your skin touches me, leathery and worn, cold and different. it’s as if i have not felt you for so long, as if your heart has closed and now it’s open again. i wonder if my skin feels like a paper bag or maybe silk, but i hope it is the latter.
What is outside of my house today is the opposite of leathery. It is in fact rather fluffy, and rather that having the hearty brownish color of actual leather, it is a brilliant white coating absolutely everything. Snow day it is.
She took in a deep breath as she swung her leather satchel over her shoulders. She removed a sealed letter from her pocket, and slid her nail under the flap revealing the sloppy writing. A smile tugged at her lips as she remembered him. “Im coming.” she mumbled under her breath, “I’m coming.”
She breathed in, her leathery skin rising as her lungs filled with oxygen, then exhaled, the skin falling back into place. This is how her life was, inhaling and exhaling. No escape from this place called hell.
I felt his leathery skin as his arm fell, limp at his side. He had lived to see another sunrise, and he breathed in hope for the last time – in this world, at least.
She was old. Her dog was old. Her house was old. Everything about the woman was just, old. Whenever we talked all I could do was stare at her cheeks, the way the hung from her cheekbones like, like, well they hung the only way old cheeks can! It gave me the willies.
it’s sad that leather is so nice and it comes from something so sad. the animals are so soft and nice but you can’t enjoy a cow in your house wrapped around you like you can with a nice leather coat. i love animals but i love being warm.
The leathery smell filled up the workshop. I had completed my first project as an apprentice — a saddle. It had taken me a year to perfect and embellish, but the hard work was well worth the time. It was a beautiful and sturdy piece, and it had an important destination: the palace.
i am having a leathery time. It is a hard time, even that i am not sure if i can say that about time but the texture and taste of this time is very rough. This time is like a leathery leaf, that can scratch your skin and the feeling can even stay with you, and that is how this time feels. because i heard about the death of a person!
We laid so still in that bed, our breathing so controlled, so loud that it echoed in the room.Still against the soft satin of the sheets. Still against the cold breeze that came with each oscallation of the standing fan. Still until we fell into that twilight. Still until he moved his leathery hand into mine.
When I reach her side with the sippy cup, she’s sandpaper and baking soda. Once velvet and cream with a side of gin and tonic singing show tunes on the piano, now she whispers the croak of death.
There she sat, my ancient grandmother, holding our newest born son. Her posture was stiff and unfolding as she gave no emotion away to the tiny man. Yet he did not cry or fuss. It was as if he perceived his very life was in danger. Then, perhaps in a pulse-stopping moment of sheer and unwavering bravery, his walnut-sized hand reached up and touched the leathery face of the matriarch. It was the first and only time I would see the tears of his great-grandmother.
Her leathery skin spoke of too much time in the sun without adequate protection. What do they think, these people? That being darker makes them more attractive even though they look shriveled up in just a few short years?
He worked for years on his farm. Out in the sun. Trying his best to provide for his family. Never knowing if he would have enough for them…but making sure he did his best.
The old man’s skin had seen better days. Years of working out in the sun had made his skin turn leathery…but it was aged as someone who has working for a living. He strove to create a life for himself.
He got his first baseball glove on the day he turned ten.
Wore it down on the field, scratched his first name in pen.
He went through his years, leather always by his side
Car seats and watches, belts made of hide.
Sixty years later, he raised a trembling hand
Stroked the skin of his cheek; Leathery and bland.
The texture that once marked his youth in the past
Now show his age; the years that have passed.
His skin was tight, he had been there for a long time. Lyn walked over and ran her smooth finger tips over the leathery skin. “How long do you think he’s been here?” She asked her partner. “Well, in these conditions, a very long time.” They were in the desert. Well, to be exact they were in a cave in a desert, in Arizona. They had been called out for a missing person report. The man was a geologist, he was looking at the rocks.
The leather slips through my fingers, I smell the sliding scent of refined strength as I raise my mallet to bevel the design. A tattooed hide that I’ll make into a purse.
The leathery texture of her skin was a tell-tell sign of a rich divorcee who spent too much time and money hibernating at sunny spas around the world in an effort to get over the pain and humiliation of being publicly dumped by her rich husband. But there wasn’t enough rays of sun to mend her broken heart or enough alcohol to drown her sadness.
The sofa was leathery and I just wanted it to be softer so I went to the store. On my way i bought some beef jerky at the convenient store and it was really salty, totally awesome, but leathery and I started thinking damn I wish I had some tender jerky. At the store they gave me a couch that was really soft, not made of leather, but velvet.
too much sun, grandpa’s old hands, drunken tongue, bat wings, sister-in law’s cooking, rough and dry, mahogany brown, cracked, furrows, old and unused,
the skin gets leathery when the mind grows wiser. it’s tough decide if it’s worth it or which to prefer. supple and stupid or leather and knowing. i’d opt for supple and knowing if they option were available, but wouldn’t we all?
He looked at his meal, a grim expression on his face. The meat was leathery, hard as a stone, the vegetables overcooked and the bread burnt. Not to mention the warm beer, but that, at least, hadn’t been cooked by his friend. He hid his grimace, and took another brave, resigned bite, not wanting to hurt Millie’s feelings. His hesitation, however, wasn’t lost on her.
“What’s wrong, Frank? You’re not eating very much. You’re not hungry?”
“Er…no, not much,” he quickly lied, “probably had too much for lunch.”
He bit back a sigh. Next time she invited him over for dinner, he’d better find a good excuse. Or buy her a cookbook.
Belle frowned at the uncomfortable leathery seat, she had been sitting in it for a good three hours now and was ready to leave. But her mother insisted that she stay for the of the tea party. “Care for some more, Darling?” Her mother asked. “No! I have had twelve already!”
my leather is leathery. The leathery leather on my leather is so leathery that my leather feels like leather. I think my leather wants more leather, always hungry for that leathery leather.
How does it feel to have skin that is leathery? Worn out from working in the sun, the rain, the snow, the miserable wind? Leathery from children, pets, long hours, stress, anger, fear. Skin that has cried, dreamed, bled, lived and died?
I bet leathery is starting to feel like an accomplishment right about now.
the leathery feel of a pig’s hide, bristly hairs tugging at your palm as you run your hands over it-
Frankie was a potbellied pig, he had squinty black eyes and short, thick legs that looked far too big for his small hooves. His sister had a sense of humor, shoving pieces of paper under the door of my aunts house when she was locked up when guests arrived, but not Frankie. He found few things humorous and once when I was small pushed me against a fence and held me there, snorting and bearing his musty white tusks.
It felt great. The bike was running smoothly. The helmet felt snug, and protective at the same time. The jacket…well what can I say? it felt leathery like it was supposed to. The day was perfect. All systems were go. Now if I can just figure out how to make a turn I would be set!
The word leathery conjures up an old withered wrinkled woman sitting outside her mountain cabin, pipe in mouth, babushka on head, smile on her face as she strokes the prickly grey fur of her baby goat.
I took his leathery palm in my hand and began to read. I read the years of hard work spent on tilling the soil. I read of ropes burning his skin and he pulled the water up from the well. I read the hours he spent holding his baby girl, caressing her cheek.
It was the most beautiful thing I have ever read.
A face, a leathery face. Shoes. A belt. Man, this is a tough one. In fact, it’s leathery! Hah! Bad meat is leathery. An old codger galoot can be leathery in disposition.
your skin touches me, leathery and worn, cold and different. it’s as if i have not felt you for so long, as if your heart has closed and now it’s open again. i wonder if my skin feels like a paper bag or maybe silk, but i hope it is the latter.
too many days in the sun without and kind of protection over the years has left your skin more leathery than your purse. kudos
What is outside of my house today is the opposite of leathery. It is in fact rather fluffy, and rather that having the hearty brownish color of actual leather, it is a brilliant white coating absolutely everything. Snow day it is.
She took in a deep breath as she swung her leather satchel over her shoulders. She removed a sealed letter from her pocket, and slid her nail under the flap revealing the sloppy writing. A smile tugged at her lips as she remembered him. “Im coming.” she mumbled under her breath, “I’m coming.”
She breathed in, her leathery skin rising as her lungs filled with oxygen, then exhaled, the skin falling back into place. This is how her life was, inhaling and exhaling. No escape from this place called hell.
She swung the leather satchel over her shoulders, and took in a deep breath. She stepped off the wooden porch and headed into the unknown.
I felt his leathery skin as his arm fell, limp at his side. He had lived to see another sunrise, and he breathed in hope for the last time – in this world, at least.
She was old. Her dog was old. Her house was old. Everything about the woman was just, old. Whenever we talked all I could do was stare at her cheeks, the way the hung from her cheekbones like, like, well they hung the only way old cheeks can! It gave me the willies.
it’s sad that leather is so nice and it comes from something so sad. the animals are so soft and nice but you can’t enjoy a cow in your house wrapped around you like you can with a nice leather coat. i love animals but i love being warm.
The leathery smell filled up the workshop. I had completed my first project as an apprentice — a saddle. It had taken me a year to perfect and embellish, but the hard work was well worth the time. It was a beautiful and sturdy piece, and it had an important destination: the palace.
I saw a leathery face upon the road and remembered all the hands at work to bring me everything unseen
The old man’s leathery skin pressed tightly against the envelope, as he sealed it tightly. Hoping that his dreams come true.
i am having a leathery time. It is a hard time, even that i am not sure if i can say that about time but the texture and taste of this time is very rough. This time is like a leathery leaf, that can scratch your skin and the feeling can even stay with you, and that is how this time feels. because i heard about the death of a person!
We laid so still in that bed, our breathing so controlled, so loud that it echoed in the room.Still against the soft satin of the sheets. Still against the cold breeze that came with each oscallation of the standing fan. Still until we fell into that twilight. Still until he moved his leathery hand into mine.
When I reach her side with the sippy cup, she’s sandpaper and baking soda. Once velvet and cream with a side of gin and tonic singing show tunes on the piano, now she whispers the croak of death.
There she sat, my ancient grandmother, holding our newest born son. Her posture was stiff and unfolding as she gave no emotion away to the tiny man. Yet he did not cry or fuss. It was as if he perceived his very life was in danger. Then, perhaps in a pulse-stopping moment of sheer and unwavering bravery, his walnut-sized hand reached up and touched the leathery face of the matriarch. It was the first and only time I would see the tears of his great-grandmother.
Her leathery skin spoke of too much time in the sun without adequate protection. What do they think, these people? That being darker makes them more attractive even though they look shriveled up in just a few short years?
Hard to understand.
He worked for years on his farm. Out in the sun. Trying his best to provide for his family. Never knowing if he would have enough for them…but making sure he did his best.
The old man’s skin had seen better days. Years of working out in the sun had made his skin turn leathery…but it was aged as someone who has working for a living. He strove to create a life for himself.
He got his first baseball glove on the day he turned ten.
Wore it down on the field, scratched his first name in pen.
He went through his years, leather always by his side
Car seats and watches, belts made of hide.
Sixty years later, he raised a trembling hand
Stroked the skin of his cheek; Leathery and bland.
The texture that once marked his youth in the past
Now show his age; the years that have passed.
His skin was tight, he had been there for a long time. Lyn walked over and ran her smooth finger tips over the leathery skin. “How long do you think he’s been here?” She asked her partner. “Well, in these conditions, a very long time.” They were in the desert. Well, to be exact they were in a cave in a desert, in Arizona. They had been called out for a missing person report. The man was a geologist, he was looking at the rocks.
The leather slips through my fingers, I smell the sliding scent of refined strength as I raise my mallet to bevel the design. A tattooed hide that I’ll make into a purse.
The leathery texture of her skin was a tell-tell sign of a rich divorcee who spent too much time and money hibernating at sunny spas around the world in an effort to get over the pain and humiliation of being publicly dumped by her rich husband. But there wasn’t enough rays of sun to mend her broken heart or enough alcohol to drown her sadness.
The sofa was leathery and I just wanted it to be softer so I went to the store. On my way i bought some beef jerky at the convenient store and it was really salty, totally awesome, but leathery and I started thinking damn I wish I had some tender jerky. At the store they gave me a couch that was really soft, not made of leather, but velvet.
the crack of the wood and the cloud of dirt
his heart races and feet pound as he rounds third
the wind at his back and his eyes on home plate
the fans are cheering for the player so great
the ball reaches home and finds its place
in the leathery glove snarled in lace
too much sun, grandpa’s old hands, drunken tongue, bat wings, sister-in law’s cooking, rough and dry, mahogany brown, cracked, furrows, old and unused,
“Darling, the leather has become leathery!” Madame Chenili called to her husband. “Oh no!” He said, and ran to the phone. “HQ, requesting backup!”
the skin gets leathery when the mind grows wiser. it’s tough decide if it’s worth it or which to prefer. supple and stupid or leather and knowing. i’d opt for supple and knowing if they option were available, but wouldn’t we all?
He looked at his meal, a grim expression on his face. The meat was leathery, hard as a stone, the vegetables overcooked and the bread burnt. Not to mention the warm beer, but that, at least, hadn’t been cooked by his friend. He hid his grimace, and took another brave, resigned bite, not wanting to hurt Millie’s feelings. His hesitation, however, wasn’t lost on her.
“What’s wrong, Frank? You’re not eating very much. You’re not hungry?”
“Er…no, not much,” he quickly lied, “probably had too much for lunch.”
He bit back a sigh. Next time she invited him over for dinner, he’d better find a good excuse. Or buy her a cookbook.
Leathery, like a belt. Or gloves. Brown leather gloves. From a cow. A beautiful cow, whose life is only for our selfish reasons.
Belle frowned at the uncomfortable leathery seat, she had been sitting in it for a good three hours now and was ready to leave. But her mother insisted that she stay for the of the tea party. “Care for some more, Darling?” Her mother asked. “No! I have had twelve already!”
my leather is leathery. The leathery leather on my leather is so leathery that my leather feels like leather. I think my leather wants more leather, always hungry for that leathery leather.
soft crinkled wrinkly
lines aligned cut through skin
like a knife
sun scarred scared sacred
leathery face cased in time
wondering where when and why.
How does it feel to have skin that is leathery? Worn out from working in the sun, the rain, the snow, the miserable wind? Leathery from children, pets, long hours, stress, anger, fear. Skin that has cried, dreamed, bled, lived and died?
I bet leathery is starting to feel like an accomplishment right about now.
the leathery feel of a pig’s hide, bristly hairs tugging at your palm as you run your hands over it-
Frankie was a potbellied pig, he had squinty black eyes and short, thick legs that looked far too big for his small hooves. His sister had a sense of humor, shoving pieces of paper under the door of my aunts house when she was locked up when guests arrived, but not Frankie. He found few things humorous and once when I was small pushed me against a fence and held me there, snorting and bearing his musty white tusks.
It felt great. The bike was running smoothly. The helmet felt snug, and protective at the same time. The jacket…well what can I say? it felt leathery like it was supposed to. The day was perfect. All systems were go. Now if I can just figure out how to make a turn I would be set!
The word leathery conjures up an old withered wrinkled woman sitting outside her mountain cabin, pipe in mouth, babushka on head, smile on her face as she strokes the prickly grey fur of her baby goat.
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I took his leathery palm in my hand and began to read. I read the years of hard work spent on tilling the soil. I read of ropes burning his skin and he pulled the water up from the well. I read the hours he spent holding his baby girl, caressing her cheek.
It was the most beautiful thing I have ever read.
A face, a leathery face. Shoes. A belt. Man, this is a tough one. In fact, it’s leathery! Hah! Bad meat is leathery. An old codger galoot can be leathery in disposition.