of colour
My energy comes not from coffee
But from this white-hot centre of my heart
This supernova colour-clashing burnout explosion of me.
And it's a ******* honour
To stand in my presence
And feel my warmth.
Jan 7, 2018
Jan 7, 2018 at 4:42 PM UTC
There are some things you should tell a person
like when their shirt is untucked
or you like their hair
or when they’ve got something in their teeth.
There are some things that you should not say
like when someone looks fat
or they talk funny
or you don’t like their siblings.
And there are some things people just know
like when someone has good energy
or when they need to talk
or when you’re going to be good friends
But today you asked me to introduce myself
and I did not know how to say my name
or tell you I survived
or whether I should mention my lack of family
or if I should tell you why I sleep so much
and what my nightmares were last night
or what my father used to say
and where I was when my grandfather died
why my grandma loves that song
or why I am uncomfortable hot springing with someone I know
and why I don’t ride in cars
There are sometimes when you play it safe
follow the rules
reveal only enough
keep it to four lines
May 5, 2010
May 5, 2010 at 10:30 PM UTC
If you walk into the coffee shop
where I like to work
or watch
you can look around
at all of the faces
and you just know
who the regulars are
with faces baring more years
than age would show
and five o'clock shadows
they come in with their shirts
not ironed and untucked
their fingers stained yellow
with everything they run from
people don't ask their orders
they just nod and sit down
a tribe of people with something to say
but nobody to listen
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 10:55 AM UTC