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Amanda Hawk Nov 2020
I sway more
Fairy skirt swirling
Around me
Dancing with every step
I feel fluid
Shifting and bending
With every stride
My pixie side finds me
On an overcast day
Rain collecting upon skin
Skirt tickling my sides
And I find myself dancing
Jumping along puddles
Having the water whirl
Twist into a dancing partner
Clinging to me
And the edges of my Fairy skirt
As I walk away
favorite piece of clothing is fairy skirt
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2014
a sensory perception,
an intended message,
which the eyes of my inbox
check-mark as opened, read and
very well received

sometimes we say things
we didn't mean to say,
but 99% of the time,
we meant it, even if
it just happened to be
something we were wearing,
something tight, short and flirty,
we put on in a hurry,
without thinking

Michael R Burch Mar 2020
by Michael R. Burch

Once, only once,
when the wind flicked your skirt
to an indiscreet height

and you laughed,
abruptly demure,
outblushing shocked violets:

I knew:
everything had changed.

Later, as you braided your hair
into long bluish plaits
the shadows empurpled,

the dragonflies’
last darting feints
dissolving mid-air,

we watched the sun’s long glide
into evening,
knowing and unknowing.

O, how the illusions of love
await us in the commonplace
and rare

then haunt our small remainder of hours.

Published by Romantics Quarterly, Muse Apprentice Guild, Victorian Violet Press, Boston Poetry Magazine, and Poetry on Demand

Keywords/Tags: Violets, flowers, wind, skirt, blush, hair, shadows, sunset, evening, love, illusions, time, commonplace, rare
Salmabanu Hatim Oct 2018
"Granny, granny,come look at me."
There was excitement and urgency in my granddaughter 's voice,
I hobbled as fast as I could my cane thumping on the floor.
I stood there inside the door chuckling.
My granddaughter had become me,
She wore a tweed skirt high on the waist,
A white blouse with a high collar and a bow,
On her face she wore one of my specs which she had smeared with a bit of vaseline,
The effect was so that she could not see clearly like me.
She had put some pebbles in her shoes to enable her to hobble ,
Her hair she had combed into a bun.
Lastly she put on white gloves which she explained she had borrowed from my cupboard.
she held a dainty white laced handkerchief.
"How do I look, granny?"
"ME! I laughed.
"You will be the best granny in your school  fancy dress party.
Pray, remove the vaseline from the specs or you will fall down,
You can borrow my cane too,
I love you dear munchkin."
Semicolon Aug 2018
The length
of my skirt
does not determine
my consent.
No means no.

(This write up is mine but not exactly mine. I read a related quote somewhere– which wasn't exactly this but somewhat related– and then I thought of this)
writerReader Feb 2015
her heels were miles long
her skirt shorter than Tom Cruise
and her lips were red
Tsunami Mar 2018
ripped my skirt off my thighs
my breath from my lungs
my virginity, a prize

rings caught on cheekbones
the sound of sighs
air filled with moans

lights reflecting of our skin
his horns catch glimmers
but only spread shadows

such a deadly sin
a stone cold killer
*** with the devil
*** is the devil
add mitt ting enjoyment sans the lithe hot feline Taylor Swift - I might be the only baby boomer mwm who admires this talented singer/song writer, yet owns NO aspirations beyond composing poems or prose.

(A questionable attempt to stitch – analogous to knot sew swift a tailor, this scribe sought to create a poet from her song titles spanning the letter “A” to the letter “H”).

Despite never setting eyes (AND MOST Definitely NOT PAWS), this grateful dead corpse of a skeleton (essentially lovely bare bones), when alive I found one gal powerhouse (asper the title of this informal homage; genuinely fashioned,

entirely dutifully composed, benevolently addressed to an attraction, confident, enduring, graceful, immensely known, mainly over quibbles sans unsustained wrenched, yanked, aborted connections ending glumly, inviting kindling material of quests souring until wonderful yin/yang anchors coy effeminate gal.

Before the advent vis a vis crafting this literary challenge incorporating a poetic endeavor predicated on prolific tunes comprising audiophile of Taylor Swift, (and thus a prescript interim), a whim took hold to string her partial song playlist (quite substantial even up to BUT NOT including the letter “I”).

This scribe dabbled, hocked, and limned what evolved into a semi satisfactory effort, this articulate, copacetic, enigmatic, generic, ironic, kinetic, magnetic, opportunistic, quixotic, scholastic, ultrademocratic, wholistic yikyak paddy whack give this bard a bon bon.

Adieu admit to elaborating, and second guessing to put down pontoon literary bridges in an effort to connect a straight forward itemized list of tune titles.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Thee Mademoiselle found,
or made a place in the world for yourself
aching like a boy out in left field
pining to catch that high fly
there there ain't nothing 'bout you,

(nor Brooks and Dunn) I can attest
even if hypothetically,
we spent eons at an all night diner
where culinary staff knew thee all too well
and perhaps all you wanted
(shared with Michelle Branch)

perhaps positing the rhetorical question –
am I ready for love?
With an American boy
or a ***** best buddy

re: best friend forever with an American girl
if someone got cross, tis beneficial
(in this one republic) to apologize
regardless, whom ye choose as a confidante,

the following refrain plays in your mind
baby don't you break my heart slow
(at least according to Vonda Shepard)
memories no doubt arise,

when thee hapt to be a baby girl
thoughts unspool back to December
beautiful eyes peered at a fractured reflection
before the love story
would begin again,

while ebbing, and flowing with my baby
recalling Bette David eye
(taking visual delight sans world tour live)
reminding self how better off
the choice made tis much better than revenge

but umpteen times bother I will
asper boys and love
combustible mix – nonetheless
always reminding myself to breathe
deep, cuz being breathless

likened to a taste of death,
(I admit better than Ezra)
learning how to act points back
asper being brought up that way
lessons oft learned getting bustedng

oh...and by the way can I go with you?
Can you feel the love tonight?
Discern ache kin to sand castles crumbling?
such granular, or solid state matter
doth forced to change

attested to by chaperone dads,
who dressed as Santa Claus invoked
that Christmas must be something more
especially, Christmases,
when you were mine

ah...closest to a cowboy
as “sigh” ever got
or tasting Gunstock rattlesnake pulverized,
yet countenance goose
(and found you under the care of Chet Atkins
at the make believe medical center)
shivered flesh against cold as you
though desiring thee to come back...he here
no doubt prone

to announce crazier requests asked
even crazier
(as demonstrated
by flash mob generated
by Hannah Montana, one live wire)

if able to glean my sentiments...
cross my heart
aware as an adult feeling the life source of daddy
or mommy, while hinting
with a stone temple piloted cold stare

double dare you to move
(or switch foot), one to another
das feet – planted within pitch dark blue Tennessee
dwelling with thoughts
of ma dear Digdan
or writing an imaginary letter starting...”dear John”

ample melancholy maudlin material
to complete bind a diary of me
yes concert cavorting circumstances
avoidable, though didn't they
make chase like butterflies,
and don't they hate me for loving you?

so please don't tell me you want to,
when I don't want to anymore
argh, yet impossibly unshakable
the recurring thought don't you
act indiscriminately

as when down came the rain,
washed the spy dir out
following suit (wet)
drenching drama queen
with chin amen along pearl harbor drive
(in conjunction with alan jackson)

presaging Jiving drops of Jupiter
(train chugging, clacking, clattering
railing gestalt of alien nation)
and all of a sudden like how odd though...

thinking about eighth grade graduate,
when lifetime seemed enchanted
now everything has changed
eyes open (“hunger games”)
maketh me – fall back on you
instant messaging you –
fall into me fearless,

though only fifteen
and how against pyrotechnics,
you find your way back home
on the fourth of July

perhaps led by a zeppelin sized firefly
ah, I ask myself who is the foolish one?
Me for you forever & always (a platinum edition)
for girl at home (donned in deluxe edition)

going bananas
in reference to Amazing Gracie
swaggering, and immune to gun powder & lead,
(whose leading lady Miranda Lambert)
whatsapp penned left her looking haunted
heartbreaker – (my words – like Tom Petty)

about her, but unsure if our thoughts aligned
anyway, here you go again (Dolly Parton)
a hero heroine
so...I clamor to yell out “hey soul sister”
and hey Stephen

along the boulevard of broken dreams,
this ribbon highway don't care
about trumpeting his lies
nor desecrating holy ground
honey baby, yes ye in the mom jeans,

I feel hopelessly devoted to you
(as doth Olivia Newton)
instinctively keen how to save a life
bobbing buoyantly amidst the fray.
Vyiirt'aan Dec 2017
I fear the day I cease to breathe
The retraction of the unholy
In its nauseating trance
That I am entangled in its captivation
The serenity of the raindrops clouding
As they flounder amongst the field
Protruding the fellow's dance

The day my essence vanishes
Dissipates to naught when I am caught
By the claws of angels that soar the sky
The dazzle of their improbable happiness
Incapable of genuine light
Beyond the velvet marshmallow sky
They reflect a fabricated smile
For suffering merely is lifting its skirt

The challenge is to create a poem using 10 randomly selected words:

breathe dance dazzle essence fear incapable marshmallow raindrops skirt smile
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