"doilies" poems
HOME MADE VALENTINES DAY...
Back in the 1940's when I was young
Valentines Day was so special
Everything was homemade
from the Valentine box,
the Valentines,
and Valentine cookies.
As the room mother one year
my mom was asked to make a large
Valentine Box
I remember the doilies that we
colored in, we had ruffles,
glitter on little hearts,
everything was pink, white and red.
The big Valentine box was put on
the teachers desk
Then as each child came in
they deposited their Valentines
in the beautiful Valentine Box.
I can't remember seeing the teacher
remove the Valentines from the box
but somehow she did, and a couple
of us kids got to pass out the cards.
We took them home in a paper bag.
But first we opened them up....
Always excited to see if we got
a special one from someone special...
Did you get one from Jimmy,
or best friend Sue
Here's one from the teacher
with a sucker too...
As the years passed by, and I became a mother
I helped my children make their own
small Valentine Box.
With Doilies, red hearts and
the most important part was glitter....
and they came home from school
filled with cards picked up at the
Valentine Store...
But
as years passed on
the Grandkids were more creative.
A Valentine Box
that looked like
a Lady Bug
each year they became more creative.
But
none as beautiful in my eyes
as the big large Valentine Box
my mom made.
HAPPY VALENTINES DAY...
by judy
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 7:05 AM UTC
We used to sit in your parent's basement
with your two dogs on their little beds
in the corner by the old desktop computer,
wooden hand-me-down grandmother cabinetry,
lace doilies underneath all the candles
on the coffee table. I made you turn out the lights.
We would sit there and pretend
that we could find something better to do
than kiss between commercials
or talk about all the things we used
to dream about in high school, how I
got mine and how yours were like
the back bumper of a car that got left
out in the rain too long-- a little rusty.
Your kissing was a little rusty,
but I let it go because you didn't make fun
of me ordering a double grilled cheese
on our first date. You also didn't judge
when I got drips on my dress
from my ice cream cone. I can still
remember the way you'd yell at me
for stopping too far out at intersections,
laughing how I was gonna get us killed
one day, but I think
you just really loved to hear me sing
over you. I think you really loved
me, and here I was playing teeter
totter on curbs in little jean shorts
with a guy who gave me a slice
of leftover pizza. Here I was, burning
down your own ambitions because
they didn't seem as glittery as my own,
because you didn't quite match all the sketches,
all the plans I had on my map. Because
if we were to draw straws I always thought
you would come up a little short.
I think you really loved me and I left you
like a penny in between that couch
we used to sit on.
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 11:04 AM UTC
and we put our hard earned dreams
in a wooden beach chair
and set sail
cross the blue blue sea
using seashells as hats
using palm fronds for tea cups
and get em all mixed up chasing paper doilies
sing you a song that stretches all night long
you spend the dawn clapping and calling for an encore
so we all join hands
and get another chorus goin
because that smile you gimmie honey
midnight and she stepped to the edge of the road
with a rubber duckie in one hand
and a lethal dose of reality in the other
she will use one to make you laugh
then she will administer the other one
cause that's what she thinks is funny
but that's the thing
reality checks always bounce
got rubber duckies on the brain forevermore
sneak down her road
with her hand in mine
and all the mister naturals in the world
couldn't be wiser than the cherry eating
little gnome in the movie usher outfit
sitting by the exit
charging admission back into the world
cause its exactly as advertised
its stranger than freakin fiction
and its heavy brother
sing you a song that stretches all night long
you spend the dawn clapping and calling for an encore
so we all join hands
and get another chorus going
because that smile you gimmie honey
they ain't got too many passion moments left
let em get on with their
neon green VW bug and its
fifteen clowns waiting in the trunk
cause if all else fails and she needs distraction
you can set up a tent and sell tickets
to the sunrise of her surprise
at how easy it is
but deep down inside you know its heavy brother
so you pick up a guitar and start to play
whatever tune comes to mind
and while chopsticks is better on a keyboard
your heart is hungry and chinese sounds good
she lights a kerosine lamp and holding up to the sea
all the lost sailors hoping to find their homes
stop in for tea and a biscuit
it all sounds like romantic gibberish to me
all this play for pay
food for gain
sing you a song that stretches all night long
you spend the dawn clapping and calling for an encore
so we all join hands
and get another chorus goin
because that smile you gimmie honey
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 1:01 AM UTC
We're antique and aware of it,
old fashioned and they stare a bit, but that's a part of the charm, a penny farthing to ride on with gaiters to tie on, keeping the spats nice and clean.
Home for some tiffin and the lady's been shopping down at Macy's for doilies, thank god it wasn't Tiffanys for diamonds, the wireless set goes off and the gramophone's switched on, a 78 Bakelite revolves in the room where the mood's right for romance.
We dance modernistic, the Cha cha's futuristic, they'll never do better than this
then we kiss and say goodnight, in separate beds we sleep so tight and a strip of carpet between them, keeping things nice and clean, men,
you know what I mean.
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 8:35 PM UTC
Life is the prattle of an old lady.
She squawks either too loudly
or makes you crane to hear.
as she sits rocking,
her senile nonsense numbs your intelligence
until you sit bleary-
gaping at the air
like the fattest fish in the aquarium.
your every comment drowns
in the mush
of her tapioca voice.
you sit uncomfortably in her fishbowl world of
cottage cheese,
faded floral print- lace doilies
and contemplate your deft superiority
as her denture clicks gnaw on your sanity.
as soon as you think
a vague plotline surfaces in her mumbling
a new great aunt’s third cousin’s baby
weaves its way into the conversation,
and you are hopelessly thrown
like a reused dryer sheet
back into the colored load.
occasionally you attempt to establish a connection
between you and the venerable wrinkled smile
but she mishears and begins another
disconnected strain
featuring Bobby, the lad turned soldier.
but
just
as soon as you gain confidence
that you know how to handle this doddery senior-
she slams you with a small token
of sage advice
that shatters your naïve sphere
with its mind-wrenching validity.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 9:10 PM UTC
Walking by that isle
hope it will not reach its memories
to me
with all that red and pink and bows
festooned with ribbons, Doilies, flapping doves
Cartoon kisses
candy heart...ache
Doubt all the chocolates of
the lovesick world
could fit in those heart-shaped boxes
Crying out for dollars, Perfume, diamond rings
Isle end-caps filled with promises
carnations, roses
Gaudy sugar pleas –
Be mine!
Be My Valentine!
All the tiny candy hearts in the world
all 8 billion
strung end on end
could not –
Love U
Hug Me
Be Mine
You Fine
Hey Babe
Lets Rock
Luv Ya
Play Time
Adore
You Rock
Text Me
Hot Boy
Say Yes
Sweet One
The only hope of February – these
Meanwhile
Cupid –drunk, passed out
behind some barren trees
Feb 13, 2019
Feb 13, 2019 at 11:28 PM UTC
Just a glimpse of your pretty smile
Makes any day I have worthwhile
When I'm with you I'm filled with love
You remind me of the stars above
You wear that pretty summer dress
Your fragile heart I will caress
The golden fields in which we lay
My love for you I show today
Lust for you I must confess
Feeling things I can't express
Dreams, submarines, and doilies too
Tonight I'll be right here with you
Separate us I dare they never
I wish to be with you forever
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 9:35 AM UTC
tonight she is
tip-toeing
on
little peach teacups,
teetering
on tiny saucer plates,
and
relishing the
somber chimes
left on their delicate
frames
her toes
embroider doilies of the
Universe,
her smile a beam
of
Light
exuding from
a bewildered heart
from
setting to setting
she samples a
taste
of little cakes and cucumber sandwiches
before her,
but
continues
to float
over the tableware
until she meets
the warm embrace
of
morning's
sweet release
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 2:25 PM UTC
I want to mow the grass in your heart
so maybe weeds will stop growing in the chambers.
I see how your breath is interrupted sometimes, you hiccup
out of an intoxicating sadness
mall fountain no one tosses their dimes and wishes in.
I bought you a set of those antique hairbrushes, hand mirrors
so heavy in their silver lace
beautiful like doilies or handkerchiefs for sneezing.
May it bring you silkworms rather than one from slimy earth.
Dear you, it can be okay not to talk about
how you feel and who you love and why you love me
as long as you feel it, please know that I believe it is there.
It can be okay to brush your hair looking into a vanity,
pretending that I am your lover overseas
because you feel that way
vines as big as the Berlin Wall block your heart from mine.
And still, we love
despite the wasp nest, the sadness bugs inside.
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 3:28 PM UTC
Inspired by “The Swing” by Laurie Lipton
Alone allows.
I have permission to find out the plight of my Windex bottle,
cramped into a cabinet, cross-legged and scrunched
into a smaller package than I was ever intended to be.
And I can peek out if I want, spit my tongue at the cat
or let slivers of light slice my face. I can dangle my feet,
pricking with gravitational pull: forward and backward,
high upon a rafter in my bedroom—at least where I used to keep
my bed, now pushed out into the hall
to make room for my ropes and pillows and flight.
A doorbell brings shoes with laces that tangle
and slap me around my ankles; knitting needles
that would surely find an eye socket, and a tea set
with a cracked spout and cold leaves stuck to the bottom
of cups and saucers, round as my words
or the doilies and handkerchief corners—worn to shreds
by the wringing of arthritis and go away.
Please, go away.
Alone allows.
Sep 8, 2010
Sep 8, 2010 at 2:11 AM UTC
My prayer looks like I stutter in front of the dinner table
My prayer looks like thankyouforthisfoodamen
My prayer looks like gets nervous talking in front of people
My prayer looks like two-faced ***** who can't be trusted
My prayer looks like a God I've been taught not to relate to
My prayer looks like I'm cherry picking the Bible
My prayer looks like justifying my queerness
My prayer looks like I'll die trying
My prayer looks like why is my theology less legitimate than yours?
My prayer looks like wound in the flesh
Looks like begging God to stop boys from abusing me
Looks like begging God to strengthen the tendons in my wrist so I can fight back next time
Looks like begging God to put an end to the next times
My prayer looks like plucking fists out of my father's mouth
My prayer looks like domestic violence is not just physical
My prayer looks like ****** violence is not just ****
My prayer looks like I want to call the boy who assaulted me a ******
My prayer looks like I want a better word for what he did to me
My prayer looks like I wish he hurt me and left cuts and bruises
My prayer looks like maybe then, they would have believed me
My prayer looks trying to explain **** culture to my daddy
My prayer looks like fighting back tears when he says victim blaming is over exaggerated
My prayer looks like fighting back tears when his next sentence is how women need to be more careful instead
My prayer looks like forgetting how to pray
My prayer looks like losing my faith
My prayer looks like mourning for what I have lost
My prayer looks like fearing my father
My prayer looks like loving my father
My prayer looks like I just want someone to believe me
My prayer looks like I've only been taught to be sorry
My prayer looks like it is not my fault anymore
My prayer has been decorated in doilies and daffodils
My prayer is told it's just a little girl, to sit down
My prayer has been told it won't change anything
My prayer holds a loaded gun
My prayer can change the world
My prayer isn't sorry anymore
My prayer isn't sorry.
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 9:55 PM UTC
Are you ready for the main course?
Prepare the condiments
Thin oven mitts
Teas cozies
Lace doilies
It's just a decoy
Here lies the kid who was left home alone while is parents visited The North Pole
Try to consolidate the front door
And here's a laxative called LSD to aide your constipated mind
Now go on with the insurrection
And fight Parliament for the sake of the proletariat
Who's names are always written in lower case lettering
The limousine drivers
The skrimpers
The savers
The single mothers with bad habits who have to dance off skimpy clothing to buy formula for their babies because they're milk is tainted with junk
The weary recipients of justice obstructions
And catch 22's
Who have been singled out because they have monetary deficits
Console them
Until Eureka!
Grab some Q-tips and clean out your ears
Stop gritting and grinding your teeth
A new realization is in bloom
When did be aware turn into beware?
When did alertness become fear?
Forget and get over your
Remanding-accursed-sweet-tooth-fatigue-that you let in
Because it's all in your head along with the idea that hyphens make things look more important and scary
I contest all that ********
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 2:10 PM UTC
I’ve been bleeding
black and blue bubbles
through extruded cartridges.
Leaving doilies soiled
on your dressed tables
without placing a touch.
Trying to donate gifts
from my darkening life
to a priceless recipient.
Pushing your peace away
with each bubble blown
onto ink-smeared surfaces.
My mental misfires
cause my life line
to tangle and retreat.
I’ve tormented my threshold
with a shattered appendage
that over extended its reach.
As I twist tourniquets,
I represent one unconditioned
for appreciating being love in truth.
Please, reset my uneven mending
and apply an encouraged healing
by molding me in wrappings of you.
Nov 24, 2012
Nov 24, 2012 at 3:56 PM UTC
This is shameless anyway. No neon sign around his neck, just a plane riding a mini sun and holiday socks pulled up to my knees. I only want him when I squeeze them together. Will there be snow, will there be another factory death on the eve of my birthday? My name was spelled wrong and ****** on. Faked insanity after I hid him along with my mother's inheritance. Itself was insanity and a handful of cherry pits. Her mother could tell you all about it, how it starts with chronic ear infections. My bra looked like doilies and I lined my sternum with gunmetal eyeshadow, waiting for him to crash in my field.
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 6:09 PM UTC
Sour drinks and parochial doilies don’t go together/ My impermanent knee protrudes from the pretentious slash of your jeans/ My hair is the anti-cliche, the counter-perfect, the poofy dry to your flat and mediocre shine/ The sides and crevices turn black within seconds, like marks on my soul, mirroring the hidden cavities of my teeth/ Why do I need a phone when you never call? Why do I brush my teeth when they will eventually fall?/ My blocked nasal is similar to your blocked mind/ Your anger does not affect me, it only kills you/ Her black scrunchie is like the black hole, an entangled abyss against her snowy grandma hair.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 3:45 AM UTC
capture wings of butterflies
sunsets roses, moons and stars,
resolve around elegant tapestry
woven white doilies.
Rearrange
the synaptic fireworks ,
compose Beethoven's next symphony
study Freud's last dream.
Echo, echo....
make the new love
an urgent poem,
play it from imagination
'til realization.
echo......
into eternity.......
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 7:17 PM UTC
As I've gotten older
the veins in my hands sometimes
thicken when
the air is hot
and dry
and I see the bulging
rivers, balloon tubes
full of hot blood
flexing over my
working,
carpal-
tunnel
hands
And sometimes the veins
on my legs look
bluer
than I recall-
when I'm in a hot
bath and
my knee bobs up
from the water
for a breath,
a whale's head-
blue veins like
crocheted doilies
who decorate my
Europe skin
Age is such a
funny thing- just a way
to tell time
my rosy skin
is a physical
clock
and it's the
beautiful
carriage that
transports my
mind.
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 8:48 PM UTC
Looking across the misty fields
Fields that once shone green.
Now sheep have footprints
The lambs know where they've been.
Spiders hang on lace doilies
frozen silk in the air.
Draped from pillar to post
Spiders spinning everywhere.
The last of a bloom grips its stem
petals parting in the breeze
Laying down with crunchy leaves
parted company from the trees.
So now the landscape is a
beautiful patchwork of gold
Turning deeper brown as we go
Winter is about to unfold.
Then we will be dappled with white
flakes of ice falling from fluff
From the dark starry skies at night
Picture postcard stuff.
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 10:56 PM UTC
I close my eyes and dream of winters so pretty that even angels sigh at the scene
cascading snowflakes softly falling, in shapes of doilies and paper ruffle dollies
Winter hats and muffle mitts of red, snowman whispers as red sled rides go by
carnival rides and children full of chide, what a wonderful world of white...
A winter scent of magic, white deer and shadowed antlers of incandescent wood
log cabins with fireplaces and verandas with copper foot welcome matts, come in
make yourself comfortable while the kettle roars to life, tea toddler or coffee lover?
Enter into our little jovial cottage story and stay a while.
Jan 5, 2022
Jan 5, 2022 at 10:37 PM UTC
Time for pecan divinity and sassafras tea , for golden garland decorating mantel-shelves , hand stitched doilies and holiday serviettes , candlesticks , candy canes and peppermints .. German nutcrackers and Christmas tales , warm wine and sleigh bells ...
Nov 30, 2017
Nov 30, 2017 at 7:23 PM UTC
I scraped my knee
and asked my lover if he thought
the blood is brown because I am all dried out and
rotten inside,
or if I am just full of dirt. As children, we
drew lines in cemetery soil
pretended to snort them – I must have inhaled
the cry of someone’s bones
their whimpers
of exhaustion
(my angel in a cloud
who I cry for each day
keeps asking me to just let her die, she is every
unidentified flying object and
she is tired
of needing to stay afloat, even with wings).
I wish I didn’t need so much sleep
but it is probably my fault.
I lifted
a bookcase of pretty things, doilies beneath
porcelain faces and bottoms
mildew
smoke-stained letters
and blocked the windowpane. Light reminds me
too much of
how I became a mistress
thinking I would not take anything away,
thought I was adding more love
into the world – it is
too full.
Darkness is absence, darkness is my
own creation.
I spent my allowance on it
to pretend I am still young enough for bad men to
want to play dolls
with me, twist their heads around backwards
so they will never know of their
private parts
never be like me.
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 1:37 AM UTC
I used to chase needles without thread
Perhaps lace, laced strongly and surely
No doilies for spoiling souls
My mouth an overflowing ashtray
Arms a fracking site deeply polluted
But today I had a taste of freedom
Not full liberation
But unrestraint in the chill of the night air
Immunity in the damp grass
Elbowroom in the dimmed night sky
My brains puppeteer must have taken lunch
Now that I’m not being dragged and pulled
In every which way at full strength
I hope he never comes back
This limpness leaves behind my limitations.
Dec 27, 2017
Dec 27, 2017 at 8:19 PM UTC
If I place it under my chin it might ruin the beautiful stippled ceiling Father paid so much to have put in , against my temple could quite possibly destroy the gorgeous wallpaper here in the den . Putting it in my mouth would almost guarantee maximum spread in just about any room in this haunted house ..These walls are as confused as I , beautiful artwork and photographs mingled with dark secrets within . Joy and abject terror blended together like off white walls and walnut stained wood baseboard and trim ..Two one of a kind lamps , family Bible , pure white doilies crocheted by Mother on every table ..Pine flooring and wormy Chestnut kitchen cabinets will prevent the inevitable this morning !
Oct 25, 2015
Oct 25, 2015 at 8:37 AM UTC