Short Tweed Poems

hey,hey,hey,bobby macghee
this i need
do we tweed or damn the man?
yes i am a fan of her
i just didnt slur words on earth...

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The task is "MAMMOTH" to be sure
          When the jumping mob get near
          Whether for tweed coat or rug for floor
          Then their loud bleating we hear
          As from them their coats of white we shear....

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The trappings of
a Poet …
or being a Poet 
They’re each something
different
remote and distinct
The tweed jacket
wood paneled
image deceiver
Lays claim to what
only
—enlightenment inks

(Dreamsleep: January, 2024)
...

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When I was young
My friends' parents were old
Tweed-skirted sensible mums
Vague shadows in the kitchens
of my childhood world.
Now I'm a mother,
a shadow of myself.
In my leggings and boots
I have tweed-skirted opinions
And hush puppy ambitions....

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Loom
weaver
together
with warp and weft,
turn yarn to fabric,
fashioned by designer
driven by the customer,
Jacquard, Harris Tweed, Dobby Weave,
this practical creation of love
conceived from the form of the simple thread.

© Harry J Horsman  2012...

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A manor house on a hill
Petit-fours & cheese trolley
These small things...
A whiskey glass clinking
Musk of ancient tweed
 wet dogs by the fire
A front door strewn with wellies 
and autumn leaves
These are the small things 
of a perfect country afternoon...

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Nights infusion
bleary eyed rivals
in Soho tweed
Pharaohs joke was here
Denim clad oxymorons
with spotlight eyes
Archways lean close
as sticks befuddle
their spark of epiphany
A jewelled silence
captures the gangsters in silhouette
Freaks five a penny
prolapse the night...

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Slight as birds
Not in flight,
But well placed

Between hill and
Village, snow as it is;
Balanced, neutral.

Greyheads, silver-eyed
Drown in tweed,
Beyond manshape,

They ballet over ice,
Horse-footed,
Terse with God,

Wordless,
Sort of half alive;
Drawn against the white....

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What makes your heart break special?
And most of mature adults content? 
They think of soul, observe lent
While you're appointed for a facial.

You swim in your shopping world,
New tweed jacket you enjoy, allure.
Of decisions you're unsure.
As for your dream life. It's not yet sold....

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Peculiar Petunia was very strange indeed,
I mean how many six-year-olds would choose to wear tweed?
On the first day of school, in an effort to impress,
Petunia chose a hand-woven olive green dress,
The other little girls wore lace in pink and red,
But Petunia knew the value of a harder-wearing thread...

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I hope your pen bleeds
And ruins your tweed
Stains your skin
Gets infected
Makes you ill
And you spill your jello
Get a scuff
On those new white shoes
I hope your birthmark
Turns out to be shaped like Kalamazoo
I hope I get kooky
When I get mad
And write silly stuff
Instead of firing 
A bazooka
At your Humvee...

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Some men on plenty feed,
Yet customers of greed,
The rash cankerworm breed,
Never there for your needs,
Worsening them like weeds...

I know a Shameless Steed,
Who'd never Gospels heed:
Pleased with Satan's own seed:
His best point: can minds read
Plus nice Jackets of Tweed
But paupers with Steed plead 
And shake him not like reed....

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He knew how to turn up the soil and seed,  
Before the sun got hot by summer's glade;    
And on his lips recounting roses creed 
He gently viewed them as they swayed;   
Together in a garden built of tweed 
A bloom-vestige of grace, softly arrayed; 
And as the gardener drank his amber tea,  
he thought of roses and he thought of me.  
 
...

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The Harlequins of the night
languish their last aura 
Lilly eyed clowns await
commissioners bleed into tweed
Rivillers  errantly play drums
Damsels failing in their appeal
Adventurers sent back
Running on empty
the night people slide in between

Those old sinners head for the valleys
backing their wasted years 
No prayers are said, just the orbital of silence...

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Paper machinations
steam blase
A lineage of a story
gives blurry eyed account
Velvet accorance
the seats are tweed


Whilst those bewailed on newspaper lined bench's
steal sleep
Tramps in grey silhouette
chew on dead cigars

Sequenced starlets
cruise soothsayers in Marylebone 
Dancers kick their manniquet stance
worship the jaws of night
turn grey in disown...

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Imagine

Yellow socks tambourines pretty girls and fax machines
Sunshine waves Heinz baked beans and black tinted windowed limousines 
Garbage anarchy wasps that sting and red currant jam potting magazines
Madness purity wedding rings and watching Mary Berry’s tips on the finest 
cuisines
Ice cubes tweed ping pong pings and the gold dust of a magic monkey blowing 
over your sleeping dreams...

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Arrogant hornless bull from farm roots
Dressing in dapper gentlemanly tweed suits
Topping his shirt with a gorgeous striped tie
Some of the cows in the pen say “my oh my!”

What is it about a suit? The blue collared bull asks.
Upset with their feminine wiles, his face is not masked.
He gives the hornless bull a nod with his mean hoof.
Do not ask me for a selfie, for I have no evidence or proof....

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I walk to the edge of the platform
Looking far
Down the descending steps
Knowing the bottom is somewhere out there
And without thinking too much
Move outward

My black right shoe 
Goes forward and down
Followed by the right cuff 
Of my black twill tweed trousers
Leading the rest of me
Like a slinky

My right hand 
Grasps the right handrail
For some sense of stability
And control
If only to slow down my descent
To the bottom...

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Why only yesterday
the craggies youthfully
flowed down your cheeks.

When did your neck
turn tweed and your fingers
thicken more than before?

Sure, your ruggedness attracted me,
but this is different.  Each new line
a furrow of our riverbed,

a new bend toward lights out
and goodnight Irene from more
than a dimly lit dance floor.

Next to you each night
I slumber to your breath
and in slumber, dream eternal youth.

©Kathryn McL. Collins...

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How I love to wear a vest!
It really piques my interest.
For though it's kind of like a sweater,
Somehow, stylish-wise, it's better.

Whether made of down or tweed,
For warmth, it's what all wardrobes need.
With buttons, snaps or halves that zip,
It helps its wearer look quite hip.

So my advice, to spruce your flair
And make your outfit debonair, 
Just top your shirt when you get dressed
With, as you might have guessed, a vest!...

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Nigh fusions are a happenance
I prefer the stalks shadows of the day
Infinity has a way of peering
tomorrows living for a  thrill

Who light the leitmotif
and bonfire my words
Or should I search for an island
to gaze at a cave?

Wherewithals all lustre
scratch holes in my words
A house without a dream
ran naked through the plains

Romeo is lost
Juliet leans closer
Spinoza doffs another theorem
Nature plays trumps
commissions bleed into tweed...

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Cigar but no cigar
extinguished by the elders
Gaslighting commissioners held in tweed
The night people slide in between

Pouring light
velvet dolls
play with their own discord
electric spears happenstance
pale Harlequins of the night
scratch their gilded fears

outstretched hands
that jabs the line
of ghost trains

Stacked chips
sequined starlets shinge
Rhinestone streakers parade
paying homage
to pipers never paid
who snort energy in spoons...

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Yesterday I followed a trail
of coffee beans stencilled into
the contours of Anouk’s dress:

tapioca coloured lips serenaded
coral and mustard tweed, near
the surface of the Java Sea.

A boat was anchored:
a silhouette of Noah’s Ark swayed
to the tempo of her undulating tapestry.

The silver vessel glistened as my
reflection met its gaze; she bore
the weight of this loyal talisman

above the space where her
heart should have lived: she was
clothed in an aura of allegory....

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Persimmonetta was a beautiful faery maiden indeed
She had eyelashes galore and a grasshopper for a steed
Is she the one with pink hair asked a bullfrog, just freed
From a witch’s mushroom house, way down under a weed

I refused to answer, for he was sporting a smart suit made of tweed
His reputation was one of fly-eating, jealousy and greed.
Is her name Persimmonetta? Asked a snake from the weed.
I screamed and ran off, fear leading me far away to meet my own need....

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Pink tulip please the merry nuthatch said.
On your lapel? Oh no. On my head.
It has such fragrance, fancy indeed.
I’d wear it proudly with my feathered tweed.

An acorn topper for me, oh please.
Shy cardinal said to the passing breeze.
Fashion me a cap of gold thread said Ted.
He loved a bit of royalty on his head.

A red hummingbird had naught to say.
Quickly turned tail and flew away.
Robin politely waited for her turn.
These bird hat preferences made my ears burn....

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