"woollen" poems
Colourful and soft
Hearts, stars and polka dot
Pull me on when it turns cold
Entangle me, don’t fold
Woollen, netted or cotton
Worn at the bottom
Warm, cosy and neat
That’s how I keep your feet
I am always in two’s
You can wear me with shoes
Wear me wherever you like to
But take me off when you enter the loo
Please don’t get me wet
Even I stink when I sweat
Don’t misplace my twin
It will break my heart and that’s a sin
I won't let your feet turn cold
I will be there when you are old
I am comfort, I am the best
Used in north, south, east and west.
I am stretchy, I am a sock
I ease your feet for a run or walk
If I take the back seat
Numb, tanned and torn feet.
So pay my parents well
Don’t let your feet swell
I promise to serve you
I know you need me too.
-Zainab Attari
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 3:46 AM UTC
With a steaming mug of coffee in hand I watched:
the sun fall, the wind shiver, the leaves stand and land roll,
the birds swing, yellow beams dance,
and people stride in woollen warmers.
She plucked a flower in fool bloom,
then ambled away with a bamboo basket.
The clink of steel whistled through the air,
rousing sleep in the grouchy ones
saddled with books and a play toy in hand
walking in step with a grown man.
I walked there once, trying to keep pace
clasping a finger as large as my fist.
His snores now fall softly, circling the room
while I stand by the window,
wearing his shoes.
Nov 7, 2012
Nov 7, 2012 at 11:36 PM UTC
the Himalayas rise
there is snow on the peaks
I watch it from my bed
I gaze and gaze at it
in the morning
as a little village girl goes by
sniffling with cold
I too am cold
it is chilly here in Tosh in May
but a young Israeli boy
took off his shirt
and stood on the fencepost of the guesthouse dancing
down was the deep green valley
all of us watched in admiration
the next day I went down to the waterfall
which from here is a beautiful whisper in the air
there are donkeys and a path
and pretty houses on the other side of the valley
and everywhere there are people smoking hash and relaxing
in the cafes and the guesthouses
it is almost like a pilgrimage smokers keep coming
and sit around smoking talking
I pull down my woollen cap my arms and back
feel the chill despite a thick sweater
despite a blanket and a four inch thick quilt
I roll my joints and smoke them alone
sometimes smoke them with others
I look at the hills and the valleys and the wooden houses
I look at the white peaks glowing in the sun
and talk about CCR and stained glass art with Michael from Norfolk
who’s going down the valley to another village for a party tonight
with his young Spanish friend
I talk about Bombay with Puneet and Manya from Kanpur
who’ve come here on a Bullet
Hash Heaven Manya says reading my mind as the joint passes on
to the four engineering interns from Delhi
and all the time I sip on ginger lemon honey
for my sore throat until on the last day it disappears
unlike the young Israeli girl’s pink laptop in a pink cover
found by the part time caretaker in the garden on a pink chair
she left behind last night because it was too dark
come again the guesthouse boys say to me as I pay them
what a scene I think how cool as I begin to leave the village
down the dung-clotted stone steps nodding to the smokers coming in.
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 11:13 PM UTC
Oh werewolf with woollen wings,
Whimpering in the willows.
Thou vile voice a vice grip
Stuffed inside her pillows.
Yours is a violent cry for help
One should never have to hear.
So dare come near, just know it clear.
Your fleer; my leer. For tears, jeers and
Featherweight fears will never break weirs that
Forever fill wells deeper than the darkest hole
You gouged in the lightest soul.
Your sword; her shield. My words; wounds healed.
I’m ever bending moonlight to set it right.
Go haunt yourself through a never ending night!
A single silver bullet shimmers in her sunlight.
The same one you shot upright.
Falling fast into the broken bed you made.
Now let it embed deep in your head. Well played.
Jul 13, 2021
Jul 13, 2021 at 10:22 PM UTC
Helen passes me
her doll
Battered Betty
hold her
for a minute
she says
I hold the doll
between hands
away from me
in case she may
wet on me
as my old man
used to do
when my kid brother
was a babe
and he didn't want
the kid's ***
on his new suit
what's wrong with her?
I ask
she's got a temperature
Helen says
I look at the doll
who looks white
and cold and I smile
ok
I say
well take off
these clothes
and woollen jumper
no wonder she's hot
and got a temperature
we are walking along
Meadow Row
towards the fish
and chips shop
over the crossing
to get my mother's order
do you think
she's got a temperature?
Helen asks
I feel the doll's forehead
no it seems fine to me
I say
ok
she says
and take the doll back
and holds her
against her chest
rocking the doll
side to side
and patting
the doll's back
it's just she seemed
hot this morning
Helen says
when I got her
out of bed
whose bed?
I ask
mine
she says
the one I share
with my sister
with Betty between us
next to Teddy
I see
I say
seeing her rock
the doll side to side
like a good
little mother
she's lucky
I say
I sleep
with my little brother.
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 6:19 AM UTC
Christmas is upon us !
Another year is gone
It seems like only yesterday
We celebrated the last one
Adverts on the t.v
Toys upon the shelves
Children are told stories
Of santa and his elves
Food is on the table
Theres turkey , christmas pud
Children on their best behaviour
Trying to be good
Carol singers outside , singing in the street
In woollen hats and scarves they dress
With wellies on their feet !
A snowman stands a guard outside
With a carrot for a nose
Presents under christmas trees
Tied with pretty bows
Jingle bells are ringing
As rudolf pulls the sleigh
The saviour lord jesus
Was born upon this day
Christmas is a time for peace
To last the whole year through
May santa bring his greatest gift
Of christmas joy to you !
Sep 19, 2010
Sep 19, 2010 at 9:47 AM UTC
it turns out
Mother Nature is
just as indecisive
as the rest of us
it seemed that
she had finished
with her winter
her day-long frosts
and biting winds
no longer the need
to cocoon oneself
in protective layers
when venturing out
for nothing more than
a bottle of milk
of down-stuffed coats
and twice-wrapped scarves
woollen hats
and thermal socks
it felt like
we had moved on
our spring had arrived
just in time
we could enjoy
the brisk early mornings
despite their chill
safe in the knowledge
that the gentle touch
of afternoon warmth
would shortly follow
the biggest setback
to be expected
was an intermittent
morning-to-evening downpour
dampening our anticipation
though only temporarily
of any plans we had made
until the puddles were dry
or had drained away
it may have been
a false start
but i'm loathe to say
we were tricked
or call it
an outright lie
those brightened days
were a welcome change
enjoyed by all
we were simply
carried away by
the primaveral allusions
lulling us enough
to forget the cold
and its significance
catching us unprepared
and exposed
like those delicate flowers
so recently bloomed
buried for now
beneath this weight
of snow
Mar 10, 2023
Mar 10, 2023 at 11:29 AM UTC
there, the air is thicker
it hangs full, like the ladies
all the sadness lived in the
capsules of trapped air in
woollen jumpers left behind
men with their toothless
smiles and shining skin
coax laughter from a steel drum
the market boasts a rainbow
of sarongs, papayas, star fruits
offered in jangling song
it was a medicine.
the coral blooms in the reef
are teeth in a dog's mouth,
guarding.
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 10:20 AM UTC
~~~
watercolor morning whimsy
palate wet with blues and greys
tattered woollen clouds are hanging
think it's going to rain today
there's a storm upon the desert
as the thunder will attest
i sit, my back unto the dawning
watching lighting in the west
up before the light came creeping
o'r the hills out to the east
there's a pregnant breeze a'blowing
in the dark i pray in peace
i hold my hands,
palms facing upward
supplicating to the sky
on this watercolor morning
we commune
the Lord and i
soulsurvivor
(C) 7/15/2015
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 8:56 AM UTC
He was sitting on the stone cold step outside the Co-op
A thin blanket around his thin shoulders
His outstretched hand reached out to me
And touched my heart.
I gave him the cup of coffee I had been drinking
He seemed pleased, I felt good.
I saw him again on Saturday night, he looked thinner
His face hidden beneath a ***** grey hoodie.
Once more the outstretched hand reached out to me
I gave him a warm blanket, made of wool.
He grunted thanks, I felt good.
One week later I went looking for him on the stone cold step
outside the Co-op
He was sitting on the woollen blanket,
his eyes shrunken into his skull
I gave him my coat.
He gave an almost imperceptible nod of his covered head
And stretched his hand towards me again.
I fumbled in my purse, and gave him all I had – he grunted “Huh”
I felt I’d let him down.
My friends said I was losing weight, my clothes no longer fitted me.
I gave my sweater made of cashmere
To the hooded skeletal figure on the doorstep
outside the Co-op
His jeans were frayed and ***** from the streets
I gave him mine, they no longer fitted me.
He looked up, his broken teeth bared in a forbidding, dangerous smile.
I flinched. His outstretched hand pulled at my wrist,
I backed away, he held me.
I tried to run but his fingers tightened their grip, digging into my flesh
He pulled me in the direction of my home.
His grip on my wrist burning hot
I turned at my door to see him, he grinned, his eyes seeking my soul.
His face now no longer thin, his bony fingers now fleshy,
his rotted teeth Improved.
I looked at my hand. I saw my reflection in his eyes. My face skeletal
with shrunken cheeks,
My shadowed deep set eyes
haunted.
He laughed a croaking triumphant laugh as he entered my house
And pushed me out.
I turned and my feet took me back to the stone cold step
Where I crouched down outside the Co-op
A thin blanket appeared on my thin shoulders
I held my outstretched hand towards an approaching stranger
Who walked on by.
©AEB 14.05.16
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 1:05 PM UTC
Meet me at the verge, the place where
Caledonian Road meets the river and the
Reckless thugs of Camden dare not travel,
Lest they find themselves back home, alone once more.
Meet me at midnight, before the
Gates break loose and spill the stragglers to the street,
And just after the last bus leaves the station,
And the tube stops, silent, dead.
Meet me for reasons unknown, for
Sake of impulse, of joy, of freedom,
To cast away what memory you might have
Of days less full and rich as this.
Meet me dressed in black and grey,
All the better for the night to swallow you whole,
Take you within, deep, as a lover to another,
Or a shipwreck lost within the sea.
Meet me with apathy and disdain,
With carefree abandon and slight
Mistrust, for you are more wary than I
And have seen darker evenings.
Meet me then and take my hand,
Through woollen gloves and shivering, and
Stare at me through condensed breath, as we
Share a smile and walk lightly away.
Jul 15, 2011
Jul 15, 2011 at 10:16 PM UTC
It started at the beginning of adulthood
where the wandering into the new house
became a chore. The doorway greeted me
by snagging my woollen jumper.
The motorway was screaming, the battered gate happily hanging from its hinges.
His image first flashed into my sight,
And when I stared through the fogged up windows
I could still figure out his figure.
Loutish, he sauntered past
On a hillside, desolate.
He didn’t move for three hours.
He was most probably entwining the thorns from the bush
into his complex mind. Maybe
the boy with the thorn in his side
Had been brought to life by this mystery animal
With a mass of unkempt mane.
Unruly, unnecessary, untouched.
The notebook on my kitchen table lay untidily
waiting to be roughened up. I picked it up
and cast light over the paper.
I imagined him doing the same
But his art was thunderstorms
And mine merely a drizzle of rain.
I made progress
and the flowers were growing from my fountain pen.
Confidence developing, I invited him inside
And there were still no words from his unfathomable jaw.
A month later, we became one
and I still didn’t know where his intentions were lying.
I’m a girl afraid, does he even have any?
Ink *** after ink ***
I ran even further in this marathon of confusion.
I slowly slid from his dismissive grasp, his matted paws light
I had drawn graffiti over his portrait.
a permanent marker changed beauty into art.
I crept before his wake, into his sleep
And his lyricism lay imbibed in the walls, the desk, the door.
I felt the gale force energy cry inside
Which erupted like a volcano, turning remnants into ashes.
Face down, mane rough, scars bright, fur singed
Interior managed.
In the morning, I lifted his heavy paw away from me
And placed it peacefully beside him.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 3:40 PM UTC
I think this person who wrote on
Lauren Jackson’s Instagram who
Made her feel bad about praising
Kobe Bryant was totally awful
You see maybe he might not have been nice to all, or have a past
But we all have a past and people who are known as cowards
Shouldn’t wait until someone is dead to post horrible comments on Instagram
You see a lot of kids liked him and
Looked up to him
And despite what he was like to some people’s opinion he should be treated with dignity
Because to me Kobe Bryant was a basketball hero who loved life
It is a shame that he is now dead
Lauren Jackson wanted to pay a tribute to the great man
And yes, I called him a great man
Because he went somewhere with his daughter he died with his daughter
He was a real family man a great man
It is a shame he had to end his life like that
I am paying tribute to him too
I am doing a woollen tapestry of him and his daughter and the other people on the helicopter flying up to heaven or nirvana where the colours
Really are bright and Kobe deserves that so if you want to leave nasty messages on Instagram just think
About whether you have a past and whether you will want to air your ***** laundry when you die
Leave Kobe Bryant alone dudes
Feb 1, 2020
Feb 1, 2020 at 11:57 PM UTC
paris...
no american in sight, or how i just see utopia...
songs on the steps of sacré-cœur, kissing
an american girl, then cheese and wine
next to the Eiffel tower, laughing, joking, trailing
and tailing off with talk of nabokov,
the nightclub scene with ping-pong ecstasy dances,
youth, youth, youth,
of youth that congregated once in those places,
parisian girls congregating for a game french hushes
with the chinese whispers and anglo comic charades
learned from the conquering normans...
paris back then, what wouldn't i have given for it,
but i learned of starving north,
where lecture upon lecture repeated david hume,
and i said:
it's the 21st century after all!
make edinburgh the new paris!
oh paris, but paris stay intact,
with the eiffel tower in my palm,
where all love met no love
but love met love all the more fictive,
written with a million reincarnations
that once told a tale of warring fractions known
as factions,
and it was told so: paris of my past where
i walked the streets with the compass height
ordaining coordinates that the tower was
to thus learn:
in times of panicky sentencing est mort,
people congregate in hawkish gaze
at monuments of their bone and marrow
turned into cement and irons of scaffold,
and there they congregate to ogle a new hope
when encouraged by a new fascination
of those that are less amazed by the phonetic
simplicity of animals than those who keep them.
oh paris, how i too wished things would have
remained a truer you begging truancy
from international press coverage,
how that one summer i became embedded
in taking to sleep on rock that felt like
woollen napkins filled with duck quills.
and in the memoriam altar two boys played
this song: as entombed by the title.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 8:46 PM UTC
Helen pushed
the second hand
doll’s pram
over the bombsite
off Meadow Row
Battered Betty her doll
was tossed
from side to side
there there
Helen said
can’t be helped
you walked beside her
practising drawing
your silver coloured gun
from the holster
your old man
had bought you
from the cheap shop
through the Square
you hit back
the hammer
one two three times
just like that
I can’t get her to sleep
Helen said
stopping by the ruins
of a bombed out house
she tucked the doll in
with the woollen blankets
her mother had knitted
Mum said to take Betty
for a walk in the pram
but she still won’t sleep
you put the gun back
in the holster
and pushed back
the black hat
your granddad
had given you
have to keep her quiet
around here
you said
there might be Injuns
and they scalp hair
off babes and kids
and such
Helen looked
around the bombsite
looks deserted to me
she said
pushing the pram away
from the bombed out house
you never can tell
you said
they hide
and when you’re least
expecting it
they come screaming
over the plains
Mum said you’d make
the best husband
for me
Helen said
coming to a halt
opposite the coal wharf
you drew out
your gun again
and fired shots
over your shoulder
that’s nice of her
you said
twirling the gun
over your finger
and then back
into the holster
Mum said
you would make
a good dad
one of the horse drawn
coal wagons moved away
from the coal wharf
and clip-clopped
along the side road
perhaps
you said
we could get our own
house on the prairie
or one of those houses
off St George’s Road
with the big gardens
Helen got
Battered Betty out
of the pram
and rocked her
over her shoulder
patting her back
and said
yes and I could milk
the cows and you
could hunt buffalo
and we could sleep
in one of those
big beds
with buffalo skins
over by the main road
a red number 78 bus
went by
and dark clouds
crowded
the less
than blue sky.
Jul 3, 2013
Jul 3, 2013 at 3:05 PM UTC
A dull doll faced mug
Glinted by unknown light
Dried a drip of ancient drink
Dripped down quite
Hands clasped tight around
A mug of occult confession
Eyes teared as such
A sorrowful expression
Dappled light through glass
Chair scrapped along floor
Spotted plastic tablecloth
Shut tight wooden door
Homemade woollen tea cosy
Lumps of bricked sugar
Kettle whistling dolefully
Clicking stained cooker
Futile arms waving
Closed taught eyes
Sigh of calming thoughts
"Please, no more lies"
Apr 24, 2018
Apr 24, 2018 at 1:12 PM UTC
In the underpass sat a hunched male figure
wrapped in an old blanket
a woollen hat pulled down over his head
beside him his scruffy dog
his sad eyes following those walking by
listening his silent cry.
In front a small sign written in large letters
simply read please help me
a chipped tin mug placed close to his feet
some people showed him pity
putting loose change in before moving on
never asking what was wrong.
Not until that day man and dog were gone
was it noticed the empty space
at the same moment on a lonely riverside
a dog was barking frantically
running alone along the slippery wet bank
where a body had recently sank.
A blanket laid half submerged at the edge
definitely something was wrong
a couple ran oven concerned about the dog
spotting a body drowned
another life lost where nobody really cared
yet sadness they both shared!
The Foureyed Poet.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 2:49 PM UTC
audio me in... tell the b.t. off standards
to change the connection to lie to get to syria...
i wanted to become a butcher too...
not butchering people though...
onomatopeias of resonance of blah... blah...
you know... woollen trill...
i want the target bacon, i want to target bacon
on that **** head-banging with a pony
while blowing a sheen into a rodin marble
for the glisten of a haircut mare...
dark ivory like purple of a grenade of indigo
blotched with blood...
and spanked / spiked by kandinsky...
i told you i woz a barking gimmick, a barking cult-piece of mafia...
you’ve been warned dear bouncer allotment and semi-detached...
hey kieran - had his kidneys transplanted aged 15...
took to having a ****** aged 16 on the south park fence
when two ******* eyed us and the boys came to make cake...
oi boys r’ us you mention st. petersburg anywhere south of the thames?
i thought so...
make that spelling spaghetti for a kebab of dead meat
appealing:
it’s making headlines, people are fed fat but sugar headlines...
when fat headlines... people will be fed sugar...
salt will never compromise the use of steroids for balloon pop protein
for a mere attire of the bow tie undone with laze.
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 8:00 PM UTC
My senses remember it
better than my
memory
and maybe it's the memory
of you that's lead me back
to this place. Where my skin
shakes like small coils of wire
shot with electricity
but it's a nervous,
nerve reflex and not proof
that I'm alive
my limbs hanging like
the branches of a
tree
a cool breeze
shuddering the
roots
I always felt new with
winter. Ice beneath
my feet. Itchy woollen
jumpers and the smell
of cinnamon
but you stole my seasons
the way you stole my
heart and now a cold
breeze sends me into
darkness
***** footprints on
dead ground. Black
coats and boots
and the smell of your
body, missing, and
the sound of my neck,
caressed by a white scarf,
breaking
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 1:56 AM UTC
Oil on canvas c.1926
I suppose the catalogue tells all
about this painting on the wall.
It had pride of place
in some private collection.
Now, shielded by an electronic guard,
deemed precious, it’s unusual and large;
an early work, when (she said) ‘I was
full of painting those around me’.
Here they are, my Warwicks:
Joe, Enid, baby Paul
and just in the corner
Auntie Liz.
They are substantial folk
these Warwicks, and have
eaten here a substantial tea.
The firelight’s purple shadows
make a mask of Joe’s wind-scoured face,
and next to the milk jug, look,
his great wedge of fingers lie at rest.
Enid, softly centred in woollen cream,
a wide-eyed Paul on her wifely knee,
seems to gaze beyond her motherhood,
to Northrigg Hill and a setting sun.
There is a general daze of repose;
the meal is over and we are replete with tea.
Lizzie contemplates the washing up.
The artist sits across the table,
rests her sketchbook
on the starched, white cloth,
and with a few firm strokes
collects this family’s shapes and forms
as I do now across the electronic guard
to secure a memory sketch as
no photography's allowed.
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 5:23 AM UTC
The African
American
Guy sitting on
A bench in the
Laundromat gives
You the eye, the
Kind of I’ve been
Around awhile
Stare, not a bit
Unfriendly, but
Maybe bemused,
Wondering why
A white dame would
Want to look at
Him for and him
Alone in this
His kingdom of
Machines twirling,
Cleaning while they
Toss water and
Foam. Better than
Watching TV,
He drawls, all got
The same channel,
But different
Cycles, diverse
Clothes, all kinds of
Dirt and dullness
And sins to wash
Away. You were
Never good at
Small talk, but you
Try to say a
Few words and smile,
Putting yourself
At ease. Can’t wash
Your soul here though,
He says, showing
A bright gleam of
White teeth, just sit
Still and stare
And contemplate.
You unpack your
Bag of wash and
Sense his eyes fixed
On you, his mind
Ticking over,
As you place in
The clothes large and
Small. An old white
Guy comes in here
Everyday,
He says all of
A sudden, brings
His wash, sits and
Stares, mumbles to
The machine, while
Watching the same
Few items of
Clothing go round
And round. You nod
Your head and take
In his tee shirt,
Shorts and woollen
Hat, his socks and
Shoes and wonder
What your mother
Would have made of
Him had she been
Here. This place’s
A kind of dull
Purgatory,
Where souls wait for
Their time to come
To go to Hell
Or Paradise.
He laughs, moves his
Legs back and forth,
Pushes his hat
Further back on
His head. Maybe
We’re already
In Paradise,
Maybe this is
It. You and I,
Both sitting and
Staring at these
Washing machines,
But really in
Essence, we’re dead.
You turn your back
To watch your wash,
See the whites twirl
Like fond lovers
In the water
And sickly foam.
When you look back
Again he’s gone.
Maybe to Hell
Or Paradise
Or just back home.
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 4:01 PM UTC
Not another word, it is just beautiful
The little sounds as the bubbles pop
Nano drops shattered on your hand
While the stream flushes down the sea
The beauty of a green meadow
Projected under a morning sun
The aftermath of a lazy rain, bow
You see the clouds form, white and fluffy
When the sun come up, like a good old man
A bright face with his beautiful beard
Where isn't the beauty? Look everywhere
The kitten fondling a woollen ball
When it pokes and runs in its cute way
The magic in their eyes, to find happiness
Resurrect humanity, let's be more joyous
Wake the inner child and see the real world
The beauty is everywhere, in every human
Every creation, every spark of it
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 9:12 AM UTC
Descant of light
The raconteurs of spring
winging whispered sonnets
chase the woollen winter malaise
from silent skies
fluttered hush of doves
herald the nirvana of dawn
Shadowed palette of dusky hues
muted blues spun somber grey
give way
the subtle brush fades
to the rush
of insatiable light
the alchemy of day
and night
Dismiss this imbroglio
melancholy thoughts
Bitter vignette of lamentations
words chilled expire on lips
disappearing wisps
My spirit lifts
in the blush of sun
dancing across pristine paper
arias burst in the illumination
scattered saffron pollen
blessing multiplied
my hands industrious
I lift my eyes....
The avatar of hope supplies
this descant of light
04/12/08
TL Boehm
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 12:19 PM UTC
You are
The first delicate ray of sunshine
On a dreary Novembers’ day
You are
The pounding rush of adrenaline
Felt at a concert barrier
You are
The reassuring smile
Treasured in the midst of calamity
You are
The warm woollen blanket
Wrapped round my shoulders at night
You are
The butterflies found inside me
At the peak of a roller coaster
You are
The first birdsong
At the end of a sleepless night
You are
Every beauty in this world
To me.
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 9:10 PM UTC