Nylon Poems | Examples

Fairies And Fairy Dust

From her delicate wings a fine powder exudes and lands on the ground 
by the light of the blue harvest moon a touch of Pixie Dust, in nimble magic ! 
Harmonious weaving, intangible strands of music coming from the sphere 
sweet and beautiful arias, melodious twittering from a fairy wing's enfold

Wings not made of  nylon, cellophane nor iridescent tulle but made of silk
like spider's webs tough and resilient from the Master Spinners pedipalps 
Appendage wings made from embryonic liquid from ejected Neutron Stars 
like butterflies they flit and fly through air currents, landing on little twigs; 

Fairy dust of old as ancient as the parallels from this world to the next 
dare say I, ... if ever you have been subjected to their fairy dust appeal  
then flying limbs you shall receive and like it or not you will fly away  
inside a land of pure magic where every thought is like a sweet reveal 

From her delicate hand a sweep of the wand resting easy on your shoulder,    
one single dose is feathered on you and suddenly, you are able to hold her !

Old Shaftesbury Woman

Concrete dust drifts like sand across a coastal path.
An old woman battered with facial features that hung on her face, 
Disconnected and hanging. 
She leans forward in her blumonge, waterproof, unwashed nylon flares from Matalan. 
They ruffle in the wind as she looks out withdrawn onto the A350.

Her gaze is muffled by a sheen of intoxication, 
She tries with the majority of her self to keep her lids from closing, 
Mascara encrusted into the creases of her skin, 
Almost soldering her lashes together in a gluelike fashion. 
Leans hazardously towards the path of oncoming traffic,
Gesturing with open arms to the creatures of metal that push past her. 
The only trace of their moment in time is a gust that pushes her body back to safety as it, Confused and unobservant,
Collapses onto the urban stream that claims her yet again.

I watch as she continues to stumble on, 
Reaching out to every vehicle that steams on past, 
She does not see me. 
She is clogged by something greater and more sombre than I know. 
She is a perfect reflection of the time and place, 
She is what we all are feeling but continue not to show in fear of the outcome.
She is us.

Light Box

Cold, warm, horrifying, inviting 

Grinding away at the last pink and grey pustules  

pooling at the bottom of my 

Skull 

Gods own light pushes and claws helplessly 

against thin nylon 

Its primordial importance 

Toppled by billions and billions of bright bulbs  

Burning and boring into my eyeballs 

Spiralling and spiralling down  

an everlasting pit of fluctuating fun and fear  

And skin and sin and guilt, guided 

Down as fast or as slow as 

You want, your choice 

Quick glimpses of the very bottom shoot sharp  

Icicles of despair into my sedentary soul 

Thick mist  

Clears temporarily from my 

Glazed eyes, I push and claw helplessly against images 

Of razed villages and burgundy-bloodied bodies,  

Kicking and 

Screaming against the unfeeling and undulating  

Dilated eyes 

of fellow billions

Linda Lucy May Kays Attractive skirts

Her skirts lands against her springy step in a pretty way
Swirling around her luscious legs with an extra sway
She’s an old- fashioned woman, our Linda Lucy May Kay
Wearing silky nylon hose nearly every single day

Sailors all along the channel and down the bay
Will testify to what I have observed and now say
Her swishy skirts often lead their old eyes to stray
She is a snazzy dresser, our gorgeous Linda Lucy May Kay.

On Crenshaw

on crenshaw 
carousing in cavernous cafes 
slicing into earthen skin
the meat dancers bring it to a boil
they murder the rug
they scrounge for earth worms
the fish head girls bob like sea birds
telephoning purple mermaids for a date 
they have no name tags and no flowers
they sing sad madrigals to the starfish 
they know this is the last pavane 
the final curtsy before night goes down
before morning arises under white sheets 
loosening the brain screws 
burning the instruction manuals
imbibing the nylon remonstrations
on crenshaw
a lonely woman croons 
an oozing torch song to the dirt people
they sit erect in a dark morgue 
chittering like insects
singing cool blues music to the meat dancers
they bring it to a boil 
with burgers bullets and beef cake 
genius guitar freak vivisects clawing time
he twangs his axe with a searing solo
he plays psychedelic lullabies to the dead 
his music torturing the earth worms

Kites - 23 October 2022

Jan Juc Primary School
Annual Fundraiser
A Kite Festival

Perfect day
Windy, warm
Families crowd onto the lawn
Above Fisherman's Beach

Prams, dogs, wheelchairs
Giggling youngsters
Parents saying, "Look up!"
Cameras capture glee

Big blue whale
Wafting
Above several sharks out of water
A scuba diver twirling below

Knots and nylon twine
Fluttering ribbons and tails
Happy kids everywhere
Mums, Dads holding tight
A plethora of little diamonds
Soaring
Brilliant colours glint in grey skies

A giant octopus
Two Tiger Moths; pilots adrift
Like astronauts, space walking
A prancing purple tailed horse
A dazzlingly intricate, spinning snake

And several beautiful butterflies

hoodwinked shoal of fish

hoodwinked shoal of fish
in strong close spun nylon nets~
fight for survival

Poolside Peek

In his shirt of bright yellow nylon,
Nicky hung, with his curious eye on
A pool he bent over,
Cool water enclosure
Still, he's well-dressed with his smile on.

dependence

Dependence
Looking out of the window
at the doctor's waiting room
his receptionist had gone outside for a smoke
she wore black underwear
under a white nylon dress
Faux pas? 
What do I care, who dresses in a black T-shirt
jeans and a yellow  silk scarf 
in the hope of looking seedy but elegant
She inhaled the smoke deeply
I am filled with lust, my lips dry
oh, a kingdom for a drag
She saw my lust, drew the wrong conclusion 
stumped her ***
Inside, she looked at me with contempt

Betrayal In Black And White

The naked truth of hijacked leaves 
when tree reveals a mockingbird 
the wind with knives— the season’s thieves
applauds the loss of innocence 
soprano song his spoken word
as summer turns a villainess 

his merriment in verse she steals 
to feed the winter’s sinfulness
where hunger flies and cries and kneels 
to gods a songster’s soul appeals 
the guilty— nylon-stocking blurred 
...as ic’cles grieve neath ice-damned eaves

Hangry

stitching my lips with neon nylon ~ the worm moon foresees hangry stars

We Call Her Glama

Your grandma dates! This seemed odd to me.
My grandparents have been married since ’33.
We do not call her that, the good sport said.
She is sassy and perky; her clothes are fashionable said Ted.

What do you call her? I ask my friend.
“Gigi, or Googoo, both are accepted in the end.
Or Gixie or Glama,” his brother chimed in.
I finally met her at a pool where seniors swim.

She dressed in fancy clothes, wearing nylon hose.
Her ankles were shapely, and she had a cute nose.
Two or three old geezers were waiting to take her out.
Are they okay with this? I asked. Or do they pout?

Celebrating White Supremacy

("Winter Tree", 2023, original encaustic)

Celebrating White Supremacy

As the world turns….
ever faster and more wobblier
it’s hard to go a day 
without hearing some reference to ‘White Supremacy.’
Of course it’s a bad thing, right?
Sure it is, until you think what it really is.

I look around; snow deep outside
but here indoors I’m warm
no wind or snow, 
a steady even moderate clime instead,
not to mention safe and secure
with all the comforts of stove and frig
running water and electric light
and, not least, Wi-Fi!

And then, don’t forget,
there’s that trusty internal combustion engine vehicle
waiting outside that I can hop in
to go to town, to get the mail and more gas, 
more jeans or nylon jackets or plastic bags,
and, of course, more groceries, like pizza and coffee!

The list just goes on and on,
as I write in miraculous digital bytes
with auto-correct to tell me how I’m doing
with the ever pesky English spelling and grammar,
and I’m left in awe
wondering how and why
everyone else isn’t celebrating 
the fruits of this white supremacy
the whole world now enjoys
or at least aspires to...

(1/19/24)

The Traveling Pants

They are my lucky pants, they come with me wherever 
They are my lucky pants, we will always be together 
They are navy blue nylon, not cotton or leather 
They are all purpose jogging pants for any kind of weather
They are pants that are worn for all of the seasons 
I travel with my lucky pants for many different reasons 
They are not too hot and not too cold, my traveling pants will never get old.
We been to New Orleans, Texas and even Alabama 
We traveled to Maryland, Atlanta, Memphis and D.C
They went to Colorado, Florida and Vegas with me
We went to New York, London and then back to the states 
We travel by car, bus or plane, whatever it takes 
Whether worn or not, they’re coming for the flight
Wear them for my wedding um, I don’t know, I just might
They are my lucky pants, I will have them like forever 
They are my lucky pants, get rid of them? Never!

What a Woman Wants

“All a man really wants, is a girl who looks good in a bikini.”—Jack Freestone

All a “man” really wants is a “girl”
who looks good in a bikini?
All a woman wants is someone
who really doesn’t care, or is it
just to feel warm sea-side air
caress her chest instead of nylon
and play once again, summer child,
outside a body of which she’s too aware,
alive in movements unbound by eyes
and unweighted by prudish gravity,
to wade into the froth of waves breaking wild
around her, an improvised dance that swirls
in cadence to life’s rhythms, wise
to no man’s guile, unresponsive to his gambit.

• Short Nylon Poems
• Famous Nylon Poems
• Best Nylon Poems
• Read Nylon Poems
• Long Nylon Poems
• Nylon Quotes