"frocks" poems
School is over. It is too hot
to walk at ease. At ease
in light frocks they walk the streets
to while the time away.
They have grown tall. They hold
pink flames in their right hands.
In white from head to foot,
with sidelong, idle look—
in yellow, floating stuff,
black sash and stockings—
touching their avid mouths
with pink sugar on a stick—
like a carnation each holds in her hand—
they mount the lonely street.
6.2k
Mud is good,
Its dead good mud,
It's in me blood,
But where not understood,
Us people of mud,
In the shadow of a gas tank and born on a Mersey bank, I lived on cobbled streets dark and dank,
I played on a ship that sank, and for anything else I wouldn’t thank....... you
On king street docks, girls in cheap frocks, curly locks, time tocks, the boat rocks,
The tanyard smell made life hell for all that dwell, under the bridge,
In Garston L19, it’s the scene, its clean, it’s where I’ve been, it’s not obscene or green, if you know what I mean.
Its community security sincerity and every other word that ends with erity,
But it’s fallen apart,
Don’t lose heart.
I go into town when I’m down, it clears me frown,
I don’t go in me jarmies or me dressin gown,
There’s men with round bellies, toddlers in wellies,
Posh ladies gather in their marks and spencer swagger,
There’s scouse brow teens, sunbed queens,
Hunks and punks, lonely drunks,
Suits in boots forgetting their roots and hens in *****
Big issue sellers, statue fellas holding golf umbrellas,
Coz of all the rain,
But it’s all good, coz we come from mud,
Let’s cheer, why?
Coz I’m here,
I’m me, me names T, and me hubbys P me best friends she..... lagh,
I like coffee and toffee and Roger Mcgoughy,
I like statistics logistics eye shadow and lipsticks,
I like bags and wags and cigarette **** but not beer,
I’m fine on wine if I take me time,
I don’t do a line, unless I’m hanging me washing on it,
I work in a bar, not far, I don’t drive a car, and I don’t say Lar or kid or lad or lid or mar,
I’m proud and loud, don’t live on a cloud, and I don’t follow the crowd,
I’m a mum to some, I’ve got a big round *** but I’m me you see,
I’m not square, I dye me hair, I swear but you can take me anywhere,
Coz I care,
I’m good,
I’m mud; it’s in me blood,
Understood
By Christina Ford
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 7:23 PM UTC
O you would clothe me in silken frocks
And house me from the cold,
And bind with bright bands my glossy locks,
And buy me chains of gold;
And give me--meekly to do my will--
The hapless sons of men:--
But the wild goat bounding on the barren hill
Droops in the grassy pen.
4.3k
We are worn like winter coats
Held close while wild winds rage.
The scarf that suffocates the throat
The cloak that provokes the rain.
While the weather waits and wonders
Whether it will weep or thunder,
What we wear seems outnumbered,
Cotton caught out in the rain.
The coat now hangs forgotten,
Left to rot with wet socks,
Winter frocks and all things sodden.
The ghosts of colder days
Locked up and tucked away,
Moth eaten and decayed.
Waiting for the weather,
Wondering if whether
We will ever be worn again.
Mar 28, 2018
Mar 28, 2018 at 7:28 AM UTC
Him and her
Us and they
I and me
Might and may
Day and night
Land and sea
Sun and stars
Faith and belief
Love and war
victory and defeat
joy and happiness
tidy and neat
Shoes and hats
Frocks and shirts
Pants and bottoms
Lovers and Flirts
Ying and Yang
With a little bit in both
A world apart
But an inch too close
You and him
Him and me
Me and you......
Opposites and Equals
Jul 6, 2016
Jul 6, 2016 at 6:06 AM UTC
The party starts at ten to three.
On the second floor,room twenty two
two vicars who had come down from Crewe were wondering just what to wear, to the shindig going on down there.
They collided,both decided to put on crimson frilly frocks,this was not a 'do' for cassocks or for smocks.
Room forty four up on the forth,was Lucy Ann,a double barrelled name of course,a horsey type who came by invite to liven lively up the night.
In number ten slept teacup Ken,who had never once imbibed,the porter was slipped a twenty,but was bribed to keep his big mouth shut, as ties were cut and Ken found Zen in a brandy glass,
and discovered parties were a gas.
The police arrived to room fifty five and found Miss Sterling doing the jive around the severed head of Fred the cook,
poor Fred never had any kind luck.
There is no escape from the party at Lancaster Gate and those who come are those who'll die
but the party is so flamin' good I'll try to sneak in,got to take a peek in room number twenty seven,where it's said,that the lady there can show you several kinds of heaven before you meet your doom.
Got to get in, get a room,check in time expires at noon.
I shall no doubt expire,naked by the fire in
room, one o one.
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 4:44 PM UTC
six-inch heels abandoned
in lampless corner grimy pennies embedded in carpet
rent's due
wedding band girl "fab polka dot frocks"
waterfalling past knees outta place
on casino bus destined for rest under Ft. Worth stars
now, now ********* borealis speckled dice
true love waits
socialite lip balm and bourgeoisie hips compete
in bidding war over which black face triggerpulls
which black face eyes the ground
passerby the red light the green light
all night diner egg on chin coffee-stained porcelain teeth
"I forgave, I think. I forget."
crowded and paranoid in the left lane the right lane
empty and weak and surrender and soiled underwear in ammonia nursing home
children is a word time is a lie the polka dot and the interstate ain't selling
divorce the consequence of acoustic shadows
reblog undo #sotrue reblog
living through x-ray radiotherapy the dotted gown
never the veiny calves or the blush or the eyeliner
somewhere in North Texas shawtys are in the club
shawtys are backin' it up shawtys are dropin' it down
hit me+hit me+hit me=blackjack mishap
the marvel of the wind and of wind turbines
cognac decade brides the epitome of class and natural elegance
standing like oil derricks and treated like oil wells
so secretive and philanthropic
this taxon remains nameless
casino turned dance hall dance hall skinny ties still a thing
this wine is good. is it a merlot? no. this is purely recreational
for birthdays for weddings and Ft. Worth missionaries
10-50 passengers we've got 53, no 54 #hahahaha #whoops #party
who needs unprescribed drugs? me, me (!)
decomposing mascara sweat on brow the interstate no longer lit
polka dots has got the suicide by Manet pulled up
on her iPhone the financial stress which shudders warm-blooded moms
on her lips every mother a librarian every mother a swing-pusher
but digression next to bitterness the lowest sin
edging the cultural gateway of the old west
miracles in and miracles out of tradition following
the slender bends of middle ancient Trinity River
children a word pattycake a game
and time time a lie we left to museum panoramas
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 8:12 PM UTC
813
This quiet Dust was Gentleman and Ladies
And Lads and Girls—
Was laughter and ability and Sighing
And Frocks and Curls.
This Passive Place a Summer’s nimble mansion
Where Bloom and Bees
Exists an Oriental Circuit
Then cease, like these—
2.9k
School is over. It is too hot
to walk at ease. At ease
in light frocks they walk the streets
to while the time away.
They have grown tall. They hold
pink flames in their right hands.
In white from head to foot,
with sidelong, idle look—
in yellow, floating stuff,
black sash and stockings—
touching their avid mouths
with pink sugar on a stick—
like a carnation each holds in her hand—
they mount the lonely street.
2.7k
Venus on our mountain top
Shutting down your silly game!
Mars, you'd better STOP!
For VENUS is the FAME!
WE'VE GOT IT!
Yeah, baby, we got it...
We are Venus... we are fire...
For Mars desire...
**Quit your loud hollerin'...
This here is MARS!
No fakin'... just mucsles flexin'
We've got battle scars...
WE'VE GOT IT!
Yeah... and we'll flaunt it!
We're from Mars...
Don't come to mock
In your Venusian frocks...**
HA!! Don't you accuse!
You're jealous of our muse!
What is your excuse...
You know you're gonna LOSE!!
'Cause we got it!
Yeah, baby... we got it!
We're from Venus. ..
You can't beat us...
You cannot read us...
Yeah... We're your Venus
We are freed... your dire need! !
**WHAT?!! You talkin' to me?!!
I'm not green with jealousy
All just petty lunacy
To a ridiculous degree..
You don't have it!
Honey you never got it!
We're your Martians
Your only direction
In this contention!**
Why do we fuss and fight?
It just ain't right!
We're each other's light
Against the night...
**We need to shed the armor
Because we need each other
Time shouldn't matter...
WE GOT UNTIL FOREVER! !!**
*WE GOT IT! !!
Yeah baby we got it!
Venus/Mars... they both are ours
WE LOVE IT! !!!*
SoulSurvivor
Rhymesmith
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 4:02 PM UTC
Will you conquer my heart with your beauty; my sould going out from afar?
Shall I fall to your hand as a victim of crafty and cautions shikar?
Have I met you and passed you already, unknowing, unthinking and blind?
Shall I meet you next session at Simla, O sweetest and best of your kind?
Does the P. and O. bear you to meward, or, clad in short frocks in the West,
Are you growing the charms that shall capture and torture the heart in my breast?
Will you stay in the Plains till September—my passion as warm as the day?
Will you bring me to book on the Mountains, or where the thermantidotes play?
When the light of your eyes shall make pallid the mean lesser lights I pursue,
And the charm of your presence shall lure me from love of the gay “thirteen-two”;
When the peg and the pig-skin shall please not; when I buy me Calcutta-build clothes;
When I quit the Delight of Wild ***** foreswearing the swearing of oaths ;
As a deer to the hand of the hunter when I turn ’mid the gibes of my friends;
When the days of my freedom are numbered, and the life of the bachelor ends.
Ah, Goddess! child, spinster, or widow—as of old on Mars Hill whey they raised
To the God that they knew not an altar—so I, a young Pagan, have praised
The Goddess I know not nor worship; yet, if half that men tell me be true,
You will come in the future, and therefore these verses are written to you.
2.5k
Greens and gold of lattice work cascading down the tree,
This epiphyte, so infinitely, delicately free.
A lattice work of green finesse, a miniature Cezanne
With exquisiteness of spiky bloom embellishing it’s charm.
Cascading down the grizzled trunk of gnarled and twisted hand
The hosting ancient Kamahi looms loftily, so grand.
Looms aloft with leafy bough so softened by the show
Of ruffled, pinkish bottle brush amassing high and low.
Hordes of buzzing, bumble bees so clumsy in their way,
Tumbling from flower to flower collecting nectar’s day.
With afternoon the waning sun lies hot on sultry air
And little girls in pretty frocks skip by with not a care.
Summer grasses long and dry stand statuesque and straight
With sweet laburnum’s perfumed heads a nodding by the gate.
Young heifers graze in clover in the dell down by the brook
And the fantail dances daintily seeking insects in the nook
There’s a special, quiet majesty pervading here, so fair
With the thistledown afloat, so still with golden motes in air.
Fills my soul with gentle feeling and a rolling tear, unplanned,
For this blend of quiet ambivalence through my beauteous rural land.
Marshalg
“Foxglove” Taranaki.
NEW ZEALAND.
19 January 2014
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 2:29 PM UTC
Dear mummy, do you remember the day,
That we went out shopping clothes, for my 10th birthday?
When I stepped in the shop and I saw what was around
- all those wonderful colours - I could hear my heart pound!
Hundreds of skirts and frocks and frills;
And I smelt them and felt them, and thought “Buy one, I will!”
I quickly, swiftly, scanned the shelves,
And finally spotted, the one I wanted for myself!
It was a lovely cotton frock, with a lovely white patch
In the shape of a dog - and a white collar to match.
It was the best frock I’d seen and it made my day.
And to top it all, it was a splendid light grey!
“Grey?!” you wailed. “Are you sure?
That’s not a real colour. Let’s look some more.”
“Oh!” I thought “All I need to do,
Is to tell mummy that grey’s a colour too!”
But I tried and I tried, but you didn’t see
And I almost cried, when you said grey is not for me.
“Why mummy why? Why do you think that’s true?
So many things are grey! And they’re lovable too.
Like dark fluffy clouds, just before they’re going to rain.
And squirrels and cats, and sewage drains.
Alright, alright, maybe drains you don’t adore,
But what about dogs, baby elephants and more!”
But you gave me that look of sheer surprise,
Wondering why I liked grey, better than lavender dyes.
“Girls don’t wear grey, ma, At least I don’t think they should.
Aren’t you a girl? Or have I misunderstood?”
“Of course I’m a girl, And not anything less.
But that never crossed my mind, when I saw that lovely dress!
I just really loved it. I can’t explain why.
Could you tell me why you like lavender? Give it a try!”
“Because lavender is soft!”, you said. “And lavender is nice,
And lavender is so soothing, to my eyes!”
“No wonder you love lavender! That is so cool!
That’s exactly why I love grey mummy! Did I break some rules?”
“It’s not because I’m a boy or because I want to rebel,
It’s because I love the colour, I’m sure you can tell!”
And then I waited to hear what you said.
Would you smile or just shake your head?
“I understand ma, why you love grey.
I don’t love it. But you could love it anyway!
You think it’s bright and I think it’s dull!
And that has nothing to do with you being a girl!”
Dear mummy, do you remember that day?
When you listened and asked instead of looking away?
When you taught me how to respect and learn,
And how to stay and understand instead of doing a turn.
Your words remind me of how you let go
Of years of training of what a girl should do and know.
Thank you for teaching me how to deal with my fears.
I still have that frock with me, after twenty five years.
Oct 21, 2017
Oct 21, 2017 at 3:28 PM UTC
St. Margaret's bells,
Quiring their innocent, old-world canticles,
Sing in the storied air,
All rosy-and-golden, as with memories
Of woods at evensong, and sands and seas
Disconsolate for that the night is nigh.
O, the low, lingering lights! The large last gleam
(Hark! how those brazen choristers cry and call!)
Touching these solemn ancientries, and there,
The silent River ranging tide-mark high
And the callow, grey-faced Hospital,
With the strange glimmer and glamour of a dream!
The Sabbath peace is in the slumbrous trees,
And from the wistful, the fast-widowing sky
(Hark! how those plangent comforters call and cry!)
Falls as in August plots late roseleaves fall.
The sober Sabbath stir--
Leisurely voices, desultory feet!--
Comes from the dry, dust-coloured street,
Where in their summer frocks the girls go by,
And sweethearts lean and loiter and confer,
Just as they did an hundred years ago,
Just as an hundred years to come they will:--
When you and I, Dear Love, lie lost and low,
And sweet-throats none our welkin shall fulfil,
Nor any sunset fade serene and slow;
But, being dead, we shall not grieve to die.
2.2k
at the fete du bons vieux temps - Cahokia, Illinois
White clouds of rosin dust
Flew off Geoff's fiddle strings
As his earth dance
Soared above the pulsing
Of friends on bass and guitar.
Tuniced men bowed
To their bonneted ladies
Bedecked in colonial frocks.
In turn each pair sashayed
Down and up the line,
Whirled and laced their way
Through outstretched hands
Of family, friends and neighbors
Shaping an arch at line's end
For all the rest to pass beneath.
All across our country's timescape
Countless bridal pairs
Have sealed their sacraments
Spinning in the whirlwind
Of the Virginia Reel -
With each interclasping of arms
A blessing upon their unions.
Geoff lifted his bow from the strings,
And bowed with his band to receive
The applause rippling the air
Like the patter of ancestral rain
Nourishing the sweet soil
Of our common earthly essence.
February, 2007
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 3:52 PM UTC
Gazing at the window pane,
I see a road with 8 lanes. .
I live near an international airport,
Also not much far from the court.
The roads are always full with life,
and is visible a life taking another life..
A kidnapping here, A **** there..
Dress properly, to do none would dare...
Take away the right to wear frocks, from a girl under ten
Toned legs are arousing, and legs 're visible in them..
Take away a girls right to walk alone in streets,
When on a public property, as a public property people shall treat
Nobody spares you here...
Strangers,
Teachers,
Uncles,
brothers,
Step fathers
And even fathers!
Nobody understands love here, Everything is love making.
A girl in pain, 'cause of rod which in her body is shaking.
We have murderers,
We have ISIS agents,
We have corrupt officials,
We have suiciding peasants...
We have kidnappers,
We have hackers,
We have looters,
We also have sharp shooters,
We also have all age hookers...
Come, see my city,
And then on it, do pity..
Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 9:26 AM UTC
The warble frocks and debutantes,
Soprano trilling nightingales,
The extras dressed as elephants
And tenors with their penguin tails;
They mingle at the opera house
With canapés on silver trays;
Then dine on pigeon, goose and grouse,
To reminisce their finest plays;
When Romeo found Juliet
The crowds were on their feet for days,
When mighty Caesar’s end was met,
The press regaled with highest praise;
Such fine upstanding citizens,
So crisply draped, so brightly gowned;
The marvel of these denizens,
So rarely seen, so well renowned.
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 2:29 AM UTC
I could not vote for you
My heart was with the lame
Pretty maids in open frocks
I could not but fuel pain.
So in shocked surprise my vote
Was cast ruefully
And where perfection danced
My vote ran away.
Love Mary ***
Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 12:04 PM UTC
My garden blossoms pink and white,
A place of decorous murmuring,
Where I am safe from August night
And cannot feel the knife of Spring.
And I may walk the pretty place
Before the curtsying hollyhocks
And laundered daisies, round of face--
Good little girls, in party frocks.
My trees are amiably arrayed
In pattern on the dappled sky,
And I may sit in filtered shade
And watch the tidy years go by.
And I may amble pleasantly
And hear my neighbors list their bones
And click my tongue in sympathy,
And count the cracks in paving-stones.
My door is grave in oaken strength,
The cool of linen calms my bed,
And there at night I stretch my length
And envy no one but the dead.
1.5k
I've won a day at the races
For me and my friend Doreen Maguire
Posh frocks and new hats
That's what we require.
So off we go shopping
Hair and nails done on the way
Well we girls want to lookj our best
For the big race day.
Now Doreen's buxom and curvy
Me I'm thin as a latt
Or you could say slim and slender
And Doreen's just fat.
We went in loads of shops
Nothing seemed to fit the bill
Everything was kind of frumpish
And we're definitly not over the hill.
Then we came accross this shop
In a side street in the town
It's called Reds Closet Boutique
And we both came out with a gown.
We got fascinators to match
Shoes, accessories and bags too
Doreen got something in pink
I got something in blue.
It was the day of the races
We were up with the lark
Had our lunch at Tom and Jerry's
Then off to Haydock Park.
The horses are under starters orders
And I'd backed the grey
Well it came home last
But it was winning all the way.
Now we came to the last race
And we're digging deep in our pocket
Doreen said put it on this
It's called Super Rocket.
Well it romped hom at 50/1
This horse called Super Rocket
And me and Doreen Maguire
Went home with brass in our pocket.
© Hazel
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 2:27 PM UTC
**** blocked by
wannabe rock stars
in tube socks
standing on the block
like the 2001 Rock
ready to drop candy *****
and knock blocks off of
those who would mock
**** strap wearing
disk jockey’s –
cocky cockney Spock impersonators
lock glocks in boxes so the foxy chicks
won’t flock to the professed
smock of Sherlock Holmes
or dock their paper ships
on the jagged rocks
jutting up from the oceanic
tectonic plate –
frocks adorned with Reeboks
shock the locksmith
busily hocking his shops’
noxious fume makers
while the unorthodox musk ox
in bobby-socks
gently rocks
to the sounds walking out from
the talking box –
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 3:13 PM UTC
Precipice candle-lit
camouflaged burns torn
woken fast in ****** bayonet
frocks insatiably milk churned
I tripped and called out your name
on falling prowling came to mind
through an unknown gate, late
and then I woke dizzy
spokes unfettered but meaning less
than before
while wheeling down hills of never ending
clever proportions swung
towards Home
Precipice candle-flicked
dark on the front
escaping to the black
houses of clutter
where no one lives
and camouflage licks
dashed hopes from the wounds
of all fires ever there
inflicted and spooned
undertow slept
as I dreamed
pistacchio nuts in dry lap
watching a harmless movie
go away Scene
come back in the Act
splinter my porous nut
over a hard stone of sultry solace
Nov 12, 2010
Nov 12, 2010 at 4:47 AM UTC
In my room, I hear raindrops
on my windowsill and rush outside,
desperately try to stop
my jeans from soaking through to the inside.
In the garden, I can hear footsteps
from the neighbours,
“What a lovely day for it” he says - oh the depths
that his observation labours.
I look over the fence and see the bras
are hanging behind the jocks
in sequence, under my breathe I pass
a slight remark about the colour of my frocks (for the sexist lots).
The beehive is so ironic,
neighbourly love is so platonic.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 4:54 AM UTC
Laces that blew along with the wind
Draped around her body that defined her
A beauty carved by nature
She smiled at her friends and laughed at their jokes
Worked hard over every lesson
And also became the college beauty.
Twirling laces and silky frocks adorning her slim body and reflecting a grace that never could be denied
Simple but ambitious at heart
She fluttered her lashes many a time
To catch the attention of the smartest man in her batch
Though coyly posing she sought the attention of many a man
Sole for the smartest man.
Many a man came for her hand but
She kept on waiting and waiting
Realising her flaw she worked day and night
Covering her lessons, reading many philosophers,
She worked hard and the day of exam was declared
Focussing on her points and shortlisting her methods she systematically covered her portions
Delighted she waited for the hour
The teacher distributed the question sheet and the time ticked by
Cautiously she wrote her answers one by one
She handed her paper and walked out
To her surprise she saw the smartest guy lost in thoughts
When the result was declared
The Tailor's daughter stood first
Unable to grasp she stood silently meditating
The smartest guy without hesitating for the first time noticed her and passed a smile
She jumped with joy conquering her dream
the tailors daughter walked dangling her plumet, velvet clothes floating with laces
and the mild wind kissing her her silky woven dress
and soft brown skin she trotted to the tailor's shop.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 1:06 PM UTC
“*I suppose I will never lead the ordered life my father led.
And I’ll never live in the kind of house he lived in, with its rituals,
its dignity, the smell of polish.*”
Leonard Cohen
<>
the orderly of an individual life,
guided by the guardrails of family life,
superimposed upon it by a calendar of religion,
that layers into you with a cyclicality of communal ritual,
that rules, guides, tides and hides you subliminally, the individual,
in ways that forever alters how one comprehends the meaning of
belonging
the oven~heated, banging smells of the kitchen,
the hubbub, frantic sounds of a Sabbath eve prepping,
vacuuming house cleansing, far more than just a cleaning,
the young boys in their jackets, white shirts, for Friday night
candle lighting, the girls in Sabbath frocks, assisting Mother,
but by
Saturday morning sermon time
those boy’s shirts
were always untucked, sweaty and always less white,
from running around outside synagogue from playing Ringolevio,
for which you were justly critiqued by a mother’s glare-stare
this play-within-a-play poem,
played out in homes nearby,
for community was very defined by geography,
and the candles of Sabbath oft visible in every home as
Fathers & sons returned home from Friday Night services
where the Sabbath’s peace was welcomed like
a new bride.
but the knowledge that this scenario was occurring in
homes around the world in almost identical custom,
lent a larger perspective to even the youngest, of a
belonging
As for me, I passed on that life,
not as well as it was given to me,
but as best I could, or honestly, desired,
but because I the individual inherited these
ways, words, knowledge and sensations and deemed
failing to transmit would be a grievous denial of a heritage
were I to not gift them this order,
the dignity of these rituals,
the pungent smell of a polished home,
a life of intuiting
belonging,
be longing.
Feb 18, 2024
Feb 18, 2024 at 10:09 AM UTC