"chaperones" poems
Prom Time ~ Past...
What an exciting time it was.
High School Prom...
It seems like we girls were
More excited over this dance
Then those boys....
Mom i need a dress,
So mom would make me a dress.
New fancy earrings...
An evening made special
For a Cinderella... oh we girls
Were all in a make believe
Cinderella daze...in 1958
Curfew 12a.m. don't be late
Prom Time ~ Present...
My grandson was ask to prom
By a girl who baked him cupcakes
That spelled out PROM?
Very creative, who wouldn't
Except that invitation....
Limo picking them up,
Off to a restaurant,
Followed by dancing and gabbing,
And the after prom....
All night long, chaperones, snacks, games.
Curfew ~ morning ... don't be late... 2014
The Prom was and is what you make it...A MEMORY
by ~ judy
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 6:40 AM UTC
Pellets of rain pestered the cotton swagged
sky, cloudy purses grew black with scowls
coldly spelling their injustice. A chapter of
sunrays shot shamesless shards, irony perched
between chaperones; a truce maybe, rains restless
pathways of rays bleating their appeal, rooming in,
black balaclavas, rooting for blue beams,
itching bony beads of cloudy sweat, out of reach
In turn, limbs colour coated grassy spaces
tides of sun worshippers laughed out loud
their inner duets, hand in hand the sweltering
dance floor bathed them, sidling cotton clouds
Swiftly passing the sunscreen, laying back, beckoning
the sun from beneath neatly positioned cloud baubles.
Within an inch of our lives the splodges began, light
heavy, heavier, to the swell of April in full tune
Instantly the greedy green spaces groaned, ejected
sweet harmony, rolled out goodbyes, tongued stiff
breeze longing for its thirst to be quenched, and so
torrents rushed in where fools once lay
A lonely sunscreen bottle, remnant of warm
minds soaking heat, long days teasing into belief.
Yet April fooled us once more with beguiling banter,
chorused a chanting cheating lullaby of lamentation
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 1:04 PM UTC
I should have thought,
It would be easier,
Somehow haha,
It is neither here nor there,
A coincidental chain of things,
Setting in motion
Something akin to,
A dreamless day,
A wooden sort of way
Of going about,
Cumbersome,
Turtled,
Thiking about,
Nothing while,
Fixing blye eyes,
Analysing speech patterns
A superior sense of spatial awareness
Coupled with sartorial elegance,
That could be counted in kilowatts,
***** is the incumbent ruler of a blank,
Where are our chaperones?
This is not the kind of party I had envisaged,
A monster is as much as you allow it to be,
So take me to solitude.
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 10:54 AM UTC
***** Attacked by a Jaguar, after Henri Rousseau*
Unaware, arms sway.
Attentive green gazes
at a tuxedoed man
and his broken bride.
Pink perfume glides
over the jade scene.
A red disco light
hovers above raised limbs,
spinning stardust
rain down upon them.
In the corner
he hides -- peering
around fibre-optic
shrubs. Blackening
this white moment.
On the ballroom
floor they dance.
Rendezvous in the Forest, after Henri Rousseau
In the wilderness
they meet, horsebacked,
whispering nothing
sweet, meaningless.
Captain courts, seeking
victory beneath bare
branches... hidden
where all can see.
Curious trees bend
to view the scene below.
The lady's palace
chaperones her mistress
from faraway brush.
Antiqued cotton tufts frown
overhead, lost souls
driving by wreckage.
Vultures. Scavengers
of hunting season.
Pausing to behold
the carnage
of predator and prey.
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 12:25 PM UTC
She said
Or someone will
Notice
Not us
Will notice
Just others
Are dancing
We should go
She sighed
Or someone may
Go
And not us
Without
Notice.
So,
We went
So
We danced
And everyone else
Noticed
Not us
But the lonely
Old women and men...
Chaperones, silent,
Eagle-eyed, standing
Un-moving, remembering youth...
While we danced.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 10:35 PM UTC
Join me beneath
an eight percent moon
that shook itself free
from Irish holly
on its way to
bearded stone.
Agent of itself,
it little cares what
we'll do here,
in this rose garden
of shadow flighting.
Join me in the sliver
of tinnish light
that wanes into the berries,
& shove your breath
into mine with clear intent.
We wear dresses of silence.
The mottling dark
clenches your hair.
A faceless statue
chaperones no one.
Jan 16, 2021
Jan 16, 2021 at 10:27 AM UTC
In the middle of the Roman empire
And under the Cesar's throne
No one thought of a story bein overblown
As Pompeii lost his wife and hated Cesar
Cesar got betrayed, killed Pompeii
That was common tragic teaser
But what unfolded the truth?
As the words came out of Cleopatra
Cesar ****** and hooked
But that was too mainstream no?
She was just bound to love him
Cuz she had no support for her own
Cesar, killed by politics and forgotten
Anthony his commander
Took the survey and went Egypt often
The women that he ****** had no honor
A devil in form of a *****
Just some good clothes and venal
Anthony put on the Egyptian antimony
Found love in Cleopatra
Left that ***** filled with insanity
Then as he was hated for loving foreign
Octavian lost faith
And headed for killing the fallen
Anthony didn't wanna die as a traitor
Stabbed himself
Wore the king's robe as dictator
Cleopatra saw that and cried
She bit herself by snake
And later died
Chaperones picked both up
Sat them on their thrones
Romans came and were blown
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 12:58 PM UTC
I walk with you
with only the streetlights
as our chaperones.
My pace slows down,
trying to stretch this
10-minute walk
for 10 minutes more.
Your voice is steady,
but I hear how it cracks
like the ripples on a lake.
I pray to the stars
that the tears in your eyes
are from the smog.
We walk on the side of the street,
arguing over who gets to guard the other
because we know we'll both
walk to the middle of the road
at one point or another.
I win
and push you closer to the side,
feeling your hand in mine.
We reach the gate.
I make you promise
that you won't talk to strangers,
that you won't walk by yourself.
Our pinkies link,
and I feel five years old.
You go home.
I pray once more
for more time by your side,
but you have already crossed the road.
I change my prayer for patience
until I can make you mine.
Mar 21, 2017
Mar 21, 2017 at 8:02 AM UTC
We are chaperones to the pillars of heaven
Emissaries to the call of the horn
Jumping and seeing into the forest of pollen
Wrestling from the beckoning of civilisation.
Acres of my landscapes and minds to ourselves
I love the many ways you twirl me underneath your spell
Changeling of time and the humming silence of the bee
Pull me aside and whisper me minutes to the sea.
Bases of absence, dallies of the world
***** and dust are nothing to my soil
Enchantment of light, my reveries and hate
Holding me tight and singing bonds in the wake.
Gashes of essence, a milky-white of pure flow
Gushing like ravens, shrieking empty to the core
Yearning for the distance and dying in its twilight
Breathing in your essence keeps the pulse of me alive.
Apr 23, 2010
Apr 23, 2010 at 1:02 AM UTC
The ocean sky chaperones me home
Where joy, embraces, and love await.
The waves of clouds shelter invisible life.
Our farmlands, kelp;
Our cities, coral.
Ignorant are we of the evanescent, fragile,
Temperamental passions of the Wind.
I wish with all my heart that
We could see, hear, and speak with the Wind People.
Jun 10, 2010
Jun 10, 2010 at 9:33 PM UTC
I can't remember who called me out
A hundred teens bopping or near there about
Everyone dancing,groping for ****
Grinding and finding the ultimate mood,
Chaperones drinking *** under cover
Girl's nimble fingers, nubile new lovers
A loudmouth yelled out, Bill is a pain
He eats beans with spaghetti, he is insane
I said note my def moves you **** in a glass,
Slander beans once more and I ll kick your ***
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 10:47 AM UTC
Quiet nights
Whispered days
Outlandish sights
Peculiar maze
Tazed in by sun and the moon
Spooky goblins
Ghoulish freaks
Roam and prowl
The steadied caves
Kooky beings
All misbehave
Tranced by idols
Turned from God!!!!
Blaspheme love
Tis they do
Seeketh romance by phones
Back away like shrews
Kills one souls
Plots none muse
Muse is gone
The suns went down
Harrowing he feels
Writing scribes
Sick of all the same
Tis wants to die
Suicide not by choice
Lifts his head in all rejoice
Because he knows what he seeketh is right around the bin
No more fairy taled wim
Whimsical laughs
No more grins
None more waiting
On a dream
None more screams
Nor false delight
None more worries of bedtime fright
None more fights
Now all is right
Lost his mind
Gaveth his soul
Plundered down to stage six of hell
Wherein chaperones giveth ringing bells
Steps to God
God to appeal
Forgiveth one in time surreal
No more distasteful needing and wanting words
The I love thou's shalt no more heard
He's lost his touch
He's lost his cure
Giveth up all
Forgotten the world
Paintings he shalt go on in
Be like the greats of archaic sin
Handstroke brushes to pull him in
He's done
Oh my
He's done!!!
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 11:19 AM UTC
Sitting in a large hotel room
Thinking of the competition coming soon
One person in my left has a binder out
The kids across the hall are trying not to shout
Fixing up the gadgets at the last minute
While some play board games in the mindset to win it
It's 11:30 at night, I'm eating cold Chinese
Win or lose, fail or fly, I do as I please
We all cheer when the fourth comes back with ice
This moment is my paradise
Sitting on a mountain the temperature of snow
I eye the massive valley below
The farms and forests make a patchwork quilt
The streets and towns are embroidery of silk
The sun rises, setting the treetops on fire
My campmates wake up slow with some ire
Out here, I'm awed by mother earth's ways
As my friends and I decide how to navigate our days
I don hiking clothes under the day's new light
This moment is my paradise
Summer in full swing, the crickets cry
As twilight yeilds stars in the sky
We wander the camp, the ocean roars in the distance
Masters of our fate, we don't need assistance
Whether at the beachfront, ziplining, or boardwalks
We run like a fox pack, not caring who gawks
As we think of the adventures of the world ahead
There's nowhere I'd like to be instead
As our flip flops crack on the ground the camp comprised
This right here is my paradise
We're running around another big city
So much to see, and I have my group with me
We just got out of our musical clinic
Now it's time to explore the town, see the magic in it
We'll meet up at five, for a dinner at seven
We'll go on a boat and get back at eleven
Right here, right now, we can make our own way
Free from routine, we get to have a say
We're a bit confused, a little underdressed
We still need chaperones, and we're way underslept
Even with all of that, this will more than suffice
This right here is my paradise
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 10:39 PM UTC
Hearthside
by Michael R. Burch
“When you are old and grey and full of sleep...” ― W. B. Yeats
For all that we professed of love, we knew
this night would come, that we would bend alone
to tend wan fires’ dimming bars―the moan
of wind cruel as the Trumpet, gelid dew
an eerie presence on encrusted logs
we hoard like jewels, embrittled so ourselves.
The books that line these close, familiar shelves
loom down like dreary chaperones. Wild dogs,
too old for mates, cringe furtive in the park,
as, toothless now, I frame this parchment kiss.
I do not know the words for easy bliss
and so my shriveled fingers clutch this stark,
long-unenamored pen and will it: Move.
I loved you more than words, so let words prove.
This sonnet is written from the perspective of the great Irish poet William Butler Yeats in his loose translation or interpretation of the Pierre de Ronsard sonnet “When You Are Old.” The aging Yeats thinks of his Muse and the love of his life, the fiery Irish revolutionary Maude Gonne. As he seeks to warm himself by a fire conjured from ice-encrusted logs, he imagines her doing the same. Although Yeats had insisted that he wasn’t happy without Gonne, she said otherwise: “Oh yes, you are, because you make beautiful poetry out of what you call your unhappiness and are happy in that. Marriage would be such a dull affair. Poets should never marry. The world should thank me for not marrying you!” Keywords/Tags: Yeats, Gonne, sonnet, Irish, Ireland, mature, love, night, fire, bars, books, shelves, chaperones, dogs, mates, parchment, kiss, bliss, fingers, pen, will, move, words, prove
Mar 17, 2020
Mar 17, 2020 at 7:43 PM UTC
It would be the oddest prom night this land had ever seen;
The dance hall would be deserted and there would be no King or Queen.
No Chaperones would be required and the band would play no sound
For the silent generation is nowhere to be found.
They might have all been beautiful; some members would be wise.
For all we know they might have all been angels in disguise.
The silent generation died before they took a breath.
This reverses nature’s course wherein birth occurs, then death.
In truth, they never played the game. They never learned a word.
Their departure from existence went largely unobserved.
They said no word in their defense before they were put down
For the silent generation is nowhere to be found.
On every college campus they would fill each empty chair.
Our stadiums would rock with sound, if only they were there.
If they were born America would be a touch less gray,
But the silent generation never saw the light of day.
Feb 21, 2018
Feb 21, 2018 at 8:41 AM UTC
I’m too much of a predator for this place…
Or maybe not enough…
Somebody will strike tonight
and it’s on the face of them all.
This place is as awkward as a high school ball,
but with our chaperones allowance of alcohol.
If I sound bitter it might be true,
but more realistically
it’s just the reflection of the portrait of you.
I stare and turn away.
(out of embarrassment)
I look again
and force myself to turn.
The third time’s where I stick around
and try to figure it out...
To try to learn....
I see dark lights
and friendly faces;
bashful peeks
and longing glances.
It’s not enough to say,
‘Hey.’
You have to scream it.
I wasn’t meant for you
but I’ll make you believe it...
The night will take us all
and tomorrow will take us back.
I’ve been had between them so often
I’m about to crack...
Oh no,
I’ve gone and said it...
It’s there for the stare;
*Used and abused
pushed locked cut blown fuse.*
I’ve been miss lead by
a beautiful muse...
Yeah whatever…
I know it’s no use.
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 6:30 PM UTC