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judy smith Sep 2016
Local designer Vanessa Froehling has denim on the brain. Stonewashed, herringbone print, chambray, stretch and black denim, to be sure.

In her home studio, Froehling flips through hangers of designs, including sailor-style high-waisted women’s shorts, a men’s blazer and a women’s jumpsuit.

“It’s something that’s in everyone’s closet and it will never go out of style,” says Froehling of the French-born fabric (denim’s etymology comes from “de Nîmes,” the French town where Levis Strauss first procured the tough cotton twill for your 501s). But, she adds, “people are stuck on what denim can do.”

The line is called Carpe Denim and it’s Froehling’s entry into FashioNXT (self-described as “Portland’s Official Fashion Week”) — not to be confused with Portland Fashion Week — three days and nights of runway shows in early October. She will present Carpe Denim in the UpNXT competition, the “emerging designers accelerator,” alongside four other Pacific Northwest designers the evening of Oct. 5.

The fashion week has a cozy relationship with Project Runway, the fashion-designer reality show running since 2004, and, in fact, two of the judges assessing the competition are Seth Aaron (winner of Project Runway season 7) and Michelle Lesniak (winner of season 11).

In 2015, Froehling applied to both Portland Fashion Week and FashioNXT, but was only accepted by the former that time. She says auditioning in front of the FashioNXT judges was intimidating.

“My nerves were like, ‘What do I do with my hands?’” Froehling says, shaking her hands by her sides and laughing. The judges were tough, she recalls, and they recommended that she develop the marketability and cohesion of her line.

Over the past year, she took their advice to heart and decided she would try out again, this time with a denim ready-to-wear line, a departure from the couture gowns that have distinguished her style. She took inspiration from the city — recalling watching the denizens of Portland walk by, falling in love with their street-wear style — and the layers of people, buildings and traffic.

Eight jean looks — five for women and three for men — will walk the runway, but rest assured, this will be no **** of Canadian tuxedos. Although denim is the common thread, the designs feature smart juxtapositions against black leather and a colorful textile that looks like a cross between gas puddles and graffiti.

The self-taught designer has also developed several innovative details: a woman’s denim peplum jacket that unzips at the waist, transforming it into a more casual cropped jacket; women’s stretch leather pants that zip open at the knee, a nod to ripped jeans; and a men’s chambray shirt with the illusion of a double collar creating a fresh origami effect.

This summer, the judges welcomed Froehling on the FashioNXT train.

Froehling says one judge told her that she’s the first designer to return the following year to try out again after being rejected.

“It’s the highest fashion production in Oregon,” she says.

The winner will be announced at the after-party Oct. 5, and the prize package secures a spot for the designer in the main runway show in 2017 and includes business mentorships, feature stories inPortland Monthly and Portland Mercury, and a strategic marketing course at Portland Fashion Institute.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses
Lawrence Hall May 19
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                                          A Rose of Chambray

                                     Cf. Shakespeare, Sonnet 54

Comparisons to a rose are common, even trite
The Elizabethans seemed to write with rose perfume
White roses for purity, red for desire
Innocent petals, Macbethian thorns

How, then, roses for you, rockin’ your jeans
And an old chambray shirt, barefoot at the easel
With a bouquet of artists’ brushes in your hand
And your brow furrowed with creativity

I give you a perfect rose anyway

Comparisons to a rose are common, even trite
But with you the comparisons are exactly right
Meme-ing from Sonnet 54
Lawrence Hall Nov 2022
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
LogoSophia Magazine – A Pilgrim's Journal of Life, Literature and Love
Fellowship & Fairydust (fellowshipandfairydust.com)
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

           ­                 Old Men in Chambray Shirts

                  Meditation on a theme of Tod Mixson

We don’t see khakis, Bull Durham, or farmers’ hats
Or muscled arms that toss square bales of hay
Two strokes hammering a ten-penny through two-by-fours
One stroke of an axe splintering lightered pine

A hand-rolled smoke dangling from sun-blistered lips
An old boot heavy on a rattlesnake’s head
An old stock knife to cut that b/////d apart
And old, unwritten yarns from the long ago

For now old men wear shorts and slogan tees
A flock of gabbing fools with knobby knees
betterdays Oct 2016
Monday morning
is singing the indigo blues

the sky is wearing
a grey duffel coat

still I gotta pay my dues
gotta get happy
gotta get happy
an pay my dues

Step into the winters day
Air so crisp and cold
Snows on the way

Somewhere they will be
Freezing today
Somewhere they will be
rubbing chilled hands together
draming of warm summer days

Inside boxes filled with red faces
they will be dreaming of faraway places
where the sand is warm underfoot
and  in the chambray sky there are no traces
of water accumulation, just an argent sun
and on the breeze exotic spices.

These are the dreams of the red faced
and blue handed masses that ride the buses
in this crisp winter morn
.....looking for a scrap of chambray,
in the cold flannel grey of this Monday
Bob Shuman Mar 2014
It fell like a leaf from a tree at year’s end,
faded and crisp, a photo drifting to the floor.
She was there, thirty years before, wheat jeans,
chambray shirt, straw colored hair spun to gold.
Who sees me now? Invisible to the eyes of the glorious young,
a nimbus of white wreathing an old man's face, desire
untrammelled by age. She threaded my heart, embroidered me,
sewed patchwork into a life. Cradling children snuggled between,
we rocked ourselves to sleep each night, dreaming a wish
to throttle time.
SB Stokes Jun 2015
1
When you extend
time changes into words
reaches toward common history

Inspect your saga
motivations for doing
anything

inflating bike tires
handstands on the grass
riding the night train home
scrawling a drunken note



2
surprise registry
sorrow spreading like dank fire
under the skin of your face
the piano calls

"rattle columbo skee-dazzle"
now wave them around
hypnotic and sincere
you must believe

in the something I'm transmitting
up the live wires
into a collective hive
or down by the rustling dumpsters



3
cast off shells
spent nutrition and supplements
inform a blood ooze
"I can't, I just can't"

gurgling on a blanket of blood
one arm waving
half a pincher bug
electricity still making it happen

another loop of living
purely motion driven
without purpose
the body stays and stays



4
the mind burns and slips
another dark portal
born voyager
bon voyage-r

out of cleaner hands
rough with hairy splinters
combine powers
find a way off this rock



5
vortex of hand-woven sediment
chambray and needlepoint
tiny backstitched leaves, flowers
sang a little song while he did it:

"Ol' brown poesy,
something something Alabama"
"Shut up, Kid!"
waving, eyes wilder

his blood comes out
more and more
glistening cough
thick bubbles of dark



6
paint the hard stroke
his pained face
get back from it, step out
of his way

his oncoming fate
panic burned streets
camps springing up
fingerfuls of air

"I just can't, I can't"
a weak wave, he lays back down
other words too far from the surface
he waves



7
his hands tremble
spent impulses
so natural
the soul slips

gears burn out
the metal whines and snaps
the straps are off and he is gone
rabbit's foot bound

now a blur in cosmic space
flashing toward a diamond planet
inference of his purpose
light-years for comprehension
From the book *A History of Broken Love Things*, Punk Hostage Press (2014).
Lawrence Hall Sep 2021
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                               I Don’t Miss Working on the Farm

The hay balers are out early in the fields
Headlights outshining late September stars
The din of diesel engines shaking the world
I don’t miss working on the farm at all

The operator smoking a cigarette
While his sunburnt old hands wrestle the machine
His khakis and chambray shirt already wet
I don’t miss working on the farm at all

Yep, laboring in the fields from can ‘til can’t -
I don’t miss working on the farm at all
A poem is itself.
Ugo Victor May 2016
The loud chatter
Amidst the silence
The pounding of my heart
The whispering of the wind
The charade of my thoughts
The rustling of the leaves
All bubbling in dilemma

Been down this road before
The spectra of light
The magnificent ambience it creates
Piercing through the depths
To the core of chambray
Now filled with thorns of distaste
Glooming with total darkness
Gnawing at the standing hairs on my skin
I squeak at the emergence of my shadow
The horror holds no bounds

The piercing cries of my pain
In the distance
Screaming for mercy
I still hear
My heart bleeds profusely
Into the crepes of my soul
No
I can’t go back  
A River of tears
Flowing Past the bridge
Forming tributaries along its course
I have to let go

I got to set them free
Erase the blemishes of my sorrow;
The horror of the nights

I got to face the darkness
The fear of the unknown
Choking me to misery
With my shield made of thorns
This is the only way
Running through the storm
With the speed of the light within
Towards the edge of glory
That’s the only way
To be free from the cages
Holding me down
Written by my protégé- Ihechi Ibiam
betterdays Oct 2017
the candle flame flickers
as the zephyr breeze blows
across our sunwarmed skin

we hold hands like teenagers of old
and you nuzzle gently at my shoulder

the stars brighten, as the sky darkens
from chambray to indigo
and the moon shones with mottled ivory glow

the frogs sing love songs and the lonely boobook calls
the night settles in as we make our way indoors
the candle flame splutters dies and leaves behind
a trail of smoke, taken away by the zephyr breeze
and the boobook calls again....mopoke....mopoke
boobook...an australian owl...with a distinictive call of mopoke
i am quite sick of hands touching—
i would think michaelangelo
would have abhorred the replication,
the cheapening of his work as well
the creation of adam,
humanity being god's mirror
reduced to a trinket of some fandom
or the aesthetic of some tumblr textpost

and yet i cannot help but stare at your hands:
desiccated, scaled like reptilian skin, raw at the knuckle seams
how alike have mine become to yours!
lithe and spry and wandering
what if they touched, never to let go?

and yet i cannot help but admire the sound of the tongue
of your forbearers spilling off the tip of yours:
harried and staccato, like a secret meant for god's ears alone
words of reassurance your parents took with them long ago
when they came to this land of opportunity
but is it your history to claim?

and yet i cannot help but inhale the rosy
talcum lining the insides of your knees and elbows:
their scent preserved by sheets of denim and chambray
a sillage sharp and graceful as the blade of an ice skate
contrasting with my medicinal tulsi and camphor
does it not get tiring, being picture-perfect?

and yet i cannot help but consider the light in your eyes:
traveling, like solar photons, from unseen depths to the surface
emerging triumphant from soupy smoldering plasma
a span of eons in a matter of seconds
i know of labyrinths and afterglows
do you know of the war within you?

then again, what is art on chapel ceilings for,
if not for fandom trinkets, for tumblr textposts,
for dry hands that don't quite fit in one another
touching tentatively, a recidivistic hearkening
to the consummation of that original sin?
Lawrence Hall Mar 2022
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                         Hitchhikers May Be Escaping Inmates

                                 A Sign Along a Texas Road

Hitchhikers may be escaping inmates

Newton is one way, and Jasper the other
Along the two-lane blacktop between the fields
A farmer in chambray blue cultivates his corn
And lads in prison whites cultivate the state’s

Hitchhikers may be escaping inmates

The passerby wonders if the hitchhikers
Are escaping from inmates or if
The hitchhikers are the inmates who choose
Not to be inmates at the moment

Hitchhikers may be escaping inmates

And then there’s the difference between “may” and “might”
Hitchhikers and inmates, soon out of sight

Maybe we’re all trying to escape something
Lawrence Hall Mar 2022
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                         Hitchhikers May Be Escaping Inmates

                                 A Sign Along a Texas Road

Hitchhikers may be escaping inmates

Newton is one way, and Jasper the other
Along the two-lane blacktop between the fields
A farmer in chambray blue cultivates his corn
And lads in prison whites cultivate the state’s

Hitchhikers may be escaping inmates

The passerby wonders if the hitchhikers
Are escaping from inmates or if
The hitchhikers are the inmates who choose
Not to be inmates at the moment

Hitchhikers may be escaping inmates

And then there’s the difference between “may” and “might”
Hitchhikers and inmates, soon out of sight

Maybe we’re all trying to escape something
Lawrence Hall Mar 2021
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                                A Flaneur in Old Khakis

A rustic dilettante, all ready to flirt
In his old khakis and a chambray shirt
Old boots, old gloves, a mattock or rake to wield
A boulevardier of row crops in the field

He tips his old straw hat to the morning sun
Considers the corn silks’ latest fashion for fun
Discusses pitch and tone with a passing breeze
And notes the colours in the apple trees

The latest songs and jokes he very well knows
And shares the latest gossip with clever crows
This rare sophisticate whose sidewalk cafes’
Are nature’s dreamy scenes along nature’s ways
Imagining Maurice Chevalier as a Farmer.
Again, today,
the cowboy will close
his eyes
and listen to the hooves
of wild horses
all around him

knowing that
his well-trained palomino
will take him home
like a lover
who knows
what his lust wants—

knows the way to him,
through the black covers
of that dark room—

even as the returning
creates and then destroys the
greening prairie, the chambray wind.
KorbydAngyle Mar 2022
Aaah Precious Panic



Precious panic cuckold of chambray
Blug the plug the blunt puck notwithstanding humming randy feral & smug
In a day I sought due recourse for killed an'mitsy all 'a' brightened and layed
But the ghosts of Mithril citadels and ghouls and wraiths danced of it in the forever more
Not by once or dawning hurt blank souls revenant from Hades
But the grief derived denizens reprieve the good book and armistice were born of it and ...the various shades
East rassled the wisps the vines curdled and cuddled beasts bane beats of the heart that cuts loose
re-countanance floor to columns' heights through the rain
I not Holier I than the trenchaunt sly folio that's I standing with I in spite of myself
Such good waits for cues on heinous delving redundancies
as easily as it was first thought to be by pain and panic.... cast out

— The End —