"crinolines" poems - Hello Poetry

Idyllic love poems wander the hills with a pining goat herd playing his pipe and singing mournful song echoing down the quartz sculpted gorge beneath waterfalls where alabaster-skinned Naiads lithe and languorous bathed in crystal brooks. Romantic poems lounge on sofas breathless wearing corsets and crinolines desperate and untouched ********* strands of hair John Donne’s love poems are wet with wit.

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Sep 12, 2014

Sep 12, 2014 at 9:14 AM UTC

magicpoet01

Poems and Love

Idyllic love poems wander the hills with a pining goat herd playing his pipe and singing mournful song echoing down the quartz sculpted gorge beneath waterfalls where alabaster-skinned Naiads lithe and languorous bathed in crystal brooks. Romantic poems lounge on sofas breathless wearing corsets and crinolines desperate and untouched ********* strands of hair John Donne’s love poems are wet with wit.

17

Set in silver braids of gold memories of days of old Stiff lace collar eyes of blue inner beauty shining thru Crinolines and high-topped shoes transcendental state if muse

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Sep 29, 2014

Sep 29, 2014 at 10:19 PM UTC

nancy-e-tracy

Tintype

Set in silver braids of gold memories of days of old Stiff lace collar eyes of blue inner beauty shining thru Crinolines and high-topped shoes transcendental state if muse

8

A-Ooga Tioga Sky, mountain and mist rise with morning breath It’s crisp until coffee goes in but no bother for that instead, searching for sun, kept out of sight figuring which way is east Which way is yonder? still, more you might ponder As you sink into the lap of Tioga valleys cradled by ash and oaks fields of daisy mixed with rye and wheat spread at your feet like wedding dress of Mother Nature herself She says softly: “Pssst, hey you Don’t put on those shoes tiptoe way across my seedy crinolines lie upon me Sink in insubstantiality with me as I draw rays and beams, beyond some twenty rolling hills In our for all future time horizon you may still be dreaming indulge yourself in my verdant fantasies **** up this morning with me This is Appalachian reverie hear me like little turkey gobbling dance with doe and fawn chase jackrabbit round and round Why, even the silos are singing “Pour me a cup” ”

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Apr 18, 2016

Apr 18, 2016 at 12:45 PM UTC

pj-poesy

Tioga Trumpets Morning

A-Ooga Tioga Sky, mountain and mist rise with morning breath It’s crisp until coffee goes in but no bother for that instead, searching for sun, kept out of sight figuring which way is east Which way is yonder? still, more you might ponder As you sink into the lap of Tioga valleys cradled by ash and oaks fields of daisy mixed with rye and wheat spread at your feet like wedding dress of Mother Nature herself She says softly: “Pssst, hey you Don’t put on those shoes tiptoe way across my seedy crinolines lie upon me Sink in insubstantiality with me as I draw rays and beams, beyond some twenty rolling hills In our for all future time horizon you may still be dreaming indulge yourself in my verdant fantasies **** up this morning with me This is Appalachian reverie hear me like little turkey gobbling dance with doe and fawn chase jackrabbit round and round Why, even the silos are singing “Pour me a cup” ”

34

the tinkling kiss, tween silver bell and the windowed door, at the ice cream store, announces with the delight of a tingling excite a novitiate, a well scrubbed innocente, a suckering, youthful customer has entered the store all the ice cream poems stand up straight, paying cold attention, the little boy ones, fix their crookedly crooked bow ties, the little girl ones, pat down their crinkly crinolines, all best behavior-ed, shivering cold from hot anticipation, the idea, the conception of becoming the chosen one, invited outside, for delight, the pleasure of melting into sweet, sad loving death, in the smiling mouth of a young fan & reader now, they all know the rules, no calling out! just stand in frozen attention, glistening, shimmering, displaying their true coloration, hoping to be the selected election but that rascally bad boy, with salty language, yes, the salty caramel one, can, in his over-sized container, no longer can contain himself, screaming out with an aura of entitlement *"pick me, pick me," read me, eat me,* favor my flavor" all thirty one flavors, one for every day of the month, start to shout, like a raucous caucus of politicians huffing and puffing, wheezing and whining, pretend crying for the favored blessing of your vote, *"pick me, pick me," read me, eat me,* favor my flavor" there is even a "flavor of the day," usually a newly minted green poet, a chipped one, seeking to find a permanent home for its fresh faced tasty, word sensation, but after thousands of plastic spoon samplings, nonetheless melty-dies in the corner, alone and forgotten, for fame is fleeting, and not always long term good eating so many to choose, got the poetic ice cream blues, sweet slow aching of loving infatuation for the iceiest of tongued-licking caressing, the only way to be consumed organically *"pick me, pick me," read me, eat me,* favor my flavor"

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Feb 23, 2016

Feb 23, 2016 at 5:23 PM UTC

nat-lipstadt

favor my flavor (the poetic ice scream blues)

the tinkling kiss, tween silver bell and the windowed door, at the ice cream store, announces with the delight of a tingling excite a novitiate, a well scrubbed innocente, a suckering, youthful customer has entered the store all the ice cream poems stand up straight, paying cold attention, the little boy ones, fix their crookedly crooked bow ties, the little girl ones, pat down their crinkly crinolines, all best behavior-ed, shivering cold from hot anticipation, the idea, the conception of becoming the chosen one, invited outside, for delight, the pleasure of melting into sweet, sad loving death, in the smiling mouth of a young fan & reader now, they all know the rules, no calling out! just stand in frozen attention, glistening, shimmering, displaying their true coloration, hoping to be the selected election but that rascally bad boy, with salty language, yes, the salty caramel one, can, in his over-sized container, no longer can contain himself, screaming out with an aura of entitlement *"pick me, pick me," read me, eat me,* favor my flavor" all thirty one flavors, one for every day of the month, start to shout, like a raucous caucus of politicians huffing and puffing, wheezing and whining, pretend crying for the favored blessing of your vote, *"pick me, pick me," read me, eat me,* favor my flavor" there is even a "flavor of the day," usually a newly minted green poet, a chipped one, seeking to find a permanent home for its fresh faced tasty, word sensation, but after thousands of plastic spoon samplings, nonetheless melty-dies in the corner, alone and forgotten, for fame is fleeting, and not always long term good eating so many to choose, got the poetic ice cream blues, sweet slow aching of loving infatuation for the iceiest of tongued-licking caressing, the only way to be consumed organically *"pick me, pick me," read me, eat me,* favor my flavor"

70

we flirted in the biblical senses quite properly Victorian had that dance in the middle of the party her days at learning proper prose became a flaming tempest as we snuck out past the veranda not even thinking about anything but dancing long on the moon's silent song or the leaves memory so long we floated above the stars the sky clouds her hoop skirts crinolines corsets chemise had long fallen to her knees into my arms she rushed we sailed upon the whispering breeze like floating paper lanterns glowing tied together never landing made the way to Heaven real, absorbed resolved died cucified we gathered ourselves together and I swear , though I think of her almost nightly and she haunts me , I have not seen her since. I went on to marry some rich matriarch.

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May 20, 2017

May 20, 2017 at 4:50 AM UTC

wordvango

****

we flirted in the biblical senses quite properly Victorian had that dance in the middle of the party her days at learning proper prose became a flaming tempest as we snuck out past the veranda not even thinking about anything but dancing long on the moon's silent song or the leaves memory so long we floated above the stars the sky clouds her hoop skirts crinolines corsets chemise had long fallen to her knees into my arms she rushed we sailed upon the whispering breeze like floating paper lanterns glowing tied together never landing made the way to Heaven real, absorbed resolved died cucified we gathered ourselves together and I swear , though I think of her almost nightly and she haunts me , I have not seen her since. I went on to marry some rich matriarch.

33

I show no mercy for the weak They’re shattered branches caught in small maelstroms in the air. I show no remorse for bonebrittles They cover skulls with mummy bandages throwing them into creaking galleon beds. With breeding wantons from cauldrons and crinolines strewing quicksilver bars of metal I synapse ***** in shock of their existence. They seem to be invisible wraiths disguised as Presbyterian halo’s in the brain

0

Jun 16, 2018

Jun 16, 2018 at 9:33 PM UTC

yonathan-asefaw

Bonebrittle

I show no mercy for the weak They’re shattered branches caught in small maelstroms in the air. I show no remorse for bonebrittles They cover skulls with mummy bandages throwing them into creaking galleon beds. With breeding wantons from cauldrons and crinolines strewing quicksilver bars of metal I synapse ***** in shock of their existence. They seem to be invisible wraiths disguised as Presbyterian halo’s in the brain

14