"zippered" poems
Zinging the zen-zone I was in
A zany request zig-zagged my way.
Princess Zinnia from the Zuider-Zee
Required a zippy line or two
To paint the zeitgeist of our times.
With the strength of a Zamboni-
With the power of a Zeus-
And an uncommon zeal I set out
To zap the doubt that slowed me.
With the flair of a Florenz Ziegfeld
And his zoftig choir of beauties,
I morphed into a zealot
Gamboling in the zephyrs
That wafted in from Zurich and Zaire,
Not to mention Zanzibar.
I felt like a Zacharias
When my zealous work went bust.
The writing turned into a zonk-
The accolades were zilch.
I felt like I’d been zippered up
Like a zebra in a zoo.
I lost my zest for going on
And slopped around in old Zoris,
Listening to zydeco’s beat
And feeling like a zit.
But then the Zodiac-
My zinging-singing sign
Came to my rescue
And I was marching off to Zion.
I was one wowie-zowie-zucchini
As I zipped across the pages
And zoomed from one idea
To an even zippier one.
So here, Sunprincess, is your verse
I’ve used up every letter zee
And gone from very bad to worse
But of this challenge, I am free.
ljm
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 12:58 AM UTC
I'm not a person who collects things
I live a very minimalist's life
But I have a bag of treasures
I keep close to me day and night
I sleep on an old painted daybed
It squeaks softly as I lay down
Most of my clothes are second hand
And my shoes a little worn down
But I have some precious treasures
Hidden in bags of different names
Fendi, Burberry and Prada
Leathers and fabrics of worldly fame
My treasures are hidden deep inside
In makeup bags and zippered pockets
Shiny compacts full of velvety colors
From Paris, Milan and Rome
A black cloth bag of 8 tiny bottles
Protected from the sun and rain
Bottles of perfume oils made in an alchemist's lab
With names like Dragon's Milk, Snow White and Bliss
A Christian Dior handkerchief or two
Hangs delicately inside the bag
In case the breeze brings on a sneeze
Or I notice a tear in the eye of a friend
by Mark Lj
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 1:53 AM UTC
A little oasis occupied in a cafe
that approaches capacity.
Three opposite, two adjacent,
a couple at the windows to the right.
Six or seven more around the corner, out of view
Early twenties guy, has a slightly too-small zippered sweater,
with head down and a two-handed hold on his phone
the left relinquishes its grip for a minute to wipe across his face.
Late fifties man in a blue,zipped, baggy, sweat shirt
and early-nineties hair gone grey.
A phone too, but of a more palm-and-fingertip interaction
with pursed lips and an occasional surveying of the room.
A quiet girl at my right leaves and four chatty middle-aged yoga ladies
squeeze onto the table for two.
They obliterate my concentration
and I resort to a cocoon of headphone noise.
Their too-strong perfume forms a veritable blue cloud
and leaks into the taste of my tea.
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 3:40 PM UTC
Back in 2003 I found a piece of me
buried, like a shard of pottery, in the sandbox.
A Hot Wheel’s car, little rusted with one tire missing
that I used to shove in the little zippered flap
of my Powerpuff Girls backpack. Older, fifteen,
I carved another piece of me out and pasted it
to a vanilla letter, sliding the envelope through the slits
in his locker door, and I lost it. I’m not even sure he read it.
Nineteen, faded and little stolen, I threw another piece of me
into my mother’s grave. Plush petals, rosary beads, crystal
liquid drops infused with microscopic memories. I cut
myself in slivers and jammed uneven edges together
just to gusto the void, compact the space, walk solid.
And now, twenty-three, I press my face against a mirror
and slide my arms into a flannel, grandpa, hammy-down.
You took the last piece. You crawled into my guard, tore the lining
and spit your black blood on the blank memoirs I had hanging
next to the split.
Take me, now, if that’s how it’s gunna be. You wanna live
with the dust bunnies in my baggage? Feed off my insecurities,
my staggered breath, or my mercury dreams? I don’t want to be saved.
I’ve made my own maze with only one way out, so you’re trapped
in the Miss Havisham model I’ve made, rotten cake. Build yourself
a new girl from my discards, suckle the marrow from my bones,
and blow, like a glass ornament, a pretty replica of who I am.
Isn’t that what you wanted? Wasn’t that part of the chase?
The sweet idea that you could pull some perfect women out of the rubble?
I bet that’d be nice to show off, you ******* But here’s the catch,
I know I’m broken. You don’t need to remind me. So take
the smiles I’ve learned to draw on my lips for two cents,
and give up the **** fight I know you won’t win.
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 10:52 PM UTC
Quailing under the flashes of lightening
As the sky is splintered
I run through the rain
Wearing my zippered bright yellow rubber boots
And my vinyl rain shell.
Rainwater splashing high and me
Giggling with delight.
Feb 20, 2011
Feb 20, 2011 at 11:32 AM UTC
I’ve been thinking about
How they’d find me if I’m the next
Set to sleep in a velvet-lined box.
Clear nail polish,
Wide eyes and porcelain skin,
But a tattoo hidden beneath my white
Ralph Lauren blouse,
Just below my right breast.
I got it when I was sixteen, searching
For reasons to breathe.
There’d be slits in my wrists
From a watch that was always too tight,
My hair would be knotted, frayed,
Out of place for the first time, in tatters
And freshly women patterns
Of thread, home
To a spider or two.
Maybe they’d look in my purse,
Hoping for some ID,
And they’d find the pack of condoms
Tucked in the zippered compartment,
Or the Lortab saved from my trip
To the oral surgeon’s—God knows
The pain didn’t go away.
My feet would be covered in dirt,
And there’d be scratches on my
Bare legs. They’d take pictures, shake
Their heads, tsk
What a waste,
But I’d say
Nothing at all. To me,
The alley behind the smoke shop
May as well be a velvet box.
Sep 12, 2016
Sep 12, 2016 at 6:22 PM UTC
it felt good to leave the tourists behind
---with their cast-iron grated stairs
and photo-flashing-falls,
question-comments cookie-cut---
embrace the woods:
soaking wet approach,
brinks of shivers in the dripping wind,
an old, broken filter
slurping bubbles from a cardboard tired puddle;
whisperlite stove finally working,
the first cous-cous dinner warms our little white dog
dreaming on my rising falling chest
pressed by sleeping bag and snort and sigh;
we sleep our psoas sore--
unknowing we have just begun...
haven't yet begun!
yet bodied abject pain to shock our senseless raw
with scoured glimmer-vasts of love beneath
a frozen fly on Frosty Mountain
zippered hail in midnight breath,
i *** in numbness gusts--
i bite my smile ice,
whoop the sleeting world for we are here at last.
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 9:11 PM UTC
A fish out of water slaps
for the wet familiar
as first rainbow gasps
for all colour beneath
evergreen eucalypts
and boy becomes hunter.
White flesh in the pan
rainbow now grey;
a dull eye pops in the fat.
The first meal of camp
"We're all about survival"
says the voice from the beard.
In that first howling night the tent holds no echo:
a cocoon of down
muffles the want of a scream
for mother’s goodnight.
Terrain is now is real and not just a geography lesson.
When morning arrives
relief and sunlight slap awake
the face of survival.
Mosquitoes frustrate the zippered gauze, march-flies marshal to march.
Wisps of gum-smoke, the smell of the wild, steam from hot-streams on tussocks, beans in the pannikin, dust in the billy, leaves of tea and gumtree chase the boil.
Longer walk today; boots even more ready for rubbing off skin.
Fourteen miles to the next creek and next water.
Ache in the pack
No rest only winter.
The dingo pads on.
Wild boar root en mass. Wombats rummage the banks.
Wallabies thump up the ridge-line.
"We’ll circle our tent-line and raise tonight’s fire after dark."
Says the beard and walks on.
The hunter
Seeks now no quarry
Dreams the snap of a soft sheet
and mouths words
for the water of home.
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 10:37 PM UTC
water leaves its house.
the only word I have for absence is mouth.
some pills, on other pills, sail.
egg shells, halved as born that way
bubbles. paperbacks, swollen, zippered
into a mattress. doors ajar
the awe of room. ark, whale, and a third
in her like jonah: a loss
I’d touch
to abridge my hands.
Jul 12, 2012
Jul 12, 2012 at 11:59 AM UTC
Rain is falling.
This is an odd sort of winter.
Warm temperatures and dying.
Interesting combination.
Walking on the sidewalk.
Hood up, jacket zippered.
Sense of destiny propelling
my steps as I begin to
recite my eulogy.
Let it be said that
ice cream
is cold,
but
not
as
cold
as
the
autopsy
table.
Grass is still green.
Trees without leaves.
Solitary body tapping shoes
on
a
wet
grey
Sunday
morning.
Go on. Let the solemn time
flow like etched glass
into
the
veins
of
forever.
Humming a song to myself,
I change my direction.
Enough of outside.
Yes, I have seen enough.
There's nothing here
but the raindrops
and
the
man
with
limited
time.
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 1:26 PM UTC
Occasionally, fashion shows start late because the designer is still working on the collection. There are some persnickety types out there who would happily keep tinkering until it’s markdown time.
Maria Grazia Chiuri and Pierpaolo Piccioli decided they would throw in the towel whenever they felt each item in their spring collection was finished just enough to reveal the beauty of the craftsmanship at the heart of a couture house like Valentino. They explained that they had borrowed the concept from the “Unfinished: Thoughts Left Visible” exhibition at the Met Breuer in New York, which showcased some 500 years of paintings still in progress.
The highfalutin’ explanation had one searching for examples beyond the brogues with exposed staples and undyed edges they plucked off a table backstage. But apart from a bit of sagging lining here and a few dangling threads there, here was a collection with that familiar Valentino polish.
The camouflage coats and military-influenced ensembles had a sense of deja vu, too, albeit with more irregular splotches and ruff-hewn embroideries. What felt newer were the monochromatic ensembles, layers of featherweight coats and zippered shirt jackets tucked into tapered trousers. They came in Army green, a deep blue or black — the latter peppered with silver grommets — and were chic from start to finish.Read more at: www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-perth | http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-canberra
Jun 23, 2016
Jun 23, 2016 at 4:02 AM UTC
you sleep on your left side because of an iffy heart. the man sleeping beside you, zippered into a dream life, represents poverty. you dream only the overpass. each stick on the fire is alone; a single promise of a dog’s return. in the early goings, it was a magic to put camp before fire. in these later, poverty needs no introduction. you want to say something to the child you did not become but are sick on the talk you were born with. this nonfiction- not what you’d imagined. I slide the man from his bag. my mad hen pecks upward.
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 1:37 AM UTC
The person that invented the zippered fly
probably doesn't use one,
for any guy will tell you why
especially if he's mis-zipped Wun!
Dec 27, 2010
Dec 27, 2010 at 8:46 PM UTC
Harsh numbers and whirled winds,
A cry for silence
Brings November grins;
We shut our mouths with zippered lips,
That grips our organs, tongues and minds
With a slice of pumpkin,
And a cherry stem.
You leave me with a childish grin.
Oct 20, 2010
Oct 20, 2010 at 12:07 PM UTC
Into the abyss of my soul I am gazed
A delusional experiment of the Gods
Zippered in this maze that has no exits
Slowly poisoned as I’m fed cremated love
High I swim among the fish and the stars
But I am not one of them…
And at the end of the dream, I am forced to return
Unto this agony
This cancered cell called Earth
In the abyss of my soul I am crazed
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 3:10 AM UTC
I trudged away from the library
zippered up coat as i walked
put my hands in my pockets
keep warm
I walk past the metal grate
that leads to the source of wind
down the curb onto the lot
I see ahead
the glass behemoth
and metal structure
that holds lectures
and seats.
And beside this giant,
on the sidewalk below,
is the place
where i told you
"i love you"
We wrote our names in the snow
and connected them with a cross
i did my best to shape a heart around us
as you shaped my heart with your hands
We were embarrassed
when our friends almost saw,
but they trampled over it instead
not caring.
We laughed at this,
a sigh of relief.
Would it have been that bad?
probably not,
yet we feared being cute.
it was not befitting of our love
And now, the summer has melted away that time.
we grew a p a r t
as the sun shone down on us.
and as the autumn inhaled her icy breath,
we exhaled our last.
Nov 24, 2011
Feb 28, 2012
Feb 28, 2012 at 11:29 PM UTC
*Body Bag
“... If I could turn the clocks
back, I wouldn’t be headed for
a body bag.”
~~ from the song “Body Bag” by Bear Tooth
~~~
The blows came
one after another,
all I could do
was drop and curl
in the corner,
until his rage was spent
and I was twisted and bent.
Then, just as quickly
it was over
and I could see
the body bag
laying on the floor.
~~~
Black, synthetic material
winked at me,
inviting me in,
into it’s nylon zippered embrace,
leaving no trace
of who I once was,
or would ever be.
~~~
If I could turn back time,
I could have seen the body bag coming;
like I now can see,
there, on the horizon,
a light glows.
Is it a new morning;
or fire from below?
Aztec Warrior/redzone 4.19.16
NOTE: I spent a week recovering from
surgery at my son’s home. My grandson (also a writer of poetry)
generously gave up his bedroom. There on the wall I found the
beginning quote from Bear Tooth. I went and listened to the song
“Body Bag” and then wrote this poem. I invited ny grandson to
contribute but he said he liked the poem the way it was. We will
collaborate on another poem and I will post.*
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 12:50 PM UTC
Zippered down the front
Easy access
The poppies return for their dance
A soothing lightning of drip and dilation
Night is day, night is night
Night is hope that the last of days has passed
A wash of whitewater ecstasy, engulfs
The throat
The body
Catapults to the head
A fall back to sunken eyes staring at the upside down right side up
Fright
Calm and fright intwined
in a lovers’ waltz
I can’t breathe
I’m so free
I can’t breathe
I’m so...
Free
My body is yours now
It always has been
But I, dead, am a far easier doll to play with
Than one with open stitches
-k b~
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 6:37 PM UTC
coagulation of life muck
make her eyes bag
pockets hold cruel visions
memories she cannot empty
she zippers
her lids tightly
as he passes
all she can do is
wish unholy away
dilation inside behind
zippered eyes
makes all that mucky crust ooze
there are wells
of slippery situations
oily wells
gushers never to hurl
zipped away
under black mascara
life complexities
thickening
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 9:35 AM UTC
I danced all night in the dress He gave us--
Pins stuck in my hips
Zippered through my spine
I even painted my lips
To match His werewolf eyes
"You're beautiful baby"
He takes in a mouthful
I slink at the waist
Just how He likes me
"Let's get you a drink"
And I feel the sway
He bathes me in blood
He takes me away
Tonight I'll be His **** nurse
His seasoned strip steak thigh
His Only 18
His innocent eyes
Tomorrow I will lick the wounds
And pray He'll call again
Tomorrow marks another night
Of dancing in His dress
--
c
Apr 4, 2018
Apr 4, 2018 at 12:00 PM UTC
Zippered words are just a code;
if one love leads the right road
But cupid's bullet just grazed;
a beating heart bled too much.
It was too late to stop the craze
At least I know that much
All was just one big misstep
And the book of distant days;
is hidden in my mind's depth,
Untouched in a pirate's chest;
keys hidden in Laughter's fest;
ne're to be spoken, or such
At least I know this much
Feb 20, 2019
Feb 20, 2019 at 7:12 AM UTC
how did i do it
how did i keep it in for so long?
a covered, zippered mouth told no one.
they know not of the late nights
that featured sharp bites from metal
teeth before daylight.
or the constant replays
of your love bites
that i continuously hid
on weekdays for your sake, because
my parents hatred for you went
both ways.
Aug 15, 2017
Aug 15, 2017 at 7:29 PM UTC