The Pansies curtsied deeply, in their flouncy purple dress,
To the yellow Jonquils; and then only to impress.
And Amaryllis hides her newly naked-lady stem,
But her bouffant clothing opens, at each thrill of puffing wind.

The Bluebell always bows her head, when saying any grace,
Though Iris has Apollo's tears, fresh on her upturned face;
While Daffodil has sunshine, in her ringing petticoats-
Poor Honeysuckle is quite gone; all eaten up by goats.

The night smells of popcorn, spilled wine and beach *****
Plastic sugar sweet.
As Baby and Johnny start to dance,
So do a few thousand beauties
In cut off shorts, white pumps and ******* tops
Or flouncy dresses, and seamed stockings
Dancing, dancing, with abandon and wistful delight,
Remembering the first time they ever saw this film
And had their hearts broken by the now dead actor
And his shy (but sassy) girl.
As the credits roll ***** bounce across the fields
And we all keep dancing
Desperate to remain
In the moment
Dreaming 'til dawn.

everyone has gone back to suburbia,
city streets are dangerous, if you look
at someone cross eyed, it earns you death.

don’t celebrate this madness,
mourn it in black, it has a taken
a pandemic to school me again.

this a broadcast, shout out, email me
if you know how I’m feeling and can
share what other mutualities crisscross.

Do you like Jazz? Me neither.
Flouncy bouncy dresses? Nah!
Sweats? Unnecessary, I can sweat
just by concentrating.

You like me, own soulful bluesy singers,
femme fatales, who coax and croon,
wet the spun threads of subtle emotive,
who live by light of candles votive,
I live in black, day and nighttime,
write in midnight blue, a woman who!
takes no b.s. and doesn’t ever take no
for an answer...

feathr'y
flowy
fluffy
flouncy
floating in her feath'ry, flowy tutu
layered pink, fluffy, flouncy; sous-sous

I guess I don't exactly know what I want to be
I don't know what I think the definition of physical beauty is
Because there are people I see with very flouncy curly and glistening golden blonde hair
Then I see Asian girls with their glossy raven black locks
I see girls with STUNNING blue eyes
And girls with magnificent hazel eyes
I see two of my friends who have brown eyes like me, only they have these BEAUTIFUL maple eyes
I see girls with heart-shaped jawline
I see girls with rounder jawlines
I see girls with tiny waists
And curvy girls
I see girls with cute little smiles
And bright, wide grinning smiles
ALL OF THEM ARE SO BEAUTIFUL
I don't even know WHAT I want to be
I just know that I wish there were a celebrity
Who existed
Who was WILDY adored and loved by everyone
Who was successful and never criticized
Who was not necessarily UGLY
But was undeniably not particularly traditionally physically pretty
But her soul was LOVELY
Her personality was imperfect
And she ******* up
But she was still a GOOD PERSON
and her values and what was inside her was what made her so globally popular
Because maybe if I stopped seeing everybody as so unbelievably BEAUTIFUL
then I would stop CARING that I was so hideous
I just really wish
"Pretty" didn't have a definition
But varied
You could look at someone
And what each person found pretty
Was COMPLETELY different
because I care way too much
because I hate hearing that I am "pretty" when I so clearly am not
but it's even worse when I hear that I'm not
Or if someone edges around it by saying: But you are a beautiful person INSIDE
avoiding admitting that I'm ugly
I hate hearing about how ugly I am
because it reminds me
but I also hate hearing about how supposedly "pretty" I am
because immediately in my head
that little voice that sounds exactly like my own
except very cruel and sadistic
The mean-streak part of me
It whispers in my mind
THEY ARE LYING TO YOU
YOU ARE UGLY AND HIDEOUS
AND NO ONE IS EVER GOING TO CARE ABOUT WORTHLESS YOU.
BECAUSE YOU ARE NOT WHAT SOCIETY DEFINES AS PRETTY
YOU ARE WORTHLESS AND UGLY.
DON'T LISTEN TO THEIR PROMISES THAT YOU ARE PRETTY
BECAUSE YOU ARE NOT.
that is all I hear in my head.
or if I hear OH BUT YOU ARE A BEAUTIFUL PERSON INSIDE THAT IS MORE IMPORTANT
the voice whispers: did you recognize that? Hear it? See it?
They specifically avoided saying you were physically pretty
So whether they are right or not about what is more important, inner or outer beauty
They have still admitted to you
In an underhanded way
That you ARE ugly
they have confirmed what I have always told you
YOU ARE NOT PRETTY
YOU NEVER WILL BE
and do you know what?
I don't care anymore about what is important
I want to be physically beautiful
It's like when you just really want cake
it might be unhealthy
It might not matter
It isn't good to obsess over
but you JUST WANT IT
you want it so badly
and you can't function properly without it
until you have that desire given in to
but I can't tell them that anymore
so they don't have to lie to me to spare my feelings which makes me feel awful
or so they don't have to be honest and either tell me I'm ugly or edge around it by bringing up inner beauty and using a BUT before it
because that makes me feel even WORSE
I will not talk about it anymore
I will just let it dominate my poetry
because I must write
I must WRITE to keep it from consuming me
that is all I have
If I can't speak of the pain anymore
I must write.
that is my escape.

There is no honest answer.
Worlds fall from our wind-chapped lips
Like marbles, heavy on our tongues,
Hitting the ground with a muffled splat,
As we fumble on all fours trying to retrieve them.

There is no honest answer.
We push and shove our muddled consciences, unprotected, into  a dark alleyway
Full of lost chances and half hearted embraces.
Until there is nothing left but a small hollow pang in the bottom of our guts.

There is no honest answer.
Openly, we ask others what we are too afraid to ask ourselves, even in the private of our own minds.
Truth sits at the bottom of our flouncy ideals and broken promises,
Like the last drops of 2% milk,
That only come out of the carton once it's lying face down on the dumpster floor.
There is no honest answer.
                                                                                   MB.

I want to roll down that grassy hill,
Again in Mississippi bare-footed
In my ‘petticoated’, polka-dotted flouncy dress,
Sashes hanging untied down the back.

And walk through the fragrant gardens
Of brogan wearing old-maid great aunts;
Hiding half-way behind her dress,
Clinging to the wrinkly flesh of my Granny’s arm.

I've more curves than are fashionable,
And I love every single succulent contour.
'Pin-up petite' I like to call it,
A considerable ***** and bottom, fifties style,
Not the angled, jutting hipbone sleekness
That is so coveted, and Kate Moss-esque.
I like breaking the mould,
And dress to suit my out of era shape
In wiggle dresses, flouncy skirts, petticoats,
Red, and bold, and look-at-me,
Black hair, red lips, a look twice smile,
That's my style.

Flimsy, flouncy little nightie
Which doth cling e'er so tightly
To your pendulous, saggy ****
And your smelly hairy bits
Keeping all just out of sight
Through the hours of the night
Covering things so unsightly
Thank god for that little nightie

She wore a blue dress,
a brilliant blue dress,
full to the brim with memories,
she wore it the last time her eyes met his,
the time when they kissed,
when they last touched,
one and one made two,
both together really wild.

That was the effect of the ladylike gown,
just an old-fashioned and feminine frock,
a splurge of loud blue flowers,
buttoned up the front,
tied at the back in a flouncy cotton bow,
dominated by her feminine wiles,
how they loved and laughed and smiled,
at each other,
for a while,
there were no others.

They loved,
they died,
well the feelings did,
and so they cried,
all for the sake of the blue dress,
dragged out of the wardrobe,
as the weather got hot,
a revelation of memories.

As,she suddenly realised,
she hadn't forgot!
(C) Livvi

The clouds fell from their lofty perch onto her belly / wrapped in layers of time this Matryoshka/ flouncy in snowflakes / cold startles the birds / the trains are stillborn / marshes float on ice / and nights look like silence //

She fashions a snowman / they speak in parables of time / is it shaped like a sisal string or a potter’s wheel / does it appear like a falling star / disappear like a glacier / is it syllabic conversations at dusk / or chimneys brewing clouds into sky / while fires roast limbs of arthritic trees //

Her sundial is circular / like the lunacy of seasons / His, fractalizes into uncertain snowflakes / transformed by an arrow flung far to an unknown distance / Gaia awakens in ****** spring / a forced maturity squinting at trains that furrow the land / bleeding in cherry blossoms / wealthy as the emerald leaves she wears to a country gala //

The snowman computes time / stray facts the winter wind whispered into his ear / as he melts into January’s cloak / like tears shed for sparkling fractals lost forever / The Earth believes in the manner of faith , he will resurrect on her sundial / as she kisses time into momentary stillness, turns water into ice //

Watching you
lighting a cigarette,
your long legs
smiling beneath
that flouncy,
breeze-blown
skirt
reminds me
why I still bother
to breathe
at all.
- mce

A child of autumn lives next door,
her face glows with amber blush;
Her lovely voice floats through the air,
so soft and tender is her touch.

Just sweet sixteen with freckles,
and bright ribbons in her hair;
With a flouncy skirt of gingham,
as she prances across the square.

She gathers leaves in woven baskets,
then brings them back to me;
This gesture always warms my heart,,
as we share some cinnamon tea !

Her smile is quite infectious,
as she munches on a scone;
But soon she rushes off to see,
her mama and papa at home.

Endearing child of autumn,
forever close in my aging heart;
Your life holds years of happiness,
when from this earthly world I part.

It could be a bear, a hat, a plane -
the choice is yours to ascertain.

Kites zoom and roar
high above the crowds.
A sallow sun peeks through trees
and shines in hesitant rays
upon strollers and the mothers pushing them.

All the while,
the sky lays it's
flouncy, protective blues
across the world,
ensuring that no dream
is too much.

A shame, a pity -
that there shall be no sky
when we're buried six feet deep.

**** me if you must,
but don't take away my sky.

turned twenty one,
which means that things illegal in Texas now
are really bad ones, no innocence defense available,
all the adult sinful pleasures mine all mine

and the men look at me more carefully

oh they still card me to be sure,
but what
they want really is just
my name and address

when not wearing my cutoffs,
surprisingly lean toward flouncy dresses
pretty angelic ***** interesting,
men so dumb,
they rather imagine what’s inside using a road map
they imagine, than convent convenient signs  
of a nice tight short skirt that reveals
all and suggests nothing

you may recall that shy cowboy,^
feet shuffling, getting himself in trouble,
blushing loudly, when his pretense smooth goes awry,
it’s over a year and he’ll be picking me up,
with a peck and a hey darlin’
and calling me by my pet name,
Velvet Hammer Ale,
ale, the copper color of my hair,
velvet, my love for him,
a hammer for fools and my tough as nails, stout insides

yup turned twenty one

My muse sleeps in the ****
She rollicks til dawn
And moans at the moon
She told me once she had
A sawtooth fling with a
        luckless Spaniard
                in Madrid
                in spring
Ragged and religious love
And she danced with him
Wearing flouncy whim
Her petticoat showed

        And the red cape flowed
                the red cape flowed

She walked out on me
When my well ran dry
When I couldn't fly
I pictured her
        ***** in hand
Listening to some
        lost-boy band
Woozy from the trancing beat
Purring in a poet's ear

        Oh the promises my dear
              the promises my dear

She dropped in late one night
Dressed in drama
        stained with rhyme
As I was taming a cranky line
And she winked at me
        like things were fine
As if she hadn't been gone
        but an eye's blink
I opened the door and
Poured her a drink --

        I called her home
        I called her.       home.

Bubbly bubbles all flimsy and flouncy..globules of globoids so blithe and bouncy..fluttering along like flippant butterflies..floating through the air, colourful crystallize

Blowing bubbles all adhering together, sticking like glue and as light as a feather..such pretty little puffs of perfection, all ready to go pop amidst an interconnection..driblets and droplets of translucent beads, wandering amongst an atmosphere as the wind supercedes

Oh how I love to see a tiny tot blowing bubbles..lost within their loveliest of carefree troubles, puffing and panting on the plastic bubble stick..in short, sharp breathes, fast fleeting and quick..An eagerness of enthusiasm follows them around, bursting their bubbles betwixt a frenzied sound...

sleep comes different
with the variety of fabrics

here

linen is dense and natural

as is cotton
only lighter

this cover was not chosen
with the full blown roses
and darkling pink

nestling in the airing cupboard
lower I found it and thought a

change may be nice
and so it is
we sleep lovely

only

i cannot find the pillowcases
that are remembered for being
flouncy

perhaps were discarded with no
design merit

there is no remembrance of the
gathering

yet will remain here as a sleep aid

7°