"bustled" poems
Plumped rouge with pigment
her lip fills to graze the ********
intent to disquiet the likes of de Sade
autografted with ocular detachment
should a Marquis wish to harness
the song of the morning
within a bandolier of Seine
to ensnare any bustled Persephone
gilted by discharge of ions
into a ménage of torment
through the Porte des Lions.
Hers is the tincture of doxy
caramelized and debrided of naivety,
empowered by the eve of invention,
swollen to curves and grounded in Paris.
Illumination defies pervasion
down to every gear and pulley
she has hushed through mechanization
and lulled by steam,
swaging a cacophony of flickers
encased in glass by the Lady’s watch,
where every rivet of her plate glisters silken
reverberation in cascade,
elegant, caged, and towering,
outspoken in silence,
ever challenging the Champ de Mars.
"Paris by Gaslight," written by Dionne Charlet, is the title poem to be featured in the upcoming steampunk anthology Paris by Gaslight, the third anthology in the By Gaslight Series from New Orleans small press Black Tome Books. Look for the first two collections of poems and short stories set in Victorian Times, New Orleans by Gaslight (ISBN 9780615801186) and Cairo by Gaslight (ISBN 9781516961528). Both collections feature poetry by Charlet, under the pseudonym Dionne Cherie.
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 2:44 PM UTC
Thanks for the title, Boss.
When I was a kid
my hometown
basked in that
(uncertain) period
of peace and
prosperity between
Korea and Vietnam.
It bustled
with busyness
and it seemed like
everyone knew
everyone and there
was always more.
Even the poor
felt included.
Half a century later,
peace has fled
for good and
prosperity too,
leaving only
vacant storefronts
and neighbors
who do not know
each other.
Perhaps this
was inevitable;
perhaps it is
progress.
But there are
moments when
it feels like
a lifetime is
just too much
to witness,
just too long
to live.
Nobody loves
a corpse.
~mce
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 10:45 AM UTC
There lived, beneath a hanging leaf
A Ladybird called Annie
Who hated being female
And daily, cursed her *****
Her voice was deep and baleful
Her shoulders, broad and strong
By right, she was a Boybird
Just her genitals were wrong
Her family rejected her
She alive alone, ashamed
Until she met a Dragonfly
‘Salvation’ she proclaimed
For every bug and critter
When feeling below par
Would visit Doctor Dragonfly
In his empty pickle jar
Just maybe he could help her
With snip, a tuck and stitch
She’d not be Annie any more
Tomorrow, she’d be Mitch
She lay down on the table
And a beetle knocked her out
The doctor took his knife in hand
And bustled all about
With suture made of thistledown
And sap of pine for glue
He reassigned her gender
But the best that he could do
Was not a lady, not a man
But somewhere in between
And, as he used some aphid parts
The ***** were small and green
Annie never changed her name
It didn’t seem quite right
Her family still shunned her
She slept alone at night
The only insect in the field
With ***** ***** and *****
Even hungry birds avoided
Ladyboybird Annie
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 7:43 AM UTC
A small one remembers
fingers taut and ***** rounded,
Smiles evened, amongst quickened hands-
Effective carrot peelers, snotty nose healers,
Heavy duty wrappers, cloaked in corporate
knowledge of dog breeds, how to clean your ears,
stain removal, vegetable purging tricks,
fairies, bus schedules on rainy days;
Full of mud pie ideas, bustled
in tidy makings of reading and feeding.
Oct 25, 2009
Oct 25, 2009 at 2:30 PM UTC
Summer it was in the land of dust and ashes
Rivers overflowing with corpses, decaying bodies
The sunlight and the shadows merged eternally
In the grey canvas of the mystic visionary
Economists clashed as capital overcame mankind
Temples bustled with great gods and divine prostitutes
Seeking an outburst into the quarters of the arena
The fat of the land was their reward
Ten thousand merchants with bellies bursting forth
Made love to liposuction hospitals
Cannibals returned from the dust where they belong
Nothing mattered anymore, the darkest of days
His time was numbered they said, the aging beast refused to die
Ten thousand rituals around the carcass of a dead burden
He needs the thorn in his flesh, the gentle wound and a mild ******
Writing slowly in forests of industrial refuse
Silence beyond the arches of the sea, paradise regained
We ate the remains of semi-organic residue
From automated plants and factories and a strange burden was eased
A creature from within us whose destiny lies beyond us
Meandering through the sunny beaches of neaterland
A strong syringe with an ancient disease
Consumes his flesh with an incurable wound
He refuses to live and she refuses to die
Among the corpses he stood because of his God
God of the corpses, god resting with the dead
I give you the body of my God and his blood
Redeem yourselves from yourselves !
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 11:38 AM UTC
Teaching me the correct way to make
a paper airplane. He took me to his bindery.
The machine beats bustled and roared and shook
the unruffled metal walls that made me feel
like I was sleeping in the middle of a dragon’s
den, its snoring breaths protecting me
from fathers who didn't know how to be fathers.
I just finished losing all my teeth,
the new ones growing in at different speeds,
my front two like frozen stalactites from different
ice ages. My hair was banana yellow blonde and I liked
to compare myself to a younger Britney Spears.
A potential avalanche of paper next to the metal walls,
vexed by one deep exhale and the pieces
would go up and around like dandelion parts.
My father, forever bound to binding the parts together.
He brought me a single sheet and began twisting and folding.
I always hated him for his genes, for having a Russian
heritage that made me annoyed at the klutzy appendages we shared.
Is it funny that I lie and say I'm Welsh?
It's not funny that I can remember every detail of his over-sized,
meaty hands, how he kept that silly ring on his finger,
the graying knuckle hairs peeking out:
free me!
Not to say I think about him every time I make a paper airplane,
but not to say I don't.
Nov 7, 2012
Nov 7, 2012 at 5:09 PM UTC
There lived, amid the common folk
A seamstress of renown
Tucked away most smartly
In a quiet sort of town
So perfect was her needlework
And delicate her hand
That all and sundry sought her out
Her skills were in demand
To gain a moment here and there
She took a silver thread
She deftly put a stitch in time
And curled up in her bed
For she was such a busy girl
Deserving of a nap
But as she slept one evening
The stitch in time went 'snap!'
Time unravelled rapidly
From 'will be' to 'before'
And coils of causality
Were all over the floor
But fortune is a canny dame
For a needle was at hand
Still threaded up with silver
At an artisan's command
She bustled in a flurry
And rummaged through the ages
She sorted out the centuries
With diligence, by stages
While shoring up the borderlines
And patching up the wars
She darned the holes in spider silk
And trimmed the dinosaurs
She hemmed the mighty oceans
To snuggly fit the sand
Then zipped up the horizon
So the sky adjoined the land
The night was stitched in situ
In between adjacent days
And time was mended seamlessly
And better in some ways
She locked away her needle
And her strand of silver thread
Her work would wait 'til morning
And with that, she went to bed
So next time life is hectic
And leaves you in a flap
Allow yourself an hour
For a cheeky little nap
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
Rita bustled busily,
To decorate each room
With jack-o'-lanterns, giggling ghouls,
And grinning ghosts with dribbled drools,
And moonlight glimmered spookily
On ghastly painted tombs;
She went to fetch her costume
And hoped it wouldn't itch;
She grabbed a strange and pointed hat,
An odd shaped broom, a stuffed black cat,
And in the mirror of her room
She turned into a witch!
A sudden tap-tap-tapping
Came from her green front door;
She opened it excitedly,
A-wondering who it might be
And then she started clapping
And dancing on the floor!
Her good friend Fox was outside,
He wore a long black cape;
With plastic fangs, he danced about,
But when he sang his fangs fell out!
They laughed so hard, then went inside
And had a slice of cake!
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 5:32 PM UTC
*The insidious wrath of age has pilfered her beauty ..
Rusted chains hang in quietude , wrenched in dubious functionality ....
Superfluous stockyards , fencing long in need of repairs ..
Barns that once bustled with the drudgery of agriculture can only whisper ..
Wind chimes trill in the cold afternoon , the crack of the hammer to the anvil gone ..
Tractor implements lie frozen , a lone Crow stands guard over barren orchards* ..
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 5:36 PM UTC
I must have missed the memo
Lost the note or dropped a call
I don't remember when you said it
I don't remember it at all
You said it was important
I knew that this was true
I just could not quite remember
The bride to be was you
I knew I had to be there
I vaguely knew we booked a room
But, if I didn't know the first part
Then I sure wasn't the groom
I must have missed the memo
Lost the note or dropped a call
I don't remember when you said it
I don't remember it at all
I knew we'd seen the doctor
Can't remember just what for
I didn't know you'd had the baby
Until you both came through the door
I was sure I would remember
The second time the baby came
I even went to down to the doctor
but, could not quite get your name
I must have missed the memo
Lost the note or dropped a call
I don't remember when you said it
I don't remember it at all
Two kids, and I had missed them
Que Sera, what will be will be
But, I sure do not remember
When you popped out number three
As time went by so quickly
I missed birthdays and some games
But, I always knew the children
Had completely different names
I must have missed the memo
Lost the note or dropped a call
I don't remember when you said it
I don't remember it at all
They've grown, the house is empty
There is only you and me
I remember when it bustled
With two kids...oh, sorry ...three
I came home the house was empty
Just the tv and a chair
I knew something must be missing
I didn't know what wasn't there
I know you'll tell me things tomorrow
Things I should have done today
But, I just can't help but wonder
why is all our stuff away?
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 8:27 PM UTC
I MET THE 'UPTOWN GIRL' IN A DOWNTOWN BAR,
BILLY AND I SPOKE AWHILE ACROSS MANY A JAR,
NEW YORK BUSTLED AND HUSTLED AND WE WHISPERED
ACROSS THE TABLE, LAUGHED ABOUT McCARTNEY'S THIRD MARRIAGE,
RINGO'S STILL WITH BACH AND WALKS IN CENTRAL PARK,
BILLY SPOKE ABOUT THE 'PIANO MAN,'LIT HIS CIGARETTE,
SAID THAT THERE WAS ALWAYS SOMEONE WHO HADN'T BEEN FULFILLED YET,
HE ASKED IF I'D SEEN ELTON LATELY - HE STILL USED
SOME SUNGLASSES THAT HE'D BEEN GIVEN AT A WILD PARTY,
ASKED ABOUT ANNE - I SAID THAT 'SHE'S ALWAYS A WOMAN TO ME,'
HE LAUGHED AND SAID THAT SOUNDED FAMILIAR, SIMILAR
TO THE LOVES IN HIS LIFE BUT YOU CAN'T BEAT A WONDERFUL WIFE;
THE SECRET HE SAID, WAS 'HONESTY' WOULD ALWAYS GO FAR,
THEN SHE'LL ALWAYS LOVE YOU, 'JUST THE WAY YOU ARE.'
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 4:40 PM UTC
Looming night and artificial light,
A pendulum delicately balancing,
Draped whimsically
As if held in place
By an invisible sheer force of will,
Hanging, bustled from a rigid,
Spine-straight brown-black
Pole etched into by the
Fluorescent light that
Paints the golden leaves
A glinting orange duo-chrome,
The leaves flinging themselves
On to the hard, barely-breathing ground,
Gasping only when no one will notice,
Paved in a rainbow of greens and faint yellows,
Steady and straight as far as
The eye can tell,
Hoping the chill will turn to wind
To carry them away from
The only mother they’ve ever known,
Stable ground below offering
A fresh beginning and a bed
For the leaves to reside in
While they look for a new place to call home.
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 2:09 AM UTC
The wind opens the clouded curtains
to reveal the shining sun.
This glorious orb had winked, however uncertain
That the wink was directed to only one.
I saw this phenomena, and felt
as if I was revealed all truth.
In this game of life, I was dealt
With the eternal heart of a youth.
Granted to me
by that life giving sun
Was the power to see;
A gift that cannot be undone.
So I blinked one eye
And winked in reply.
I continued upon my way
and saw in the distance, a creature.
His teeth were on display
and squinty eyes added to the feature.
Twas a smile that was given to I,
and felt as if I was one with his soul
as I caught this beauty with my eye;
Just then I was complete and whole.
I was so graciously given
By this beautiful creature
The heart to keep on livin'
As his smile was my greatest teacher.
So I stretched my lips from ear to ear
and smiled back, for I was no longer in fear.
The trees shook and rustled
as I was slowly passing by.
And as the leaves bustled
I glimpsed the wave as they said hi.
I stood still to stare,
as the leaves were dancing a greeting.
I felt the love that we do share,
'cause my heart was aflame and beating.
I was knowledgeably instilled
By this humble, but noble tree;
my quest for friendship is fulfilled;
'cause I learned that there is always a we.
So with my hand, a branch I did take
as I returned the lovely handshake.
I heard the blissful chatter
of a girl years younger than I.
I asked what was the matter;
'I'm laughing!' was the reply.
Her carelessness got the better of me,
and in her freedom I cheered with rejoice,
as we danced and shared the eternal glee.
I was jubilant to hear the guffaw in her voice.
I was so ecstatically presented
by this lightened and carefree soul
with the sense of freedom, cemented
knowing that, of myself, only I am in control.
So I took her hand, and gave a great bellow,
as I gave her a laugh like a jolly 'ol fellow.
I could feel the totality of the earth
in my humble, but powerful heart.
I was a part of the on-going mirth
as I saw creation as God's art.
I could feel the boundless love
that was radiating from every being.
Twas the state of bliss I had been dreaming of;
A feeling that is oh so freeing.
I was permanently endowed
by this force I was so familiar with,
with a love, of which I am proud;
A feeling that is more than just a myth.
So I vulnerably opened my heart with pride,
and returned that love worldwide.
Ever since the day
of those subtle realizations
I have made a point of each today
to join in the celebrations;
by laughing, loving, and befriending.
Dec 15, 2010
Dec 15, 2010 at 5:21 PM UTC
Glowing pools of cande light
Arranged carefully around the studio.
A steel cage stood, big and strong
So unlike the man outside.
An experiment
For kicks,
For love,
For leather.
Manicured nails, gelled hair and
Sheathed in Armani.
Standing, observing and evaluating
The other and the scene.
The city bustled, street lights shone
And people walked by
On the street below.
Laughter penetrated the window.
Hypnotized, the clock stopped ticking,
The violins got louder and
The laughter faded
As though the window thickened.
Picked up the sharp thongs
Coiled by the gloves.
Violins again and again
Kept repeating the beginning
Of the same song but
I loved it every time.
He stepped inside, shut the door
And looked up.
Wiry and thin.
So unlike the steel cage,
Big and strong.
So uncertain and full of fear.
The bustle forgotten,
The city hummed quietly
As long slender fingers
Clenched the leather.
Violins again and again
Getting louder and louder
Like the drum in our ears
Beating ever faster.
Smooth skin and sharp leather
Met.
Whimpers and gasps
And titilation.
An experiment
For kicks.
For art.
For leather.
Two bodies:
Both wet and sweating.
One standing, observing and evaluating
The other and the scene.
Laughter penetrated the window
Again.
The violins stopped,
And he stepped out for bandages.
It was an experiment.
Just for kicks,
For lust,
For leather.
An experiment.
For kicks,
For pain,
For pleasure.
May 13, 2011
May 13, 2011 at 1:03 PM UTC
The last time I had seen this particular cousin of mine, I was still in college and he had a head full of hair. In between, there had been three funerals, two weddings and four births in our Trojan royalty of a family. I had been a university graduate for a year, and the prospect for a job, a decent one at that, had started to grow dimmer by the day. He asked, “Will you tutor my daughter?” “Yes!” I said. And we set out immediately. He, on his bike and I, on my motorcycle following him. We took a right turn at the famous landmark of the statue of demoness Putana, sitting on the grass with her ***** out and legs spread forward. He introduced me to his wife and daughter. Telling them to stand side by side, he told me, “She's only eleven, but look at her! Already equal in length and width to her mother, who is no delicate petal herself. Do you think you can teach her GK?”
The universe wasn't made with dissent. Plus, the chicken samosas were really delicious. I tried on a grin while the overachieving pre-teen bustled around the room showing me her accolades for painting, singing, studying. As I left he pointed at a tree, “Do you know what tree is that?”
“Bael?” I answered thoughtfully.
“Apple. That's an apple tree.”
“Oh! Does it bear fruits?”
“Not in this climate!” He laughed out loud.
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 3:17 AM UTC
Wrinkled hands
will chatter hymns
on a bustled sidewalk
where the blind
can nearly eye
an escalating steam,
the burning energy
from indiscernible means
and still the echoed singing
is sung song too far gone.
“No thing to some thing.”
She omitted the return.
He was waiting for it,
oh so patiently.
Echoes wander round
while deep into my knees
the splintered bony compact
from moonlight-late retreats
and chewy marrow screaming
from in between your teeth.
We chant a near return,
a spine-tingling scene
of empty pews contemplating
Friday chapel peace.
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 12:49 PM UTC
Draped in gloom light
awful dead humanity
I left for the world
to find that
iron spoke to
air in secret Breath
Flora drank down
sunlight frothy Buzz
and up
liquid leapt from earth
for high-up night clubs
falling back in dreary
morning Joy for
underfoot cities of
hustled and bustled
terra forma
systematic, immaculate
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 3:09 PM UTC
93
Went up a year this evening!
I recollect it well!
Amid no bells nor bravoes
The bystanders will tell!
Cheerful—as to the village—
Tranquil—as to repose—
Chastened—as to the Chapel
This humble Tourist rose!
Did not talk of returning!
Alluded to no time
When, were the gales propitious—
We might look for him!
Was grateful for the Roses
In life’s diverse bouquet—
Talked softly of new species
To pick another day;
Beguiling thus the wonder
The wondrous nearer drew—
Hands bustled at the moorings—
The crown respectful grew—
Ascended from our vision
To Countenances new!
A Difference—A Daisy—
Is all the rest I knew!
994
In the early morning we knelt down,
And in the cool damp kindergarten classroom air,
The whole place bustled with so much sound
As all the children gathered there.
It was then the birds flew in and out
Between the bushes, through small holes,
During days we learned what their music was about
When we sang and laughed with giddy souls.
In the end we'd pronounce our letters dot our i's
And in the afternoon paint while warmed by the sun,
The golden birds one by one flew by,
And in the end our masterpieces were done.
I would come back with brightly cheerful eyes
Each step I'd take up the driveway so joyful, home.
I made a painting in class that day, it got 1st prize,
It was a painting of a sun and birds of my own.
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 1:09 AM UTC
Outside, the house looked dank and grey,
A pipe had sprung a leak;
The paint was peeling off the wall
From some old daubed graffiti scrawl,
Yet on the path were bales of hay
And someone with a beak!
Rita bustled up with pride
And set about to work;
She took the hay and laid it straight,
She mended pipe and fixed the gate,
And when she'd done, she went inside
But still she didn't shirk!
Plucking feathers from her back,
She tied them to a stick;
Then with her new self-fashioned broom,
She set about and swept each room,
She lifted rugs to give a 'THWACK!'
And dusted every brick!
When the day came to a close
She lay on sheets of foam;
Beneath the glow of candlelight,
Most everything was clean and bright;
She settled down for her repose,
So proud of her new home!
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 1:59 AM UTC
Awaiting coronation
Into Prince hood
dependent on you being my princess.
Searching for shelter in your heart
in exchange for you in mine.
wanting you not just for now,
but until every earthly grain is emptied in eternities hour glass.
'I do' will forever resound in my ears,
Millennias after its altar degenerates.
I hope when you think of me
Your heart flutters
and soul overflows with joy
that tongues can't mutter.
Beyond the bond 'eros'
I know you need a hero.
Bustled and bugged by a bustling world
we create our world
Whose name is 'Us'
filled with peace money can't afford
and gentility from an ever smiling hero.
May 2, 2018
May 2, 2018 at 11:25 PM UTC
when i have been a rose
i was firstly of the soil
my glossy thorns were
from me out and on the
air they pricked it loose
and my petals bustled
round my bulb and
when i have been a rose
i slept with mountains
and i have been eaten
by fawns quickly in
dappled grasp of forests
slight and enormously
when i have been a rose
i green
and light
did creep
between the
creases in light
slutty and chaste
winds have been on me
when i have been a rose
Jun 20, 2011
Jun 20, 2011 at 11:22 AM UTC
The crumbling, earthen stones,
over which I clamber entrap the ghosts
of those who left before their time.
The cool, glassy tunnels through which I crawl
threaten to give, and bury my corpse
beneath the boulders and rubble.
The creaking catwalk to which I cling
sways ever slightly in the absence of wind,
teasing my toppling doom.
The mammoth steel drums
loom heads over mine, their rattling
and rumbling ceased decades ago.
The rotting apricot timbers
wedged into the endless darkness,
no longer support the tonnage of slabs
hoisted higher than my eyes will find.
The wrought-iron machinery
long stopped in time,
lies warped by the weight of gravity.
The soaring windows
spider-webbed and shattered,
litter the floor with their fractured bones.
And the walls and floors
and ceilings and doors
that once bustled with the liveliness of labor
lie silent.
Mar 20, 2019
Mar 20, 2019 at 9:50 AM UTC
One day a dream will come,
bustled up against the cold,
finally
at my door.
It will sit down to tea I've made,
asking serious questions like:
"Do you still want me?"
And I will answer,
in the while it takes to mean "Yes," when staring at a promised face.
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 5:17 PM UTC
****** on by bonny dogs
and soaked by the fog
that clipped back the grass round its base
and the face of it
was a lamp that lit up the dark.
Standing soulfully lame
with a name quite generic
and in a cobbled street so specific to the
Lancashire town.
As night comes down across the Pennines
and the lads on the late shift go back down the mines
the warm light remembers more times than it cares too
now old
past its prime
it stands a monument to the time
when ladies in bustles
bustled past
casting shadows it seemingly grows
or is that my imagination?
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 2:42 AM UTC