"velveteen" poems
Music provides a blanket of background noise,
As you sit, in a velveteen chair, legs parted, hands on your knees,
I stand between them, silhouetted against flashing gold lights,
I stare down into your upturned face & slowly begin to undress.
Piece by piece my clothing drops to the floor at your feet,
Pooling around my clear, stiletto heels.
Your eyes too drop down, lingering on my *******
My skin, soft & sun kissed, shimmers golden in the soft light.
I turn slowly, allowing every curve of my body to be illuminated,
The arch of my back, the contour of my hip & the arc of my buttocks
Your eyes trace down my thighs, now spread & back up,
As I bend, & reveal my inner most secrets to you.
My sweet opening that promises so much pleasure,
Just inches from your lips & your tongue & your pleasure.
Slowly I slide to my knees, down on all fours, face to the floor,
Inviting you to enter me, visually, take me with your eyes,
I turn to meet your groin & I watch with interest,
As I play with my ****** at the stirring that may come.
I rise up instead, to my knees, cupping my ******* blowing,
On my now ***** ******* & my eyes reach yours,
And time & space hold for us, as we join together, for a second,
Before I lean in, my breath on your cheek & I whisper,
That's £20 please.
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 10:52 AM UTC
the magnolia was a bit of a *******
(as far as trees can be ********
and like very many other things—
like japanese candy from the Fugi Mart in Greenwich
(across from the McDonald’s and next to
the music shop where I got my viola)
and like pokemon cards and nintendo gaming systems
and like Avril Lavigne’s “Sk8er Boi” on a pink CD in a Hello Kitty radio
—that ******* of a magnolia was a distinctive taste
of the years I spent growing up in my house at the end of Wyndover Lane.
the ******* thing was almost perpetually in bloom.
it barged into both spring and autumn
(it didn’t give a **** about timing)
those pink and white spongy petals padding the ground
and at first you think it’s ******* beautiful
sitting in the crook of the trunk where it split into
two large
separate branches
tilting your chin back to catch a glimpse of blue between fat blossoms
then the petals start rotting
water-retentive little *******
and you can’t sweep ‘em away because they stick to the patio
brown clumps slipping under rubber soles
my dad lets loose a string of curses
and the magnolia shakes with laughter
I tried pressing the petals in a notebook once
while I was in that naturalist phase it seems all little girls go through
when you make fairy houses out of bark in the backyard
and put flowers between the pages of books because it feels
oh-so-much-more significant
than picking a pretty thing and showing it to mom
but the magnolia seeped through my spiral ring
and when I opened it up a month later they were dry tan papery things
not at all velveteen and rosy
and there were garish pink bloodstains all through the ten pages
on either side
magnolias don’t preserve well
except, honestly they do don’t they
then of course there’s that childhood tragedy that everyone has
when your dog got hit by some soccer mom’s suburban
or your teddy bear was lost in an airport
or maybe you just liked to cry because some things
were just really worth the tears at the time
but when I came home and found out they cut down my ******* ******* of a magnolia
I bawled
there wasn’t
even
a
stump.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 4:48 PM UTC
The depression wont be ending soon
I took the blades form you
oh, my dear, do you live in this fear?
I take a deep breath looking around
See through my eyes what i found
oh, my dear, do you live in this fear?
One last breath to say slow down
this is all too fast, i'm scared now
oh, my dear, do you live in this fear?
tall thin black and burnt figure
coming near to be my savior
oh, my dear, do you live in this fear?
he said his name is suicide
he promises me one last fire fight
oh, my dear, do you live in this fear?
see the movement beyond the eclipse
you take my hand, only to rip open my wrists
oh, my dear, do you live in this fear?
sweet lips pressed coldly to mine
you're breathing out, telling me to stay alive
oh, my dear, do you live in this fear?
my pulse begins to fade away
you scream to me, to win this race
oh, my dear, do you live in this fear?
the eclipse takes over, whispers of "i thought you could"
you scream and kick at the dirt
oh, my dear, do you live in this fear?
a rough rope tied with loops
whisper to my ghost "you cant stop this noose"
oh, my dear, do you live in this fear?
tears of soot stream down my face
with one brutal snap, our memories are erased
oh, my dear, do you live in this fear?
My heart crashes to the ground
my one true love, now only a corpse to be found.
oh, my dear, do you live in this fear?
an icy thin white velveteen hand
reaching down to lift me off the burning land
oh, my dear, do you live in this fear?
lifted up to my muse's translucent face
our perfect romance, as love has won this race
oh, my dear, do you live in this fear?
We walk away, together forever
on true love that can never be severed.
Oh, my dear, we no longer live in that fear.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 7:22 PM UTC
Resplendent rose, luminous green,
Lucid paradisaical palette,
The jewel delivers
It's dyed, distinctive sheen
Graciously, unassumingly
Casting a pink and emerald crewel
Coalescing into traces,
Cuisine for sunbeams
Brushing nature's easel --
Bedecking the constellation lighting on earth,
Realizing among tureens:
Scalloped edge profusions offering
The spoonbill waif
Sweet adrenaline,
Fueling it's sojourn in the atmosphere.
Bird of prey, humming minstrel,
Airy, iridescent meddler
Between red blooms,
Distant gem's sparkle
Gracing redolent, languid afternoons
Cloaked in shimmering velveteen,
Beating velocious wings, remaining still.
Aug 13, 2010
Aug 13, 2010 at 9:11 AM UTC
I am ragged and
Dismembered
In velveteen splendour.
Assembled by a drunk,
Who couldn't remember
What loveliness
Looked like.
I'm too tall for my height.
You are pulpy and bright
Like today's magazines.
Your eyes are spotless like
Ironed jeans,
And they fold and crease
in smiles at me.
You find me funny.
I am sterile and naked
And aching with
Tension.
I'll bend into positions to
Get your attention.
I am fixed in the curb,
and you gather the nerve
to cope with my most
unnerving dimensions.
(I love you. I forget to mention.)
You've never indulged in
petty ***
You wrap my arms around
Your neck,
like I'm a scarf.
I make you laugh.
You've never been
out on the scene.
You've never found yourself
between two strangers
in a darkened room.
Bedroom theatre's not
for you.
Nor costume.
You've never smoked.
You've never drank so much
You've choked
on hot-bodied ***** and
collapsed in the road.
You had four pints of
beer
and I watched you explode.
From your skin I lick atoms of the sky and shampoo.
You are dripping with hygiene,
You are clear, you are blue.
In mirrors you stand and watch me watching you.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 2:00 PM UTC
*I'm unapologetically a bit too sensitive
highly attuned to inanimate feelings
the lone Cheerio circling the drain is given
a kindred companion for its journey
considerate thought is given to the preferences
of animal crackers...heads or legs bitten first
many items are thanked before discarded
others parted with reluctantly if ever
a twinge of conscience is felt while pruning
perfectly healthy leaves from house plants
objects are arranged in pairs and groups
in a compassionate effort for inclusion
The Velveteen Rabbit makes perfect sense to me*
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 12:00 AM UTC
our love making
early this morning
was slow and exquisite
and made me think of moss
all green verdancy and
softness,
gently enveloping moistness
always close to water
the ultimate source of life
simple but enduring
green earth velveteen
a soft place to fall
but then....
it may have just been
the feel of your soft scratchy
stubble
against the tender skin of
my inner thigh
either way....
thinking on it now
arouses me....again.
again... again.....
moss
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 2:05 AM UTC
Velveteen and closed with slim metal clasps
Laying on the seat next to the edge of a dress.
Let me slip my hand inside to find
Nothing but a $100 bill that isn't mine.
The car comes to a lurching stop
I pay the cabbie and get out to walk.
A few coins and an aching heart
Linger with the clasp's top apart.
My silken dress swirls around my knees
At the bottom of the stairs of apartment three.
One single step leads right to the next
Velveteen catching my ragged breath.
The metal clasps held firmly closed
As I knock on the door to fill the hole.
Stolen bills and velveteen held close
And the door unbolts…
But metal clasps remain closed.
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 9:38 PM UTC
Crowns embellished
with ebony bewitching.
A sliver of gold
pierces the veil.
Stalemate defined
by velveteen seas.
Eyes of steel incandescent
under the blacksmiths hands.
The finest sapphires inlaid.
A woman in hand
the mightiest of weapons.
Snowy mountains nourished
the victory of Man.
Gravid in mysticism
keeper of seeds
bloomed the Kings strength.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 11:05 PM UTC
(This poem was brought to you by the letter...V!)
She vacuums the worn carpet
Her gaze on the surface vague and vacant
But when you lift the lid
She has been ****** into a vortex
Of whirling cosmic space dust.
She's entered a parallel universe
There her name is Vanessa
And her life's so diverse
By day she announces on
underground trains
'mind the gap, next stop
Mornington crescent'
Her voice is sweet, virtuous,
clear and efficient
But by evening her voice has
more va va voom
She sings sultry jazz
in a smoky back room.
She looks almost the same
Voluptuous lines and a
red haired mane
But gone is any trace of mundane.
Each verse of song she wraps in a sway of the hips side to side
and a ravishing smile
And if the audience try it on
or become volatile
A valiant handsome trilby wearing
gentleman
Can warn them off
With a choice few nouns
And vexing verbs
make them run a mile
And after the show
She and the gentleman
Vanish from view
And as their heated passion grows
They sink down onto A velveteen couch
exploring her peaks n valleys
With his keen mouth
And she traces his muscles
Vivid veins, v lines
She reaches his peak further south.
Back out of the vortex
And back in the room
She is breathless
And her heart is fast and keen
She has stopped the vacuum
Instead saught solace
In the vibrations of her washing machine
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 3:53 PM UTC
To my good friend, Sue
Stay safe in your chrysalis
I'll be here waiting
Keep your mind on you
I'll stay true to the promise
to write for us both
You are not alone
You are a kind and sweet soul
So regenerate
In your chrysalis
I will await in its glow
and for it to crack
The winds will sing sweet
And the Northern Lights will dance
And you will emerge
Shining, born again
With strong, bright, velveteen wings
With love as armour
With all your wounds healed
And all your scars now faded
And we see you smile
I know you'll come through
People may have struck you down
But you weren't destroyed
To my good friend, Sue
My hand's on your chrysalis
Just know I am here
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 4:03 PM UTC
When your time closes in
Faster than laughter and red lights,
I wish you to be worn and threadbare
As the Velveteen Rabbit,tattered,
With a walker and stair chair;
My cane and umbrella waiting
By your leave.
I hope you're wearing the cardigan
I got you this Christmas,
Mended and draped over your frail shoulders,
Mingling with your hair.
I pray you have children bringing children
To feast on shortbread and tea.
I see you alone, at times, in tranquility,
Recalling me,
Who missed it all.
Dec 24, 2018
Dec 24, 2018 at 10:30 AM UTC
When I describe you to a stranger,
I do not mention your flawless makeup
Instead I think of your eyes, the window to your soul.
I describe the love that flows through soft hazel gaze that only a mother can produce
When I describe you to a stranger,
I do not mention your perfectly done hair
Instead I see you reading a novel on a hot summer day,
As if it were your true reality in that moment.
I see the power that literature holds
I describe your mesmerizing voice repeating the lines of Eloise in Paris to me,
I mention the soothing way in which you read the Velveteen Rabbit,
And I credit you for making me fall in love with words and the way they can make people feel.
When I describe you to a stranger,
I do not mention your schooling history
Instead I picture you and I see a symphony around your soul that courses cannot teach
I see Mozart's Sonata No.11 and Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos
I see Monet’s Water Lilies, Veronese's Wedding at Cana and Michelangelo’s David
I describe the joy in your eyes when we saw the Sistine Chapel and the Champs-Élysées
I describe the vast knowledge and art that makes up your personal mosaic.
When I describe you to a stranger,
I do not mention your professional accomplishments.
Instead I mention your ability to hold someone and make them feel loved
I picture the times you embraced me while I silently sobbed over circumstances that you tried to protect me from.
I picture the words that you gave me at just the right times
I see the comfortable silence you provided when I couldn't bear to hear words through the pain.
When I describe you to a stranger,
I do not mention your clothing or the way you dress
Instead I mention the way you clothe yourself in humility before God
I see the verses that you have sown into my heart since I was young
I speak of the way you clothe yourself with the armor of God
I remember the scriptures that you so carefully knitted on my heart
When I describe you to a stranger,
I describe you as
A woman after God’s own heart.
A woman who understands that beauty is vain but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised,
A woman who teaches wisdom and kindness and serves with joy,
A mother who clothes herself in strength and dignity and laughs without fear of the future,
A mother who encapsulates the love of Christ here on Earth.
I describe you as everything that I hope to become.
Aug 12, 2021
Aug 12, 2021 at 12:42 AM UTC
"Thus fought the heroes, tranquil their admirable hearts, violent their swords,
resigned to **** and to die." – Jorge Louis Borges, The Garden of Forking Paths
stoic labyrinthine sparrow-bone;
there is a slalom down your gullet,
bayonet curled around your neck,
you have a beak, you are lusty-smooth,
have rubble for skin, an emaciated infinity:
everything is fractal so eat your words
they are you are your rusty toenails
every footstep is a holocaust there’s
genocide under your neurons,
watch them flex and shiver.
you have soft plastic lips,
there is a vacuum in your gullet,
a box cutter carving
through your adam’s apple:
epileptics are just indecisive,
when they seize hold their tongues
they are their words you are a god
are oppenheimer and shiva,
pick favorites it doesn’t matter
it doesn’t matter it doesn’t matter
flex and shimmer we are just neurons
flatlines are not ghoulish nooses,
paraplegics are just cowards,
move with conviction each step
is a genocide, you have wooden
teeth and woolen wings,
thrashes are a velveteen sunset
an edible fog, your stomach
is a stomach do not eat the fog
just know that someday it will **** you
softly and swiftly.
it doesn’t matter it doesn’t matter:
infinity is not recursive
alive is not our default state
once is the only route
blood makes the blade holy
if you cut me i will bleed,
i won't blame you just know
you were only ever
that very moment.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 1:17 AM UTC
Misty moonlight falls on dancing waters
Shimmers as it plays
Lights the fall of a gauntlet’s challenge
Called the sunrise
Of the day
Straining beams of iridescence quietly appear
Changing in a glow
Accumulating dust from a starlight’s sphere
A brilliant sparkling
From long ago
A splash of velvet is the midnight sky
Cradling our moon
Softly singing the sweetest lullaby
Knowing the challenge
Is ending soon
Streaks of crimson, fiery red appear
Across the velveteen
The moonlight's dancing end is near
As the sun again
Is seen
Oct 10, 2010
Oct 10, 2010 at 9:01 PM UTC
I sat in the third row.
Staring at the red velveteen,
the gleaming black exterior-
of the open casket.
My abuela’s black veil masked her face,
however could not hide her gentle trembling.
Discarded Kleenex crumbled,
on the harsh wooden floors.
That resonated the sound of her heels
as she pace d the floor.
While she recited Hail Mary’s,
and prayed to God.
Abuela no lloran,
She held my hand.
I saw what my mother tried to prevent.
Abulo with bruises on his skin,
similar to the coffee stain on my father’s ivory shirt.
His amputated leg, and still expression
I walked away, I learned my lesson.
*Abula no lloran means Grandma don’t cry in Spanish
-Marissa Navedo
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 2:46 AM UTC
All of my nights were spent submerged in cool bliss
Anticipating the mornings waking up to you
Eyes as leaves opening towards gleaming rays
Entangled vines in white sheets
Feeling the rise and fall of your chest on my back
As gentle wind would sway pastel grass
Basking in the light filtering through the blinds of your window
Knowing you are the essence of summer
Basking in your glory and blinded by perfection
Knowing you are the essence of my being
Feigned attempts of sleep only to be awakened by the
Sweet serendipity of lips that cannot compare to
Velveteen petals immersed in the succulent taste of nectar
The brush of your lips on mine awakens an
Eternal seed that has blossomed
As the petals unfurl, I find myself becoming whole again
In the crevices of my shattered heart, flora grows
As do dandelions in the cracks of sidewalks
Fauna overpowers my concrete heart and the
Hollow core transforms into a bountiful garden
Evident to even the blind but it was the beholder,
Possessing eyes that reflected like polished silverware,
Who lacked the true vision to see the wonder
Unfolding before her shining dimes
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 5:51 PM UTC
Spirituality without religion, politics without opinion
My knowing soul blinks into the ebbing light
Outrunning the plodding clockwork:
My inner intrepid sprints into the hazy night
All at once, the arc slits the velveteen,
The searchlights are pounding
Their harsh silence crashes in my ears,
My beatnik – she’s drowning
The magician holds a rope ladder
Spun of parotted truths and ink print thoughts:
My knowing soul blinks,
And stays its lonely course
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 6:24 AM UTC
several snakes spiraling
hissing a message in her ear
telephone is dialing
waiting for a call from someone dear
(on the velveteen tangerine)
roller skated through the town
laces strangle each other like constrictors
gravity is upside down
the pair of skates are like twin sisters
(on the velveteen tangerine)
ivy climbing legs and boughs
stemming into leaves and flowers
time is spinning backwards now
the clock has been gone for hours
(on the velveteen tangerine)
cream and sugar sweet
share a cup of tea with company
friends talk about their week
lounging in the leafy canopy
(on the velveteen tangerine)
eyes stare at the strange sight
unattached and independently
moonlight shines on glades of green at night
trees blend into starry scenery
(on the velveteen tangerine)
citrus spheres hang from tree limbs
peel the hard rind to make it nice
pick one or a dozen at your whim
drink sweet juice or swallow a slice
(on the velveteen tangerine)
beware of seeds and centipedes
but take a chance and you will dance
with delight around midnight
on the velveteen tangerine
May 2, 2019
May 2, 2019 at 10:57 PM UTC
In a universe of toys and dolls there was
One planet
That is to say, there wasn't one planet alone,
But one specific planet
This was the planet of stuffed creatures
The second home of teddy bears
And velveteen rabbits
The place for old friends full of fluff and honey,
Old grey donkeys and shy pink piggies
The place to go after they've been loved to pieces
The over loved and worn are
Ever so tenderly pieced together
The battered and abused are mended
Comforted with thoughts of laughter and sun
Given extra shiny buttons and softer filling
The loved and misused have all have come here
The adored and discarded have all come home
Long after their time on Earth is through
Once burned or trashed or lost
Little angels fly them to the new world
For a second life of happiness
Home to the land of stuffed creatures
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 7:53 PM UTC
Hershey, black satin, as long as my torso
Diamond green comforting eyes
Velveteen curious nose
Tongue like a pumice stone
Her elegant but waddling stride
Powerful, confident and territorial
Sitting like a queen on her throne
Cat of mine, mother to be
Tuxedo, black and white, bow tie and all
White sock covered feet like satin gloves
Long white elderly whiskers
He reminds me of Fred Astaire
Quick calculated light on his feet
Shy yet debonair
Patient, watchful and full of pride
Father to be
Oreo, friend and foe
White as snow, black face and tail
Large circular patches of black
Fearless fence and roof climber
Youngster full of mischievousness
Paws in the air, tummy exposed to the sun
Purring so loud she vibrates
Kitty of mine
Aug 1, 2010
Aug 1, 2010 at 6:14 AM UTC
We and (I)
She and They
Him and Us
We afloat
Paper boats
In October storms
Who condemned us to die?
There's a hole in the boat, Lover
Perhaps we were simply
Never meant to survive
Your velveteen thorns
Scraped their hickeys
Over my paper skin
-Sinking our boat-
While the storm of your tears
Raged on from the shore.
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 2:44 PM UTC
A friend of mine asks,
“Why do you only ever write about romance lately?”
Well, the answer is quite simple, really. It is because I have tasted it.
I tasted it when my eyes first drank the light from his grace when he stood tall above me
His saturnine windows called out to me behind flesh curtains whenever he spoke, ever asking me to join him in his ecstasy
He, from a distance, darted towards me and pressed our sides together—letting myself melt in the velveteen touch of fabric skin
There was a shower of momentary light that night but only his radiance did I bask in.
I tasted it in the heart of the stone city where usurpers of old stood on polished stone
The Bulwark’s adobe reach embraced our reverie as memories from sleep stories become reality
He, in the confines of that venerable fortress, made me vulnerable for I was secure in his arms
His fingers are in between my own like woven mithril unbreakable lest he broke its bond himself
It is in this kingdom of carven stone and handmade walls that he sang of ardor with a dragon’s petrifying gaze.
I tasted it in yuletide storms where men and women waged war with happiness and grief
When the armies of pain and suffering fell at our clasped hands and cheeks red from amorous verve you said you were to journey home
But you did not let go of my grasp
With me you remained and in your arms I stayed
As the bitter winds of bigoted mouths blew, as the fire from damnation is declared by self-righteous souls, we stood fast in the storm.
I tasted it when he said our love he could no longer endure
There we sat, on a tarnished vehicle, as the last of our love gave into rust
What is frightening to me peeked from his saturnine eyes and he closed his curtains shut for the downpour of despondency was to come
We flooded our façades and the rivers quaked our emotional integrity
He held my hand for one final chance before we ripped our wrappings forever apart and he kissed me tender
Our lips made love—like the first they ever met in weathered heat—for the last time.
I tasted it when I told him “Just do so, when your appetite roars to love me again,” and until now I am waiting.
So, why do I ever only write about romance lately?
Well, the reason is quite complicated, really. But–but it is because I’ve tasted it.
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 2:00 PM UTC
My Night with Art Garfunkel
some years back wrote a poem titled
My Night with Paul Simon,^
so it seems that in time,
this his companion’s piece would find me,
reaching its own due date, the timing right,
indeed, perceived, by the muses
that this one, the poet who cannot sing,
needs urgently another soft poet’s voice,
to come to me at night, and so it came to pass last night
a regaler, the teller of tales, both of us looking admiringly upon what was our youthful appearance that only we see in a vintage Murano mirror
the where the why, no matter, just two NYC boys
in their declining years reminiscing about growing up
in Queens, telling tales with no need for exaggeration,
too old for that, for old men lying is always sadder than sad and the truthful stories are not stories, but harmonies
the voices are worn soft, the worse for wear, and the velveteen
is two shaded where usage has reduced the weave, and sunlight has discolored but not discouraged the aging agents
we exchange verses, the swapping of our ****** fluids,
I do not share my prior pope paul adventure,
a separate but now equalized recording
he signs his new book for me,
full of reminisce and new verses
and I am thinking
Art for art’s sake, or art for Art’s sake
or both
wistful higher and higher notes that can longer be reached
of no consequence,
for the body is the work and the work is from the body
let’s take a selfie I ask, but a polite demurral hints of better a preference remembrance of things the way they were, in the past, but I snap a quick photo and it resides on a Facebook entry, unless the muses deleted it without telling me
(which they do quite frequently,
hoarding the best I made all for their elusives elfish selfish-selves)^^
Dec 5, 2017 10:20pm
<•>
^
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/387251/my-night-with-paul-simon/
June 2013
^^
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/747333/the-elusives/
June 2014
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 5:19 AM UTC
velveteen ruins cluster hush the horizon
smearing dusk and warp across the frog croak fracas
of the outer wilderness, where the buildings disassemble
the domiciles of dank and drab. where no maidens
await rescue. just the desolate hub
of wilt and bane. towers felled by iron claws
and engines of rake and drain. our progressive diaspora
of un-living things. the faint jewelery of our banshee
before swine.
dead of night prone... while reading ' Confessions Of A Hope Fiend '
we are leery of our tiny Thames
but dredge our Vistas
for humming
bugs.
Dec 14, 2012
Dec 14, 2012 at 12:31 PM UTC