We sit here at a small table
Our feet slightly touching
My pretty little blue dress
Your flowing white shirt
A pair of little, white high heels
A simple pair of black Oxfords
My small, pale hand wrapped around the tea cup
One of your hands encased mine while the other held a small tea cup
He smiled then said,
"It is funny that we are sipping on tea."
I pondered this for a moment then,
"Why is it funny?"
"You are more like a shot whiskey than tea."
But we just sat there sipping our tea

It was the midsummer of the 50’s and my girls and I went out for a bite. Jimmy’s Burgers was a block away and boy were we hungry! We could eat a cow for all we know. Jimmy’s jukebox can play music day in and day out.

My girls and I parked our blue Thunderbird Convertible, and hopped on in Jimmy’s. That place is always filled with younglings like us. You can smell the fresh potato cut fries fryin’ up in the greasers. The burgers are always my fave! I would beg to just get a bite out of those succulent, juicy ground babies.

Everyone in this joint always seems to be dancing their little feet off, the girls with their casual oxfords and pastel loose skirts; the guys wearing leather, pompadours, and their high-wasted pants. I love to crank that jukebox with only my quarters and dimes I have left in my purse. The girls and I sat on down in one of the red booths. A young waiter came over with bottles of coke with his pen and paper.

“May I take ya’ll lovely ladies’ order?” He was chewing on that mint gum.

Boy was he handsome! That sweet southern twine had me going bonkers. He looked all fancy in his all white uniform; his apron had ice cream stains and fry grease. His sandy brown hair was cascading behind his ears. I loved his paper hat too. His big brown eyes were looking into mine as he was getting our orders. I couldn’t help but stare back. He gave us our cokes and gave me a little wink behind his thick black glasses. I really didn’t care bout’ those pimples, his face made a girl melt like Texas asphalt on a hot beach afternoon!

I made myself look sweeter than a peach. I fluffed my hair and fancied my outfit, hoping for that rascal to come on back. The jukebox was still kicking tunes in the back, that’s when the cute waiter came back.  His tall, slender, perfect body walked on over and sat our tray of burgers down. My face was red hot like the time I first took a bite out of a chili pepper. The waiter got close to my ear and whispered,

“You wouldn’t mind if I take your sweet self on the dance floor for a second would you?”

Wasn’t that boy supposed to be working? I didn’t care. That rascal waiter grabbed my hand and swung my little waist on the dance floor. We twist, kicked, and shimmied. I was having the time of my life! I didn’t know my girls were staring at me, cheering on. Too bad the cutie had to go back to work. I walked over and sat back in the booth.

My girls were giving me the, you’re his sugar girl look. Not my fault he was sweeter than maple syrup!
The girls and I were finished at Jimmy’s Burgers, so we started to head out. Before I even opened the door, that waiter grabbed me by the waist and said,

“Hey sweet thing, leaving too soon? I didn’t catch your name?”

I looked into those eyes again; I felt my heart skip a beat like the jukebox when there’s a bug in it. His southern twine again,

“My name’s Robert James, but you can call me RJ.”

He kissed my hand and gave me that wink again. I gave him a smile and went outside. My face was peachy like a baby’s bottom! I didn’t even tell him my name, dog-gon shame.  From now on, I’m hittin’ Jimmy’s Burgers just so I can see that waiter.

He said “Cult of Simultaneity”
in such a sultry way
it made we want to kiss him
in that “Gay guys are attracted to me”
sort of way.

An English major taking an
upper level history course
as an elective—

When he smiled at you
in one-on-one conversation
his Irish emerald eyes gleamed between
slits (as he squinted his eyes
in a merry, amiable way).

He wore silk dress shirts and vests
every day with pressed tapered
black dress pants and
gleaming black oxfords.

His well-trimmed red beard
enwreathing the doorway to his mouth
made his lips (full, lush;
I swear they were glossed)—
evermore tantalizing.

I gave him a cute nickname
that was just his name shortened
but with a y, like Jimmy
and Bobby and
I hope he liked it—

He spoke with such finesse
carefully enunciating every syllable
running his tongue smoothly
across his teeth lips and
the roof of his mouth
free of spit and stutter—

every phoneme imbued
with his placid charm,
I ate every crumb
with my eyes glued to him
across the classroom—

Vain and straight,
straight in vain.

A tough
guy still
his place
relives Spanish
Inquisition and
gossamer upwind
only prorogue
yesterday with
those Oxfords
on shoes,
shirt and
Otis for
trusty returns
easily now
a ghost
ware of
his Aberdeen.

i know there have been moments where you pulled yourself down the stairs just to collapse onto the kitchen floor
i know there have been moments where you repeated,
"i will most certainly not make it out of this alive"
and you wake up the next morning and make it an inch further
my dear dramatic girl
there is no fault in loving with all of your heart
you will grow up and know what each word he presses to your chest means
you will have an Oxfords Dictionary for every time he tells you he was just out late
but if you keep putting pieces of you into everyone who runs their finger over your lips
or tells you "forever" as if it hasn't already lost its meaning
you will lose yourself
do not let the world desensitize you to its contents
theres nothing more tragic than watching a romantic become a cynic
you are full of a quality you cannot let every boy that stops loving you when it's convenient take from you
you are truthful and forgiving
you are trusting
and whats left of your heart is safety-pinned onto your sleeve
your heart belongs to you alone and i know its been a while since you heard this, but
you are full without people miles away telling you that they think you'd look pretty without your clothes on
dust it off,
lie on the kitchen floor and remember what it felt like when you said
"i will most certainly not make it out of this alive"
for when you wake up one morning and forget how it sounds
to be despondent in love
do not let the world take you and spread you over people who push you to fill pieces of them they have lost in others
you are prevailing every time you whisper
"i love you, too"

With their new awards show - VH1 Big In 2015 with Entertainment Weekly - the network aimed to 'highlight the trailblazers and epic pop culture moments of the year.'

So it was no surprise then that Taraji P. Henson, 45, was one of the program's honorees for her unforgettable work as Cookie Lyon on Fox's smash hit Empire.

Taraji looked stunning as she arrived at Pacific Design Center in West Hollywood, California on Sunday for the celebration, flashing some skin in a fitted black Alexander **** dress.

Taraji wore a sleeveless, black dress for the event that hugged the Fox star's curves while showing off her toned pins.

The flattering number also featured a laced-up, cut-out along the side of the dress that added some edge to the look with a flash of skin.

She coupled the look with a pair of studded, strappy black heels, and donned a pair of dramatic, dangling earrings.

She showed off bold eyeliner for the event, as well as big lashes and a complimentary mauve lipstick.

Taraji's brunette tresses were styled in gorgeous, wild curls, and the actress looked to be in good spirits as she hit the carpet, showing off a big grin and at one point even blowing a kiss.

Amy Schumer was also being honored at the event after her stellar year that included the success of her comedy Trainwreck.

The 34-year-old smoldered in a form-fitting red gown, which she coupled with a pair of coordinating red pumps.

The flattering number featured three-quarter length sleeves and was fitted to show off the comedian's trim figure.

She wore her long, blonde tresses styled straight for the show, and showed off a smoky eye and a dark manicure.

Amy was joined on the carpet by her sister Kimberly Schumer, who wore a sleeveless, bright blue mini dress that showed off her toned pins.

She coupled the playful frock with a pair of strappy, black heels, and wore her long, brunette locks in soft curls.

Amber Rose, 32, put her ample assets on display in a figure-hugging mini dress as she arrived at the Pacific Design Center.

The model wore a long-sleeved black mini dress which featured a plunging front and also highlighted her toned pins.

She coupled the daring number with a pair of strappy, black heels, and hid her eyes behind over-sized, black sunglasses.

Pitch Perfect 2 director and star Elizabeth Banks, 41, wore a textured black dress with a semi-sheer skirt and bow-shaped cut-out along the front.

The eye-catching dress hit at just above the actress's knees, and she coupled the look with strappy, peep-toe black heels.

She accessorized with a coordinating, black clutch, and wore her long, blonde tresses pulled back into a chic updo, with curled, wisps of hair falling around to frame her face.

Queen Latifah, 45, and Katherine Bailess, 35, both opted for stylish, black jumpsuits for the awards show, though the former wore long sleeves while the latter opted for a one-shoulder look.

Katherine finished off her look with a pair of peep toe heels that showed off a dark pedicure, and wore her long, blonde locks in soft waves.

She accessorized with a pair of dangling earrings, and added a pop of color to her look with a bright red lipstick.

Parks And Recreation alum Aubrey Plaza, 31, stunned in a form-fitting, white mini dress that featured metallic embellishments, and she coupled it with chunky, black heels.

Elle King, 26, meanwhile, was a bit more colorful in a pretty floral dress, though she added a bit of edge to her look with a black, leather jacket.

Master of None star Aziz Ansari, 32, looked dapper in a fitted, black suit worn with brown leather oxfords and a bright, pink patterned tie.

T.I. - host for the VH1 and Entertainment Weekly event - looked stylish in an all-black ensemble that he accessorized with Aviators and a bold, silver necklace.

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-melbourne

www.marieaustralia.com/cheap-formal-dresses

“I conversed with you in a dream.”
Sappho’s fragment 134

"He said 'no worries,'" she said
when she hung up. "I love when people say that." quaint little town,
they say of us – quaint little smile, I
say of her.  
"When you drink, i..." another plantative little contest the context
ringing and you can tell that the "i" is not a proper noun.
"Were you alone?" it surmounts up and climbs down the treacle gavels of sensibility
this question suggests concern.
and a boy who wants to have *** with me calls me kitten. His hair is brown.
Two conversations at the same time:
"Where I'm from, twenty a gram's a ripoff!"
Standard prices.
and
"Princess, if you were my girl, you'd always walk funny."
The ice is
thin under my oxfords
the murk of my conversational devices
Lake bottom:
vices.

Well hey babe, don't you look cool
You've got your spiffy clothes,
Your e-cigar, and you're good to go
Hey babe, you look so great
You've got on those ridiculous mom jeans,
And you're running on fumes
Hey babe, looking reeeeaaaal good,
Your hybrid can't go up hills but,
"Hey, I'm saving the earth!"

You can't keep up with these
Hipster habits
Tricks are meant for kids you,
Silly rabbit
You can't save the world,
You're just a silly girl,
Your life is not a trend.

Your cat pics are going viral
You've built a record player,
And you've turned tumblr into a bible
There are these clear men-wear inspired oxfords that you've "Gotta have!"
Shopping at goodwill can only get you so far,
Especially when you filled yourself with angst that's outdated.
It's not even like you're brooding in a bar

You can't keep up with these
Hipster habits
Tricks are meant for kids you,
Silly rabbit
You can't save the world,
You're just a silly girl,
Your life is not a trend.

And you could write me a strongly worded letter,
but don't make any mistakes dear, because your typewriter's not that clever.
I'm reading articles about appropriation,
And learning how to join the "body posi nation"
I dyed my hair white
And my paelo weight watchers points are out of sight!
Your Essie polish doesn't match your insta feed,
Oh look you've made a hipster out of me.

We can't keep up with these
Hipster habits
Tricks are meant for kids you,
Silly rabbit
We can't save the world,
We're just a silly girls,
Our lives are not a trend.

A young woman stands on the corner of the street.
She leans slightly to the left,
and wholly places her body against the brick wall.
An unlit cigarette is caressed beneath her gloved hands.
Snow falls and brushes itself against her black boots
as if it were a cat asking to be scratched behind the ear.
Her warm breath conceives a chilled cloud of smoke with the frigid air.
A man walks from behind her right shoulder.
He holds a collection of daisies and moves slowly.
His oxfords progress as if they are reaching a bus stop.
His black coat reaches his knees and matches the young woman's -
it fits tighter on her.
He places a hand in his pocket,
removes a sterling silver lighter,
and places it in the palm of her hand.
He rests his freezing fingers inside her embrace -
the leather feels like his armchair at home -
his only escape from anything other than solitude.
The young woman smiles,
lights her cigarette,
and allows the nicotine to coat the inside of her body.
A red lipstick shaded deeper by violets
stains itself on the cigarette.
The man holds his hand open and aloof.
The young woman dances her thin fingers around his stout ones.
The cigarette finds its new home.
The young woman smiles.
The man walks away,
carrying her bouquet.

Ian was an only son,
Tethered by his mother's eyes.
He had a head of curls,
The envy of my sisters.
His skin shone like pearl onions,
His shirt buttoned like a zipper;
His shorts were knee high
With creases sharp as glass,
That matched his upper half.
His oxfords polished blue-black.
He stood on our sidewalk,
Looked indifferently at our house,
Looked skittish as a mouse
At enticing cheese.
As he approched our walkway,
Her eyes snapped.

if a tainted rose is worth more pennies than a thought,
then my whole garden has a stage presence of 72 ticket stubs,
and sixteen men in beards and ball caps at a footy game.

the thick and habitual tick tick ticking of a grandfather clock
striking each end goal and beer swish of a textbook page
and skin on skin on skin on sheet on leave on lavender cream.

i have left my hose, ***, and gardening paraphernalia in the garage
and i don’t dare to take them because the last time i saw a cordelia i saw you
i don’t dare to tell mother about this grind and bind i seem to be in.

i have much rather my time in the chair, grandfather’s chair, next to the stand clock and angel ornament aunty edna gave us so long ago
did i tell you my cross stitch is past mere perfection? i most certainly have not,
and for that i must say i miss you.

if a rose is the recountment of beauty encased, and the sweet sweet essence of praise has you floundering under mere pressures of two tonne water vessels then fine, i see you as you are
you are wanted downtown, but shhh, i was not supposed to know because mother found out about me and i seem to have lost everything and please, i need that repetition and routine and please, i need renfrew’s shoe cream.

father’s run out again, i am not allowed out again, i miss you again, i am not allowed to see you again, meet me at the pasture after dark again?
mother washed my garments yesterday, and found that note, from when we little.
that’s how she found out, she found out i was dirtier than the garden and i think she thought if i stopped mucking around outside maybe i’d stop mucking around inside.

if i emptied my purse, i would find you.
also you owe me three dollars, i need new stockings.
i lie in bed these days, and i do not regret taking the room at the back of the house because our curbside appeal is diminishing, i can feel it.

my bones are aching. my mind is aching.

i resemble the plumage of a bird; furry, i have not shaven; *****, i have not bathed; but beautiful, mother says. she is not that good at lying. i find it odd you’ve got a way of writing with UK english, maybe it’s in the oxfords?

the statue called me last night, i thought i should tell you. you always had a thing for her. i felt like i was breaking the bond we precariously built between your mind to mine; i hope you will forgive me.

i have grown fond of apple cider but stick applesauce in my ribs. i tried to go through the awning to the pine, but the ivy presented a league and i couldn’t battle my feet to entangle their estranged meaning to let me free.

mother gave me more bottles; i am not a baby, she treats me like a baby, i am not her infant. i hear her cracking them to a powder and that is why i do not eat anything these days, i swear. they didn’t do their jobs and mother is none the wiser so i slip them to the dirt outside. i promised them i would help them grow and despite me not leaving the room, i hope my love reaches the ends of anyone i have ever met.

i lost my studies long ago, i lost everything else before that.

my body is aching, but more, my mind is anesthetized.

Dye my hair black and drench my lips in venom red.

Snag a ticket at the bus station in town and watch the country fade away in a blur

Slither off the bus with clasped fingers around one suitcase with both hands reaching towards the gray skies, trying to tickle the glowing Citgo sign

My oxfords slapping the cobblestone as I run down the alley, blades of hair slapping my face with each stride.

I scream only once while running, I scream for freedom

I scream for Boston

there was a tiny girl
who lived in a shoe
she had so much footwear
she didn't know what to do:
itsy-bitsy teensy-weensy
sneakers and pumps
and microscopic oxfords
that made her heart jump

the little clogs she wore
were custom-made in france
they went well with leisurewear
like her blue capri pants

she loved her ballet slippers
(the ones that did not pinch)
and preferred stilettos with heels
a sixteenth of an inch

her favorite choice of footgear
was a gift that could not be hipper:
a resplendent miniature pair
of magical ruby slippers

and she looked quite lovely always
wearing a minuscule diamond crown
and was the belle of every ball
as she twirled in her wee princess gown

Across,
In amongst a crossing,
My oxfords met yours.
My trench coat entrenched
Itself into yours.
We  grabbed for the same newspaper,
And I found myself peeling
Off my smile
And handing it to
You.

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                                     ­      My Bourgeois Leanings

          One day, at a meeting of the Komsomol…he was accused
          of bourgeois leanings just because he happened to wear a tie.

                          -Yevtushenko, A Precocious Autobiography,
                                    recounting an anecdote by his father

I am the only man who wears a tie
With proper coat and trousers (inspection pass)
Properly kitted like a proper guy
To weddings, funerals, dinners, and Sunday Mass

I am the only man who does not wear
Sneakers or baseball caps, gas-station shades
Knee pants, tee shirts, jeans with a built-in tear
Or plastic jackets shaped like hand grenades

If we are facing civilization’s end -
One’s trousers touch one’s oxfords with a quarter-inch bend

Purpleheart every day, imbibe your indecisiveness
Give blues to life, to inscribe your insidious intent
'Cause I love your reds and hues, and the stairs that lead away
You what and why I can read you whence you stay
Because roses, violets and you lose your mellifluous and oleaginous face
Flowers are right, 'cause you love you right with the heralded dews of hummingbirds
'Cause is right, cause I love you, like the sun's right on the windmill for the sawdust
Bring back life, in an endless river of life, purpleheart make me one again with this creasing present premonition
That I throw away, too many folds of the meritorious grand design that creates the cosmic flow
Accretion disseminating the delirious artist within, out with the words and in with your pleasantries and parsimonious precedents
Light and dark, drive out the interfaces of all might
Without you I might, I leave you dry and quiet
Quite right, if you end the world on the right note
Cause, I need your love and you, going five
Childhood and innocence are you fine 'cause I love youth
My name's mine, see ya on the other side
Coquettish and coco loco, brogues and oxfords look like you moon swiftly survive
Cry your heart out and purple haze, endless by the digits in the reasonable the logic of the fire
Temerity and the derision of the ****** burning read these lines and some of the understanding why you have no home
You're a fool for your right and a lyrical goddess, talk of the heart
Like a goddess, you leave me with thoughts in mind for the maker
After, I've read and had you, with me in my cries
'Cause I've dove for you, in this blazing rain in the heart of the sun
Blasting thunder and water across the fading streets for the sun that waking clouds that walk among night stars

She dances alone,
the black child
in the yellow dress.

Alone amongst
the black and white oxfords,
the ivory Buster Browns,
the brown penny loafers
with smiling Abe Lincoln’s
looking up to her
from the confines
of their penny keepers.

Her white socks touch
the polished mahogany
hopping silently to
the beats of Chuck Berry
and Johnny B. Goode

She imagines hearing
her name in the lyrics:
Go go go
Go Joanie go go go
Go Joanie go go go
Go Joanie go go go
Go Joanie go go go
Joanie B. Goode.

She is loose but precise,
careful not to leave a mark,
correcting every footfall
with the more perfect
ballerina form
she saw once in
a Moira Shearer feature,
the one where the dancer
dies in the final act.

In the background she hears
the white throng under the
blue and white stripe panels
of the Republic Theater
dance to their own rules
a mess of governance that
obeys its own inane logic.

But then not one of them
had to sneak in through
the backstage door
when her brother, Marcus
chickened out at the first
“******” spited his way,
denying Joanie
even the indignity
of a colored only entrance.  

At the still point
between the lyrics Joan
finds the real dance,
the one intent on hiding
a choreography of grief,
a sadness, a defiance
she shares only
with her shadow.

She imagines herself
a joyous, living, wondrous
thing at play,
a girl reborn into a woman,
a dancer over America.