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Needle, needle, dip and dart,
Thrusting up and down,
Where's the man could ease a heart
Like a satin gown?

See the stitches curve and crawl
Round the cunning seams--
Patterns thin and sweet and small
As a lady's dreams.

Wantons go in bright brocade;
Brides in organdie;
Gingham's for the plighted maid;
Satin's for the free!

Wool's to line a miser's chest;
Crepe's to calm the old;
Velvet hides an empty breast
Satin's for the bold!

Lawn is for a bishop's yoke;
Linen's for a nun;
Satin is for wiser folk--
Would the dress were done!

Satin glows in candlelight--
Satin's for the proud!
They will say who watch at night,
"What a fine shroud!"
Fay Slimm  Nov 2016
Think Satin.
Fay Slimm Nov 2016
THINK SATIN, not silk and make it sheer black.

RUN IT slowly through sensitive finger-tip skin.
Black satin shimmers.
FEEL IT creamily smooth like alchemized liquid.
Black satin scintillates.
HOLD IT cool against lips and breathe slowly in.
Black satin stimulates.
TRY IT sensuously folded for more sinuous cling.
Black satin slithers.
WEAR IT bravely, accentuate bedtime's nakedity.
Black satin satiates.

THINK SATIN, not silk and make it sheer black.
Ja  May 2016
Ja May 2016
A sheet of white satin
Half covers her curves
Her back is exposed
And my passion stirs

The rising sun’s rays
Set her contours aglow
She’s sleeping half naked
And my urges grow

The arc of her back
Exposes her spine
Each dimple and ridge
Make her look divine

Her arm, raised above her
Entangled in hair
Displaying a breast
At her ******, I stare

This sheet of white satin
Clings to hip and to cheek
Beneath it the treasure
That I must now seek

She’s just laying there
Asleep, so sublime
My temperature’s rising
I hope she’ll be mine

The rise of her hip
Its treasure below
I’m burning inside
Its pleasures to know

That sheet of white satin
Drapes just her backside
I must get closer
So towards her I slide

I stretch out my arm
Such a tentative reach
So sad an attempt
To, that white satin breach

I entice the white satin
To slip from her cheek
Exposing her buttock
It’s the crevice I seek

I sense she is stirring
I’m frozen with fear
Close my eyes tight
So asleep to appear

When I open my eyes
Not a thing in my bed
Just a sheet of white satin
It was all in my head
Amy Lowell  Nov 2010

The Trumpet-Vine Arbour

The throats of the little red trumpet-flowers are wide open,
And the clangour of brass beats against the hot sunlight.
They bray and blare at the burning sky.
Red! Red! Coarse notes of red,
Trumpeted at the blue sky.
In long streaks of sound, molten metal,
The vine declares itself.
Clang! -- from its red and yellow trumpets.
Clang! -- from its long, nasal trumpets,
Splitting the sunlight into ribbons, tattered and shot with noise.

I sit in the cool arbour, in a green-and-gold twilight.
It is very still, for I cannot hear the trumpets,
I only know that they are red and open,
And that the sun above the arbour shakes with heat.
My quill is newly mended,
And makes fine-drawn lines with its point.
Down the long, white paper it makes little lines,
Just lines -- up -- down -- criss-cross.
My heart is strained out at the pin-point of my quill;
It is thin and writhing like the marks of the pen.
My hand marches to a squeaky tune,
It marches down the paper to a squealing of fifes.
My pen and the trumpet-flowers,
And Washington's armies away over the smoke-tree to the Southwest.
'Yankee Doodle,' my Darling! It is you against the British,
Marching in your ragged shoes to batter down King George.
What have you got in your hat? Not a feather, I wager.
Just a hay-straw, for it is the harvest you are fighting for.
Hay in your hat, and the whites of their eyes for a target!
Like Bunker Hill, two years ago, when I watched all day from the house-top
Through Father's spy-glass.
The red city, and the blue, bright water,
And puffs of smoke which you made.
Twenty miles away,
Round by Cambridge, or over the Neck,
But the smoke was white -- white!
To-day the trumpet-flowers are red -- red --
And I cannot see you fighting,
But old Mr. Dimond has fled to Canada,
And Myra sings 'Yankee Doodle' at her milking.
The red throats of the trumpets bray and clang in the sunshine,
And the smoke-tree puffs dun blossoms into the blue air.


The City of Falling Leaves

Leaves fall,
Brown leaves,
Yellow leaves streaked with brown.
They fall,
Fall again.
The brown leaves,
And the streaked yellow leaves,
Loosen on their branches
And drift slowly downwards.
One, two, three,
One, two, five.
All Venice is a falling of Autumn leaves --
And yellow streaked with brown.

'That sonnet, Abate,
I am quite exhausted by it.
Your phrases turn about my heart
And stifle me to swooning.
Open the window, I beg.
Lord! What a strumming of fiddles and mandolins!
'Tis really a shame to stop indoors.
Call my maid, or I will make you lace me yourself.
Fie, how hot it is, not a breath of air!
See how straight the leaves are falling.
Marianna, I will have the yellow satin caught up with silver fringe,
It peeps out delightfully from under a mantle.
Am I well painted to-day, 'caro Abate mio'?
You will be proud of me at the 'Ridotto', hey?
Proud of being 'Cavalier Servente' to such a lady?'
'Can you doubt it, 'Bellissima Contessa'?
A pinch more rouge on the right cheek,
And Venus herself shines less . . .'
'You bore me, Abate,
I vow I must change you!
A letter, Achmet?
Run and look out of the window, Abate.
I will read my letter in peace.'
The little black slave with the yellow satin turban
Gazes at his mistress with strained eyes.
His yellow turban and black skin
Are gorgeous -- barbaric.
The yellow satin dress with its silver flashings
Lies on a chair
Beside a black mantle and a black mask.
Yellow and black,
Gorgeous -- barbaric.
The lady reads her letter,
And the leaves drift slowly
Past the long windows.
'How silly you look, my dear Abate,
With that great brown leaf in your wig.
Pluck it off, I beg you,
Or I shall die of laughing.'

A yellow wall
Aflare in the sunlight,
Chequered with shadows,
Shadows of vine leaves,
Shadows of masks.
Masks coming, printing themselves for an instant,
Then passing on,
More masks always replacing them.
Masks with tricorns and rapiers sticking out behind
Pursuing masks with plumes and high heels,
The sunlight shining under their insteps.
One, two,
One, two, three,
There is a thronging of shadows on the hot wall,
Filigreed at the top with moving leaves.
Yellow sunlight and black shadows,
Yellow and black,
Gorgeous -- barbaric.
Two masks stand together,
And the shadow of a leaf falls through them,
Marking the wall where they are not.
From hat-tip to shoulder-tip,
From elbow to sword-hilt,
The leaf falls.
The shadows mingle,
Blur together,
Slide along the wall and disappear.
Gold of mosaics and candles,
And night blackness lurking in the ceiling beams.
Saint Mark's glitters with flames and reflections.
A cloak brushes aside,
And the yellow of satin
Licks out over the coloured inlays of the pavement.
Under the gold crucifixes
There is a meeting of hands
Reaching from black mantles.
Sighing embraces, bold investigations,
Hide in confessionals,
Sheltered by the shuffling of feet.
Gorgeous -- barbaric
In its mail of jewels and gold,
Saint Mark's looks down at the swarm of black masks;
And outside in the palace gardens brown leaves fall,
And yellow streaked with brown.

Blue-black, the sky over Venice,
With a pricking of yellow stars.
There is no moon,
And the waves push darkly against the prow
Of the gondola,
Coming from Malamocco
And streaming toward Venice.
It is black under the gondola hood,
But the yellow of a satin dress
Glares out like the eye of a watching tiger.
Yellow compassed about with darkness,
Yellow and black,
Gorgeous -- barbaric.
The boatman sings,
It is Tasso that he sings;
The lovers seek each other beneath their mantles,
And the gondola drifts over the lagoon, aslant to the coming dawn.
But at Malamocco in front,
In Venice behind,
Fall the leaves,
And yellow streaked with brown.
They fall,
Rachel Ace Apr 2017
You look like a light-colored satin
Stars f
              l on your caramel hair
Your laureate crown is permanent

You walk fast as a local feline
L'Empereur far from his throne
You look disoriented
You look tired

It's nightfalling
Resolution parts
The moon shines
Gold minds

Lace L'étoile
Jeune ace
Shiny sleeves

I go through a mirror
You're sitting in there
I hide carefully
Not to be alert
I have found myself again
Dreaming of you inside
The reflection of your mirror

At night my opal
                           sleeves are made of satin.

   - Codelandandmore// 6:00 PM ©
Modern poem
Michael Czech Aug 2012
Pink satin covers her...compliments her womanly frame...
every curve so perfect before my eyes
sunlight shimmering through the window onto her tanned skin
oh such shapeliness that consumes the soul....ignites such desire....
pink satin lingerie conforming to her sultry frame
she sits by the window...watching me with a loving smile....
telling me to come hither without saying a word...
as I long to reveal to her all this soul hungers for....
to let my fingers touch the soft, smoothness of her skin...
feeling her shiver in sweet bliss from like meet....ravenous embrace...
we speak of such fiery desires that grow....without saying a word....
oh yes my Lady....My love.....
open yourself to me and let me in...make me a part of you....
to grow so close together....nothing shall ever make us part....
she is my angel in pink ravishing her beauty is
that mere words can never truly compliment it...
how how I long to hold her so close to me
her ******* pressed against my chest
as fingertip run up and down her back
listening to her soft breath....gentle whispers of devotion...
while within that moment...we are one in spirit...
hearts entwined....and together...we complete each other so perfectly...
she is my angel in pink muse to the words I write...
my every passionate desire...and the meaning of the love in my heart.
Whiskurz  Jan 2013
Satin Tears
Whiskurz Jan 2013
She lies in her bed night after night
While crying her satin tears
Her satin pillows, her only comfort
Her husband's been gone for years

He went away to fight in a war
In a far and distant land
He didn't come home like he promised he would
For he died alone in the sand

People would say, "It gets better in time"
But her wounds grow deeper each day
Her scars from a war she didn't even fight
Simply, just won't go away

Those satin pillows retain his smell
But each day his scent grows weak
She holds the pillow close to her heart
As she nestles it with her cheek

She talks to the pillow from time to time
It mostly calms her fears
She cries herself to sleep each night
In a puddle of satin tears
brandon nagley Apr 2016
She came covered in satin-silk hair,
Displayed by rainbowed Ray's;
A visage of God's awe,
And wing's that flew uncaged.
I kneweth her once afore,
In the natural form of grace;
The welkin's own, a soul I've
Known, regalia clase.
O' athwart twas I,
That seized her
Breath, the
Roaring sky's o'er
Happiness. She tucked
Her head, into mine chest;
As the rest played out
As a utopian scene.
Twas not a dream,
Or drug induced
Illusion, some get
Amour confused
With the devil's
Confusion, though we
Art an infusion;
Two antediluvian
Specter shades,
Her color is yellow
For the sun, mine is blue;
From the deepest of water's,
And the river of life
Out of God's throne
I pulled Jane through.

©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley ( àgapi mou) dedication
Afore- before
Regalia means -the emblems or insignia of royalty, especially the crown, scepter, and other ornaments used at a coronation.
the distinctive clothing worn and ornaments carried at formal occasions as an indication of status....
Clase- word I made up meaning- classy and tasteful.
Welkin- heaven or sky.
athwart- across; in opposition to; sideways; transversely.
Twas- it was..
O'er- over..
Art- are
Amour- love.
Infusion- the introduction of a new element or quality into something.
Specter- ghost...
Antediluvian means- of or belonging to the time before the biblical Flood.
iya  Jun 2015
Ang Unang Pag-ibig
iya Jun 2015
Pag-ibig na tila ang tagal dumating
Nasa isip ay mga palabas na nakakakilig
Upang pag hihintay hindi nakakainip
Ngunit ito'y panandaliang saya lamang ang hatid.

Nais ng Panginoon na ipaalala satin
Na ang pag-ibig ay matagal ng dumating
Noong ipinagkaloob ni Hesus ang Kanyang sarili
Upang mga tao ay maligtas sa kasalanan.

Ang pag-ibig ng maykapal
Ay siyang tunay na nakakagalak
Nagbibigay sigla sa pusong naghahanap
Ating pagyamanin relasyon sa unang pag-ibig.
Cné Aug 2018

Souls embroidered with sweet sighs of passion
Musing of nights in lace & white satin
On a vista of flesh, flushed with desire
Riding the flames on a passage of fire

The beating of drums, commanding the night
To the rhythm of hearts, passion ignites
Wrapped in immortal flames of the sun
Burning together, two become one

Flesh upon flesh, a spirited dance
Welded by whispers of love, of romance
Temperatures rise in a fever of lust
Stoking the flames, ****** after ******

Riding the swell, in a race to the shore
Try to repress, but needing it more
Virtue be ****** in the rage of desire
Flames rise in hunger, higher n' higher

Charging the crest, temperance slips
Drawing the reins in a white knuckle grip
Crashing of waves unleashes the flood
Quaking the heart, and searing the blood

Spewing of flames in the crash of the tide
In a warm sheen of sweat, fervor subsides
Energy spent in the throes of release
Collapsing together, the story complete

Sara Kellie  Dec 2017
Sara Kellie Dec 2017
My name is Sara, a transgender chick
Wanted a *****, was given a ****
I hide it in knickers of satin and lace
before sitting down to make-up my face,
Next the prosthetics, I'm using two bits.
Stuck to my chest, they'll do as my ****
Now for my legs I'll put on false tan,
I wouldn't do this if I were a man
Alternative nights, a t-girl delights
to sit on her bed and pull on new tights.
I'll put on a dress, a cute one no less.
Then for my shoes, high heels I choose
A sandal style shoe as every girl knows
not only looks cute, they'll show painted toes
A bit of eyeliner, eyebrow definer,
lipstick and blush, I'm now looking lush.
I stand in the mirror all ready to go,
there's only one question I just have to know.
"Does my *** look big in this?"

Poetry by Kaydee.
I wrote this poem in 2010 shortly after introducing myself as Sara to the world.
A curve of satin sits idly beneath a sight so deeply moved
Amid the stillness of a hope that longs to rise
The moon smiles down, as if he approves
A dream pursued by the eyes

The softest sound takes flight in a voices sweetest tune
In a misty stream of pale moonlight
Hands are clasped in a curving spoon
A taste of hope in sheer delight

Thrilled hearts sigh, dreaming of a blissful hour
Weep with joy as their wonder shows
The perfect bloom of a dream filled flower
A curve of satin did bestow

Hope shines in the misty moonlight, on the sweetest tune
A constant vigil in a dream pursued tonight
Swells inside two hearts which spoon
Deeply moved in their delight
Copyright *Neva Flores @2010

— The End —