Did you know that celebrated poet Charles Simic writes in bed? We love that casual approach to a seriously successful poetry life.
So, thanks to Simic, we’re daring you to get casual about poetry for National Poetry Month. Just choose your approach (or multiple approaches) from the list below. We’ll feature some of your creative responses, share others via Twitter and Facebook, and even publish some that are a total fit…in a special e-book.
Approaches:
• Photograph your jeans in a poetic fashion
• Write poems about your jeans (or someone else’s)
• Charles-Simic-style, try writing a daily poem in bed, before you get up each day
• Pick a poet, or a group of poets, to read throughout NPM. Go casual. Don’t like a poem? Choose not to finish it. Love a poem? Take it apart and patch it back together with words of your own (or mix and match with other poets’ words, cento style). Please be sure to credit the source poem or poems, including author names
• Write poems about a jeans company, historic or new to the scene. Do a little research about the company before writing
How We’ll Feature Your Poetry Jeans
Some of your jeans poems and jeans photographs will be featured here at Tweetspeak. Some will be retweeted and Facebooked. Others, if they are a fit, will become part of our 2015 National Poetry Month Project e-book called Casual: A Little Book of Jeans Poems & Pictures.
Sharing your poems and photographs here with us is your way of saying you’d like to be featured or published in the e-book. Please only share the poems and photographs you’d be interested in having featured or published, as we will not be engaging in further permissions requests than this note. Just drop your poem or a link to your photograph in the comment box below. We can’t wait to see your creativity!
Once we release Casual, we’ll send it for free to all current Tweetspeak supporters at the $15 to $100+ levels. For our general readers, it will be made available for free download during National Poetry Month 2016.
If you’re interested in supporting all the poetry for life you find here day after day, you can “just say thanks” now for everything you love and want to bring to more people in the world:
$15 • Tea & Cinnamon Toast
$30 • Keep the Basic Boat Afloat
$100 • Just Say Thanks—One-Time Love!
New Life
One August, my grandmother wears blue jeans
and thumbs a ride from the Caney Mountain foothills
fifty miles north to the crest of Cedar Gap
and the snaking Frisco line.
On as much steam as her own,
the locomotive crawls into old Las Vegas,
where she baptizes her legs
in the El Rancho swimming pool
just long enough to be snatched up
by a flashy suit.
By sundown, she wears the new life
of a showgirl who never returns home.
Gambler’s dotted die latches at temple and wrist.
The only black and white she’s known before—
local newsprint yielding stories
of falling hog prices,
bumper crops of peaches.
—Dave Malone, from O: Love Poems from the Ozarks
Photo by Rajiv Ashrafi, Creative Commons, via Flickr.
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Donna Z Falcone says
Self-fulfilling Prophecy
Will my beloved jeans feel slighted
When I’m too big for my own britches
Again?
Lexanne Leonard says
Oh, oh, oh. I know. 🙂
Donna Z Falcone says
😉
michelle ortega says
Love.
Donna Z Falcone says
😉
annette Everosn says
YESTERDAYS JEANS
From the loft down came the tattered brown box,
along with the old moth eaten cuddly toy fox.
For the charity shops they were destined for,
sorting out its old smelly contents was such a bore.
I thought of the good deed I was going it do,
some of the things would be nearly new.
There they were, sitting like a blue dark sea,
still, silent, as if waiting just for me.
I reached down and felt the material, cold and rough.
Memories came flooding back of times that were fun but tough.
My hands held them out in front of me
and my eyes strained to see.
Was I really that shapely and thin.
I couldn’t understand why I kept them didn’t throw them in the bin.
They brought back memories of sunny days at school
where I along with friends, played at being the class fool.
Memories came flooding back, of meeting gorgeous Mark,
along with his terrier that would constantly bark.
Of our travels, our days spent hiking
and of our laughter after muddy biking.
These jeans had seen a great deal of life.
But then I remembered the final strife.
Gorgeous Mark and I, the final fight
going home, safe, crying with all of my might.
That’s why I put them in the loft and not thrown them in the bin,
I was hoping we’d make up, oh what a stupid sin.
But boy !!! these jeans had made me look great and sexy
back when I was slim and flexi.
Now I was overweight, middle aged
and sometimes felt like I was caged.
Into the pile of kept they went
as I reflected on days spent.
Gorgeous Mark filled with laughter and fun,
our fight, our love affair that was done.
Yet these battered jeans made me smile
as I remembered our travels mile after mile.
Of foolish days with friends at school
when we tried to act so cool
Decided, these old jeans again would be of use
Perhaps used for something else, that is my excuse.
In the mirror, she smiled that young happy lass.
Back in 1999, in the school class.
A.R.E

Donna Z Falcone says
I hear you.
So, jeans can be like a scrapbook page, right. Then the not fitting becomes part of the story. Cool. I like that. 🙂
Alexa Arteaga says
The Size of Your Jeans
Pretty and petite you are
But if one day you don’t fit into those jeans
Pretty lady
Don’t let that get into your head
You’re still so beautiful
No matter the size of your jeans
not size zero, size stunning
not size 25, size gorgeous
The size of your jeans does not define who you are
your worth does not decrease
when the size of your jeans increase
Please never forget that
Don’t let society tell you
That your jeans are too big or too small
You’re perfect just as you are
No matter the size of your jeans
Maureen Doallas says
Nothing like a little jean therapy!
Dave Malone says
LOL.
Donna Z Falcone says
😀 ha!
Richard Maxson says
Of course there is the Human Jean-gnome project.
http://www.coloribus.com
Richard Maxson says
Well, that didn’t work for the photo. Photo by coloribus. Try this.
https://www.pinterest.com/pin/323274079478808857/
Dave Malone says
LOL.
michelle ortega says
HA!
Lexanne Leonard says
Oh, the choices for National Poetry Month prompts. But, of course, this one caught my fancy.
It’s on my blog:
http://leximagines.com/2015/04/01/experience/
Thanks for the great start. I’m on my way to a month of every day poems. 🙂
Richard Maxson says
The new Italian line of jeans for this Spring.
http://tinyurl.com/mg5272x
Fibonacci Jeans
These are the ones
everyone wants
Bring a friend so the two
of you can take advantage
of the sale, only three days
left to get a pair of Fibonacci
Jeans at this amazing price—
only five dollars each, and if
you act now, the first eight
people to purchase any
quantity before the thirteenth
of April, will get a gift certificate
to Forever 21, our partner
for this offer. Come to our
store at the corner of Thirty-forth
Street and Fifty-fifth Avenue.
Reviews for Fibonacci Jeans
have been off the charts. More
that eighty-nine reviews have
given the highest rating possible.
Yesterday one-hundred and forty-four
pair of Fibonacci Jeans were sold in one
store alone to only sixteen people.
That’s nine pair of jeans for each
person. There are only two-hundred-
thirty-three pair remaining. So, Hurray!
We have all sizes for your waist and inseam.
We have the most popular colors,
light blue, black, grey and white.
Prices like these are as good as gold.
This sale may be extended if more
people continue to buy in quantities
like these, but I wouldn’t count on it.
Stormy says
Great promo!
Simply Darlene says
To TweetSpeaker Guideline Keepers,
What are the due date parameters for jeanTastic photog and word-ly contributions?
From,
Wondering in Wranglers
L. L. Barkat says
Ha. 🙂
Anytime during National Poetry Month, which concludes on April 30 🙂
Maureen Doallas says
Jean-ealogy*
is about the origin of blue
jeans, vintage cloth made
to wrinkle and shrink.
What the small French
village called Nimes knit,
Levi Strauss starched
and sold . . . made to fit!
A name on denim canvas
the world over, Levi’s
the pants market did change.
Total number’s the story
this moment, low to high
demand the way of know-how.
From zippers to bell-bottoms
and rivets, like Texas cowboys
the jeans finally fade. Same’s
the history for hippies in Frisco
who grew up to make a billion
and are aging in the one pair,
still blue, they are wearing.
______________________________________
* A remix of words (with some grammatical changes) from Chandrakant Shah’s “Jeans 101 – An Historical Poem”, translated by Naushil Mehta and Arundhathi Subramaniam. It’s found at Poetry International, in the India section.
Michael Garcia says
Every Shoes’ Friend
The soul of a working man’s fabric
stitched to ensure it a long life
sturdy as the day is long has
changed the fabric of a nation.
Bold and blue tried and true
available for all the masses
now has a distinction of classes
seen to the elite as a form of fashion.
Regardless, it’s a fabric all can relate to
holes, tears, dyed, and designer names,
despite all the years much hasn’t changed
blue jeans they are and blue jeans they’ll remain.
Copyright by NewLife2008
Richard Maxson says
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rSCbIN99-Eo
Listen first. It’s a cool arrangement and it’s the tune to:
Billy’s Jeans
They were more for a first year teen, they were way too lean,
these aren’t mine, what do you mean they are the ones
that I bought in this store at the sale?
She said they were the ones, that I bought yesterday in the sale.
She called her boss then, and she caused a scene,
and every eye turned to see the jeans, in case they were the one
who could buy my return, from the sale.
(Chorus)
People always told me alterations were a bust,
especially at this discount store.
My mama always told me make sure you try them on,
‘cause once you leave the store, believin’ you is done.
Billy’s Jeans, discount store,
don’t believe me when I say I’m not the one
who said twenty-nine, thirty-one;
they say I am the one who said to have this done.
For half an hour or maybe more,
her boss yelled and even swore,
he took a stand, made a strong demand
I was the one
who said twenty-nine, thirty one.
So take my strong advise, just remember get your ticket signed.
He had a card and it had a size,
then he looked at me,
and showed a line where they wrote the size
twenty-nine, thirty-one
for the jeans yesterday from the sale.
(Chorus)
People always told me don’t shop at Billy’s Jeans,
they’ll never get your sizing right..
And mama always told me be careful what you buy,
‘cause if you get it wrong, they’ll never make it right.
Billy’s Jeans, discount store,
won’t take returns, if you say you’re not the one,
around and round, they’ll run
and say you are the one, twenty-nine, thirty-one.
Billy’s Jeans, discount store,
just said I’m wrong—twenty-nine, thirty-one,
but I know I am not the one
Billy’s Jeans, discount store,
won’t see me comin’ here anymore.
Billy’s Jeans, discount store
Billy’s Jeans, discount store
Billy’s Jeans, discount store
Donna Z Falcone says
Love this! Had me giggling because I am one of those who can never remember which number comes first in men’s pant sizes! With a husband who hates to shop and two sons I was thrilled when, for a while, one of my sons was a perfect square at thirty-two, thirty-two! 😉 Alas, those days are gone and to all of them I say “buy your own jeans…”
I’ll warn them to avoid Billy’s Jeans Discount Store. 😉
Irish Grace says
RIVER-BLUES… JEANS
Lazy noon
a barefoot smile,
by river’s edge…
I’m skipping letters, in torn up jeans…
their edges frayed.
I scrape my knees
on washed-up, pebbled words.
My cotton defense,
ragged and worn
they cloak my skin,
propel, yet ease.
As my heartbeats drift…
pulsing in shades, of melancholy blue
my pen bleeds deep
my verse submerged
in denim dye… and indigo ink.
Donna Z Falcone says
Really nice, Irish Grace. I love this line:
I scrape my knees
on washed-up, pebbled words.
Irish Grace says
Thank you, Donna, so very kind, much gratitude. My favorite place to write, beside a river… in jeans!
Monica Sharman says
Brand-Name Jeans
You had to get the hundred-dollar jeans
to fit in, and that was twenty years ago. Now,
the cost for clique entry has inflated.
Don’t give in. The most popular brand
is just a question mark at the bottom
of an inverted triangle. Status attached
to a symbol sewn by a single thin thread
onto back-pocket denim. Faded. How long
do you think that will last? A single breath
of next week’s gossip would break
a bond that weak. Don’t second-guess
your own identity. Wear the jeans that fit.
Lie down at the top of the green hill
and let yourself roll. Go home laughing.
Grass stains on the pockets and knees
of your jeans, speaking for you.
Stormy says
Denim Blue Obsession
Thrown into life’s circle with artistic synergy
He remains unfiltered as natural wine
Speaks lines sleek and occasionally sober
He tempts in denim as blue as the sky
He’s infused with the ocean’s spirit
Wears the turquoise that once hung from her neck
His jeans
her blue obsession
Blue possession
Is what he wears best
Ceil says
my jeans don’t fit
the crouch rides up
like an unsaddled mule
elastic waist stretches
to accommodate rolls of flesh
I wear my trouser rolled
Imust be getting old.
Jessie Stewart says
Genes/Jeans
I welcome the blues as religion:
the power to uplift the spirit,
drench one’s life with color and texture,
fit and flatter like nothing else.
A straight soft indigo is mid-rise,
once well worn, but now
folded and forgotten.
Snug and stretchy, the black on another
is threadbare with frayed hems
that dust just above the ankle.
Cheeky in spirit, a pair of cut offs
have pseudo craters
in the stiff burnished fabric
but are new nonetheless,
lack the organic whiskers of broken thread.
Train tracks laid down the outseam
run parallel to leg and the
relationship is formed that
spurs the process of molding
and remolding a cast of denim.
A life imprinted in fabric is
often revisited decades later
then renovated to suit a new day.
Shell says
https://honoringthemuse.wordpress.com/2015/04/18/thread-bare/
Oh blue,
You’re the bee’s knees…
Though fragile around edges
There’s an ease in your step
An art to your fray
Comfort in your curve
Strength, come what may.
Vintage indigo charm
My perfect fit…just right.
My thread bare second skin softens
In the afternoon light ~
Bethany Rohde says
Good morning,
I don’t know if this poem is still an option since you were kind enough to have already shared it on Facebook. But just thought I’d mention these stonewashed jeans just in case they might be a candidate for the e-book:
https://worddoor.wordpress.com/2015/03/12/why-am-i-starting-to-smile/
Wendy Galgan says
Link to my photo, “Abandoned Blue Jeans.”
https://www.dropbox.com/sc/f2ydfj68gehb50n/AABV_OmmV3RuRbtx-xQq5nKJa
Yailyn Garcia says
Hot Topic
The cold, perfume-rich breeze
encircles my body.
Automated doors spread out
and give me sight of the room;
walls painted black,
clothes crowd the small room,
racks that can barely be seen
because of the jeans folded on them,
Jeans that run in odd
instead of even numbers.
Different fandoms
adorn this precious store.
Tania Pryputniewicz says
Cooking Class, Illinois, Mid 70s
Along her immaculate counter: silo
of red-handled sifter, bright order
of silver spoons, lemon bales of butter
softening in late winter light. In cupboards
her husband the carpenter built, bars
of Baker’s Chocolate, dried figs, quartered
apricots and Mason Jars of brined harvest.
A good cook puts up her hair, wears
apron, stores flour in freezer to keep
Boll Weevils out, uses shells of her egg
as a tool to separate yolk from white.
She also wears dresses, I learned,
when for donning jeans, she informed me
she no longer wished me to babysit. She cited,
over the phone to my mother, the effect
it might have on her son, the kind of wife
he might choose, the man he’d become
as I chased him on my hands and knees round
living room’s glass table she refused to move
when he was born. He’d learn, she’d said, he’d learn
soon enough, where he stopped and she began.
Terri Conlin says
Thanks for the prompt to celebrate Poetry Month!
Here’s a taste of my Poetry Jeans
Rivets
. . .
On a Texas street in waiting May
In a storied place
Of law and grit
Where bricks sing and guitars play
I laid chambray eyes on you
. . .
Find the whole poem with photo on my blog
http://www.whitepitchers.com/rivets/
Amy Billone says
Just past midnight tonight, my first son turns 9. I took this photo tonight of his old jeans rescued from a pile to be washed and brought to Goodwill and his beloved shoes that he has just grown out of. If a haiku could have a title, I might call this “Ninth Birthday.”
My baby boy’s jeans
grow fast as the moon. Midnight!
Please don’t run away.
https://www.dropbox.com/s/di6b47sikxd8ebk/My%20son%27s%20old%20jeans.JPG?dl=0
Taylor Burgin says
He asked me to patch the hole in his jeans.
I told him I wouldn’t, that he doesn’t know what the hole means.
That night He pulled through with a new Chevy in red.
With a pillows and blankets in the trunk for a makeshift bed.
He took backroads, to leave the cities lights behind in the dark.
Parked under the moonlight where the trees parted to watch the stars.
We fell into the night, deeper than his tires sunk into the mud.
We fell into the time, but could never be deeper than our love.
The tires cemented into the swampy ground.
Your knees meet the rocks pilled under the dampened mound.
Tugging at the denim, as he pushed the hood.
Those jeans could of never looked so good.
Barbara Crooker says
POEM ON A LINE BY ANNE SEXTON, “WE ARE ALL WRITING GOD’S POEM.”
Today, the sky’s the soft blue of a work shirt washed a thousand times.
The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.
On the interstate listening to NPR, I heard a Hubble scientist
say, “The universe is not only stranger than we think,
it’s stranger than we can think.”
I think I’ve driven into spring, as the woods revive
with a loud shout, redbud trees, their gaudy scarves
flung over bark’s bare limbs.
Barely doing sixty, I pass a tractor trailer called
Glory Bound, and aren’t we just?
Just yesterday, I read Li Po: “There is no end of things in the heart,”
but it seems like things are always ending—vacation
or childhood, relationships, stores going out of business,
like the one that sold jeans that really fit—
And where do we fit in? How can we get up
in the morning, knowing what we do?
But we do, put one foot after the other, open the window,
make coffee, watch the steam curl up and disappear.
At night, the scent of phlox curls in the open window,
while the sky turns red violet, lavender, thistle,
a box of spilled crayons. The moon
spills its milk on the black tabletop for the thousandth time.
Laurie Kolp says
Shrinkage
Inky clouds cling
to sky like jeans
I heave
past my thighs.
Deep down I know
nothing
changes a thing—
he’s leaving.
I fumble
with buttons
of the 501s,
cursing
Levi for such
shrinkage.
Heavenward,
my skeptical outlook
as beyond window
a willow tree shivers
before the deluge.
S. Etole says
Some Things Don’t Mend*
“Do you mind if we cut off your jeans,” they said.
“They’re my favorite scrub denims,” I said.
I haven’t walked since.
https://www.flickr.com/photos/45405642@N08/sets/72157651826894460/
michelle ortega says
Susan, this is haunting and beautiful. <3
S. Etole says
Thank you, Michelle.
Dave Malone (@dzmalone) says
I second that, Michelle!
Sandra Heska King says
Oh, Susan…
Naomi Jeanpierre says
Ode to Jeans
Wrapped in a
translucent plastic bag
with the scent of artificial air
seeping from your pores
you were soft,
yet firm
in my hands
like a ripe mango
plucked on the
cusp of June.
Noah Snitzer says
The Farmer’s Daughter
A girl named Martha
crept through the forest
with curious steps
while weeds twisted away
to avoid the worn
leather of her shoes.
Her eyes darted about
ignoring the sun’s golden glare
While the trees cast shadows
That walked beside her
and played in muddy footprints.
A branch hooked her
like a riverside fisherman
and reeled in her belt loop
but she snapped the wood
to escape like a fish
and swam through the
warm shades of green.
Then came the tree
which beckoned to her
with an outstretched arm
seeking a friendly grasp.
Martha climbed to the top
and relaxed in wooden palms
while she watched the
farm’s field from afar
that was peppered with
white specks of cattle.
Her clothes had their tears
and the loose threads
blew south like freed birds
with the quiet wind.
But despite that
they told her,
to be a
‘proper lady’,
she always liked
her jeans ripped anyway.
michelle ortega says
Here is one photo from flickr. Let me know if this is a good way to post.
https://www.flickr.com/photos/65710438@N08/17310781245/
L. L. Barkat says
perfectly fine way to post, thanks 🙂
michelle ortega says
And one more:
https://www.flickr.com/photos/65710438@N08/17284874916/
Sandra Heska King says
Slipping in with a wee poem and some photos…
http://sandraheskaking.com/2015/04/old-jeans-new-jeans-a-poetry-prompt/
Donna Z Falcone says
Akimbo
longways on the bias
horizontally
skewed
denim blues
akimbo
on the floor
see it on my blog with photos http://www.donnazfalcone.com/poetry/akimbo
Donna Z Falcone says
Black and white blues https://www.flickr.com/photos/98423526@N02/17125647539/in/album-72157651839487029/
Isabelle Clark says
Old Maternity Jeans
Rips in the fabric are
reaching hands , waiting to
feel the reassuring touch of
a mother’s plump kiss,
against her tender head.
Freckles are the dots of paint
peppering her tough expression,
leaving the memory in the
lilac walls that once held
a baby’s smile.
The blue wash is her tears,
scratchy on her soft affection,
yearning for another lovely laugh
to grace her innocent face.
Elizabeth Marshall says
This is a fabulous prompt. My contribution may be read here:
http://www.elizabethwmarshall.com/2015/04/01/the-blues
Thanks for reading.
looks like I have a lot of catching ip to do -^^^. Look forwsrd to reading everyone’s.
Elizabeth W. Marshall says
OOPS
It is here
http://www.elizabethwmarshall.com/2015/04/29/The-Blues
(i hope)
Elizabeth W. Marshall says
And this one, too
+++++++++++++++++++++++++
Let’s Get This Straight: A Couple of Haiku
You’re my slip into
Something more comfortable
Every single time
You’re my second skin
Softer than velvet, to touch
Off and on again
Jeniffer Smith says
Slipping in at the last minute. {smile}
https://smithjeniffer.wordpress.com/2015/04/29/a-blue-jean-liturgy/
Sandra Heska King says
Okay… one more…
Do you remember when we strolled by the river
your right arm around my shoulder
my left hand tucked in the hip pocket of your jeans…
Elizabeth Marshall says
The Clothesline
Driving South on Highway 17
They blow
Stiff-legged, crisp, board-straight
In the quarter-acre backyard
Rusted old fence-line
Hemming in the half-naked children
And the malnourished flock of laying-hens
Three days from now
They will still be cold-wet
Unwearable
Unable to clothe a working man
Unable to get out of bed
I blink
Covered in shame
The line houses too
A worn-out quilt
Neiman Marcus’ email slips in my
in-box
Size 2 Lucky Jeans on back-order
Two America’s
Yet again
SimplyDarlene says
coming in under the wire – or the electric fence as it is at my place.
both photos and poeticals here: http://wp.me/s1sn25-jeans
thank you.
michelle ortega says
Here’s mine, just under the wire 🙂 Will catch up on the reading over the weekend!
saturday
heat rises
on the city street
i slip one finger
through the belt loop
of his jeans
as we weave
a pedestrian tapestry
with cutoff
cotton threads
Debbie Dovel says
Chad’s Jeans
I gave my son’s jeans away today
Carpenter jeans that fit loosely
with lots of pockets that he’d stuff
full of all the little things he loved
Elastic waist jeans with drawstring ties
when he could no longer manage
the button and zipper
Some like new, others faded
showing the wear and tear
of years of washings
Funny, how they still
held his fragrance and brought back
the essence of his spirit
and so many memories
I buried my face in the soft fabric
and longed to feel
the warmth of his body
within them once more
As tears fell from my eyes
I packed them away
into large bags
to be taken to Goodwill
But the memories remain
and keep him alive
in my heart
After all, they were just jeans
Suzanne says
Jeaneration
(Collage poem using advertising slogans for jeans.
Brands include: Levis, Lee, Wrangler,
Jesus Jeans, Brutus, A.Smile Inc.)
Tough as your spirit,
I will weather any storm
and put a smile on your ass.
I may look fresh but
I’m ready to eat dirt
for those who toll.
I will not sit at home
collecting dust, for he who
follows me, loves me.
Live with passion and a
style all your own.
Now is our time and
jeans aint’ what they used to be.
Strike up for the new world.
Everybody’s work is equally important.
Go forth.
Go one greater.
Make jeans, not war.
L. L. Barkat says
Hey there, everyone. In case you missed this, please check out the update on how the Casual e-book will be put together and the timeline. Thanks.
https://www.tweetspeakpoetry.com/2015/05/15/casual-e-book-update/
Donna Z Falcone says
Thanks LL 🙂
Giosue says
Looking out of my Lunette,
A sky filled, cimmerian shade,
Which got red, from morning flare,
I breath newfrangled,dissimiliar,untouched and unspoiled.
Smokeless Air;
The black, branches are dull,
and leaves, wet.
no Moon out of my lunette,
NO STARS, just planets,
No glossy and the glowing,
cloudless and soundless.
Just the slight wind dared vibrate,
a red flambeau danced in shadows,
lulled the gnomes as they slept.
and a bomboo rushing, grey waters,
down dark green pavement.
Zephyr bonked the dark sea,
and murk sprayed,
taste of horror!
Taste of AWE!
and
Deep set sunken eyes,
a blank stare,
pin cushion slits it had,
and grimly, gay smirk.
It blinks, like a slow owl,
it blinks, once more with it’s
glittering,haunting,lamps of ships.
sitting on the wet surface of thou,
silky, crepuscule hair.
All lamps dozed,
and hollows stared at me,
as if they kill me,
and the shadows follow,
My shadow.
No more light, just gloom,
no flambeau but shadows.
Just darkening sky,
a pillow and bed sheets,
to hide in, and creep out of
at first light.
or a better one would be, to not creep out
to just close the curtains out of my Lunettes