"crepe" poems
I want to go back, back to my New Orleans
This place that I call New Orleans is actually Louisiana
But still, the gorgeousness of this dirt and grime
The live oaks stretching over the 6-lane wide streets,
Touching leaftips, making a canopy over the passerbys
Crepe myrtles showering streets with lacy pink faerie dresses
Smells of beignets and seafood fill the French Quarter
Intense, consuming, warm, loving sun burning through your shirt
In New Orleans to say horses sweat, men perspire and women glow
is to be ridiculous.
In New Orleans everyone sweats like pigs.
As for the grime I mentioned, this exists mainly in
the sidewalks cracked by live oaks which make an adventure of every walk down the street
And in any semi-deserted street
To have a Mardi Gras or St. Patrick's Day without a parade and citywide party is to toss aside traditions and the New Orleanian way
The New Orleanians are welcoming, hearty and heartwarming, tough and unafraid to talk to a stranger on the streets.
An old black man once greeted me with 'konichiwa' as I walked past
A middle aged white man once struck up a conversation with us as he realised we had shared the same ferry earlier in the day
An old asian woman conversed familiarly with our family at Cafe Du Monde simply because we are Vietnamese as well
A teenaged white boy waved at us as we drove past him jogging
A different old black man stopped and serenaded my siblings, mother and me with his trumpet just because we smiled
Several young mothers and women have stopped my mother to gush over my siblings and me, usually when we were very small
I, myself, have given directions to a tourist or two, lost near Cafe Du Monde or the levee,
And I hope that the warm smiling spirit of the Big Easy will remain forever immortal.
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 7:33 PM UTC
#
*The cycle of the seasons
once again presents a change.
Greens and blues are now the colors,
as the scene has rearranged.
Crepe Myrtles shed their blossoms
in blizzard, pinks and reds,
And bulbs with care once planted
now emerge from flower beds.
I walk upon a sea of blue
that waves with every breeze.
Bluebonnets on the Texas plains,
a view that's sure to please.
They ripple with the grass
in tempo with the wind.
How lovely to just sway and hear
the message that they send.
It seems as though the world awakens,
stretching with a yawn.
As luscious grass emerges
from the brown muck on my lawn.*
#
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 8:16 AM UTC
I want to lay in my bed
Next to you
At seven in the morning.
"Crepes?"
"Crepes." You say.
I get up
and start the crepe maker
I put out the Nutella
And cut bananas
And pull out the jar of lingonberries that
I love
Even though nobody knows
What lingonberries are.
You ask for peanut butter
And we both know I'm allergic.
But I have a jar
Because I know that
You love it.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 3:53 PM UTC
Determined petals
Pierce the snow,
Refusing to wait.
Shades of violet,
Red, then yellow;
Mocking folded crepe paper,
On white marble floors
Advancing to overtake the scene;
An insurgent force,
So lithe, so pure.
Conquering in swaths,
With delicate bravado,
As if to challenge
The old mans icy grip,
While placating senses
Of the observant few;
Such a display
Of resistance,
To winter's rule
Now, slowly waning;
As the moments nigh,
But will return once again,
To defy a February's
Cruelty.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 12:08 PM UTC
I got a plan
You all are part of my caravan
My cousin went to Paris, France
Here was my chance
I told her to bring back a Paris Cap
So what do you think of that?
But thinking now, I should have asked for the foundation of the Eiffel Tower
Now that would have taken a lot of power
My cousin couldn’t store it in our bag
Perhaps top security and that would be a drag
My next idea was to take the Eiffel Tower apart piece by piece
This is some plan I love Lucy show would do
But I wouldn’t expect my cousin to pursue
But the French would be losing an art
I would really be telling the French, the Eiffel Tower must depart
Yet I must be clever and smart
However, would I place instead?
Why not a Giant Crepe Suzette
Do you think the French would notice?
Obviously they would
It is my thinking of should
Then the possibilities of could
I guess the Eiffel Tower I will never get
It was a hope but now a regret
The Eiffel Tower being its Paris stay and being my let.
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 7:07 PM UTC
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!"
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I can decide if I will let go
and enjoy the moment
with the crepe myrtle across the way
and swing in the breeze with the sunflowers
or
if I will pull the shade of fear over my eyes
and attach to my feet the weight of worry.
Jun 28, 2023
Jun 28, 2023 at 2:42 PM UTC
At an airport garden in Hong Kong
I sit and refresh my traveling spirit
amidst an effusion of lucky bamboo
Crepe white and fuchsia orchids
coyly fan their geisha faces
The Morning Sun, at first a pale opal ember
climbing over slumbering, stone-washed
mountains
Roars into brilliance
like a golden Peacock Dragon
strutting through China blue skies
I smile inwardly....
let the moment sweep me off my feet
Breathe in......
colors, sights, sounds
gifts....fullness
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 10:23 PM UTC
Those Chicago kids danced till' they were teary eyed in them **** crepe-soled shoes
He said to me, "Mamma I walked my little crepe-soled shoes into the heart of the South and said 'Hello World!'"
And God be ****** if he wasn't wearing crepe-soled shoes when we beat the man out of that ****** trash
His body lay there
lacerated and bruised like goin' ten rounds with Rocky Marciano. His face was like a sack of potatoes with holes in it. On his feet were spats, no, crepe-soled shoes.
Did you hear the news?
Black boy's struttin' his stuff in his new soul-shoes
As we lit his things on fire that ***** bastard's crepe-soled shoes just wouldn't burn but once they did, the flame would not go out
Mar 4, 2010
Mar 4, 2010 at 12:40 AM UTC
Land of the mummies,
Not at all the mothers,
The fabled dead people,
Draped in crepe bandages,
Appearing creepy to kids,
Ranging from Aegyptus,
To high above the Andes.
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 3:43 PM UTC
i touch my finger to my lips,
the cue for Nonnie and me to bow our heads, close our eyes, and hush,
our secret to polished silver and earl grey.
Bless our family, and the needy,
and all the other sheep i count
in grandfather clock rhythm.
Milanos water my mouth from their poise-in crepe cups as
my eyelashes, in squint-scope, filter
antique sunshine flooding the window, pouring all over the tea set,
dusting Nonnie's prayer
to flush the face powder
on her cheeks, once she opens her eyes and smiles,
into a blush.
Aug 13, 2012
Aug 13, 2012 at 12:07 AM UTC
Crepe myrtle blooms, pink like the blush of fever
roots growing from the broken bones and spirit
but drinks from the lingering passion of past lovers.
Your footsteps are the creeping of violets throughout
the garden, yet I can feel your touch on the air as it rains,
your memory like the wood smoke from across the street.
I lick my lips, apology and sin, at the tip of my tongue.
Sep 17, 2016
Sep 17, 2016 at 10:03 PM UTC
Day lilies and dragonflies
in Arkansas June
boy do I need a sombrero!
not a cloud in the sky
and I pray for a genteel breeze
to cool my brow
The crepe myrtle has
crept its way into
my heart
From dawn to dusk
She stands unscathed
shocking pink candelabrum
boisterous laughter of
school children on vacation and
belly flops in chlorine blue green pools
brings to mind a delightful dip
in a secluded, sylvan
mountain stream
where I can with palms folded
Love brimming
salute the Summer Solstice
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 11:18 AM UTC
Oldest thing I ever did see,
Skin a mountain range of
Crumpled/crinkled crepe paper
Peaking in altitudinous pouches
Under his eyes, dragging with
Their weight dewlapp jowls
Down to a waddling,
Flabby neck, eyes camouflaged
Under light, fuzzy swatches of cotton,
Mouth slack and vacant, dribbling.
Hobbling with a stoop, knees bowed,
Back arched at an angle, a
Tilted arrow. He tottered over to me,
Inches, feet, miles, years too young,
Smiled brightly to reveal an empty,
Gummy mouth rimmed with
Birthday cake, pallid arms
Outstretched, head splotched with
A thin, wispy cloud of hair,
Half-full and forgotten baby’s bottle
On the carpet behind him.
How quickly they do grow.
Oct 19, 2010
Oct 19, 2010 at 12:18 AM UTC
A cyclist in a purple turban and salwar pants
whizzed past us as we trudged up the steep hills
of Arlington, Virginia
His gaze caught mine
just a starry
flash in the bucket
wordless soul communion
that said so much
Do you know what religion he is?
queried my hubby, David
"Sikh...I think" still reflecting
on our brief exchange
David and I were in town for our niece's wedding
and also on vacation
enjoying the sights and plethora
of attractions that flourish in the capitol
city, Washington, DC
As I surveyed the beautiful capitol
abounding with lush gardens, parks,
magnificent magnolia trees and
fragrant pink and white crepe myrtle
I couldn't help observing the rich diversity
of people and cultures working and living
here
"Where are you from?" I asked our taxi driver
"I'm originally from Ethiopia,"
a waiter in a restaurant told us
he was from Morocco...another person from Egypt...
India...China and so on…
USA has a diverse topography
heavenly mountain ranges, verdant forests,
fruitful farmlands
span outward to luminous blue shores
The racial, political, cultural diversity of our
great nation is what makes us so
unique and special
It's in our DNA, and literally in mine,
a real melting ***
All Americans have one thing in common:
our thirst for liberty and freedom
These words from the Memorial of Abraham Lincoln
are brilliant with truth and timeless with love:
"I leave you, hoping that the lamp of liberty
will burn in your bosoms until there shall
no longer be a doubt that all men are
created free and equal." ~Lincoln
Jul 24, 2016
Jul 24, 2016 at 12:15 AM UTC
There is no doubt about it:
You have always loved me.
A leonine love.
A love that swells in the womb and the heart
From the very first twinkle in the eye.
Hit play.
Your eyes are swampish,
Mistrustful and marinated in cheap wine,
Shot through with blood, preserved in your own saltwater.
Those alligator eyes
That watch your girls,
Watch your girls board a train and draw away
Into the rest of their lives.
Leaving you stewing in twelve years’ worth of regret.
Years ago,
I used to pinch your forearms -
Watch the skin crepe up
Between my four year old fingers.
Thin blood. Tired skin.
Silently you eat your breakfast of pills and toast at the kitchen counter.
Throw in a horrid hacking cough to remind us you’re still here.
You always write everything down.
As if to tattoo it into your memory.
If you’ve locked the door behind you, it’ll be alright.
If you’ve got half a bottle left.
If you’ve left no trace on the bathroom carpet.
If you’ve woken up in the morning.
You can feel my eyes watching you.
You spend your days watching
Daytime TV, eating salad cream sandwiches and
Hit the bottle at a safe distance from noon.
Safe enough.
Your lipsticks have gone stale,
Now it’s porous skin, sweat stains, grey hair.
I find you poring over bank statements and local newspapers.
Scouring for a job, you say,
And clippings of your daughters
At school functions, clasping exam results.
You keep them in a cereal box that we covered in paint
Age five. We’re in double figures now.
I get drunk on weeknights.
Rewind.
Hold me.
Ball of flesh and screams
And you’ve got your whole life ahead of you.
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 4:50 PM UTC
I was a bruised orange,
That round piece of fruit that had been dropped, over and over again.
Dropped so many times, my insides had turned to sour mash.
(It was a distasteful sort of mush.)
I hid my mushiness behind an exterior of bright orange skin.
(I thought I had fooled everyone but myself.)
He swept into my life, in backward fashion,
Giving himself away to erase the disasters of my wounds.
He was eraser crumbs.
His history, one of being casually swept from the page
As others made their revisions.
Had he not been there?
Life would have dug a hole through my crepe paper heart,
Scraping and scratching
With its hard, unforgiving end.
But he was eraser crumbs;
He slid easily across my page.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 3:48 PM UTC
A cardboard box some building blocks
some scissors and some string
four paper plates two Apple crates
a frizbe and a spring
A roll of tape a sheet of crepe
Some paint pots and a brush
five lolly sticks eight lego bricks
quick Ted we have to rush
Pram wheels four maybe one more
***** driver and some screws
A saw some wood there that looks good
With this we cannot lose
place two wheels square right under there
and ***** the screws in tight
Now same again that's done now then
let's fit the seat alright
The Apple crate will look so great
when painted red and green
The box cockpit is where we'll sit
and steer this wild machine
Add blocks and bricks and Lolly sticks
to make my dashboard bright
spare wheel on back now all we lack
are fireflies for our light
Jam jar ******* tight that looks alright
now place them there just so
what's that you said dear mister Ted
you want to have a go
The boxcar race is taking place
so we will have to run
I'll pull you steer were oh so near
to having so much fun
The starting line now grip the line
as dad gives us a push
We're building speed taking the lead
as past them all we whoosh
The end in sight Ted please hold tight
and please don't move about
Ten yards now nine we're doing fine
eight seven six... look out
FIVE more to go let's start to slow
the wheels with the brake
what's that you said dear mister Ted
we've made a big mistake
No brakes oh no two yards to go
and then the three bar gate
but wait just look it's off the hook
and open wide... oh great
1 yard we won the race is run
and yet we still race on
past in a flash we end up SPLASH
Stuck in the village pond
We may be wet but don't forget
we won a victory
For Daddy said that me and Ted
could have a winners tea
So party cake till bellies ache
and then it's time for bed
From bits of trash we made a splash
me and my best friend Ted
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 3:38 PM UTC
She calls herself Ethel Du May if you were to ask
But it's not her name, not really,
Even she's not sure what it is anymore
Metal framed glasses with a wonky arm
Skin like crepe paper coated in a layer of polyfilla
With rouge a plenty upon her cheeks, her lips and teeth
Her petite frail frame drowning in gaudy colours and faux fur
Rows upon rows of beads wrapped tightly round her neck
Long pointed red talons, the only decoration upon her delicate fingers
Sitting at the bus stop awaiting the number 21 to town
The time, quarter past nine, she sits and waits
Pressing her menthol cigarette to her lips and tutting looking at her watch
A designer handbag placed upon her lap filled with secrets
Boiled sweets, an address book, anais anais perfume
A hip flask of sherry, metal handcuffs and a spare pair of knickers
She smiles at strangers, at no one, at memories
She's lived a life you only read about in storybooks
And poems
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 4:23 PM UTC
we are bound by crepe paper chains
and fooled into thinking they're steel.
and we allow these things to hold us back,
and prevent us from really knowing how to feel.
happiness is in the distance
when it could be at our feet.
we struggle with these paper chains,
then foolishly face defeat.
our personal view is distorted,
with a vision so blind to our light.
we constantly live with a beauty unseen,
keeping our souls from taking flight.
whenever we try to stay built
we end up being nothing but broken.
bottled up, these feelings burn the mind,
but we keep them with struggles unspoken.
Mar 31, 2011
Mar 31, 2011 at 2:11 PM UTC
He was long-winded
and going on about
physics, about gravity
and the processes with
which it associates,
about how you can
blow lightly on a
precariously assembled
house of cards to see
it fall over but if you
remove one of the great
mortared stones from
the base of one of the
great mortared pyramids
the structure stands tall
and sturdy, a forever
remnant of one great
injustice and remarkable
innovation.
In the dusty garage that
day his glasses covered
in gray soot and greased
fingerprints on side of
face and shoes with caked
mud from the recent rain
that quickly turned to
cerulean sky as the clouds
were whisked by so quickly
it looked like they were
being pulled by some great
and holy wind, beckoned
to festoon someone's poorly
timed outdoor wedding and
force crepe paper flowers
to stick to stucco walls like
wheat paste.
You think you need to
talk to a person when
you have a problem,
but those automated
systems were created
in the images of people
who were created in
the images of other
people who were
created in the image
of God or some other
restless celestial being,
perhaps a dying star
or an asteroid hurtling
and on a trajectory to
startle a species primitive
and struggling to survive.
The vast mathematical
implications that determine
the universe are sometimes
a bit too much for dinner
conversation, so our chats
turn quickly to local sports
teams and the evening news.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 3:16 PM UTC
Meriggiare pallido e assorto
presso un rovente muro d'orto,
ascoltare tra i pruni e gli sterpi
schiocchi di merli, frusci di serpi.
Nelle crepe del suolo o su la veccia
spiar le file di rosse formiche
ch'ora si rompono ed ora s'intrecciano
a sommo di minuscole biche.
Osservare tra frondi il palpitare
lontano di scaglie di mare
mentre si levano tremuli scricchi
di cicale dai calvi picchi.
E andando nel sole che abbaglia
sentire con triste meraviglia
com'è tutta la vita e il suo travaglio
in questo seguitare una muraglia
che ha in cima cocci aguzzi di bottiglia.
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This one here's me aged three
at a trestle table for little ones,
snapped with a box Brownie
at the Miss Rosebud parade.
Fresh as a daisy in crepe paper petals
under an eternal sun.
There's my brother dressed as a magpie...
just out of shot.
I remember that dress.
Yards of love sewn into a snowdrift
of crisp petals tumbling into my lap
under the Singer where I sat shuffling
impatiently to the machine's rhythmic rattle,
mesmerized by my mother's puffed-up feet
on the treadle,
my brother's whining cry...
just out of shot.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2011
Oct 1, 2011
Oct 1, 2011 at 8:13 AM UTC
Roses are red, but only sometimes
And I don't care much for them anyways
Violets are never blue
But I like crepe myrtles better
Sugar is sweet, but too sweet for me
I'd much rather have spicy
As for you? You're only sweet all the time
Other times, you're incredible.
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 4:09 PM UTC
╰⊰✿´ℒ♡ⓥℯ'✿⊱╮
Honey pale and so whip-light
Hints of vanilla,
Wheat flour, milk, sugar, eggs
Whisk smooth with butter
Sweet or savoury
Choose fillings
Fry!
╰⊰✿⊱╮
Jun 28, 2020
Jun 28, 2020 at 8:22 AM UTC