"gingham" poems
A sigh signals some sort of disclosure.
– glancing over his eyeglass frames
at the slow downward tilt of her chest
her gingham blouse rises again
as she inhales energy for her words,
words intended to clarify or confuse,
he does not know.
His own exhale and a frowning brow
signal that he is listening-
to judge whether her statement
is real or fancy.
Her words a mercury for her mood
no gauge left as he guesses
seeking to understand her,
to crawl through her veins like a virus,
to know her every desire,
every expectation, even every fear.
He is adrift in his own flaws,
unable to grasp precisely her feelings, her expressions.
His distrust is great whether of himself or of her.
Salt honesty with caprice and tasty fare is spoiled.
Gripping the arm of his chair,
muscles straining to lurch forward,
he escapes toward the door
leaving her words
to fill the hollow behind him.
Tomorrow he may choose valor,
today the fear of authenticity scares him to his den.
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 4:49 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!"
4k
She's my pretty city country girl
She's something I can't lose
Is she livin' in the country
or the city, she must choose
You know I really love her
She's the one I really want
But if she moves off to the city
It's my heart she'll stay and haunt.
When I first saw her smiling face
It was a good old summers day
She had moved down from the city
And I hoped that she would stay
We played games out in the haystacks
We ran races through the corn
Turn left and hit the river
Turn right, you're lost till morn
She's my pretty city country girl
She's something I can't lose
Is she livin' in the country
or the city, she must choose
You know I really love her
She's the one I really want
But if she moves off to the city
It's my heart she'll stay and haunt.
She occupied my dreams then
And still does to this day
Back then I hardly new her
I just hoped that she would stay
Short shorts and Gingham dresses
made her look the country part
But high heels and silk organza
Tugged the city in her heart
She's my pretty city country girl
She's something I can't lose
Is she livin' in the country
or the city, she must choose
You know I really love her
She's the one I really want
But if she moves off to the city
It's my heart she'll stay and haunt.
We'd go to high school hoedowns
And dance like no one else was there
But when she heard Big Band Music
She was dreaming of Times Square
She loved to go out touring
In my pickup through the crops
But in my heart I knew she missed
The sounds of taxi cabs and cops
She's my pretty city country girl
She's something I can't lose
Is she livin' in the country
or the city, she must choose
You know I really love her
She's the one I really want
But if she moves off to the city
It's my heart she'll stay and haunt.
She stayed here all through high school
But I knew deep down it had to end
I knew if I tried to say "I Love You"
she'd say "I love you like a friend"
She knew I'd never leave here
And I knew she had it made
If she went back to the city
And stopped her country masquerade
She's my pretty city country girl
She's something I can't lose
Is she livin' in the country
or the city, she must choose
You know I really love her
She's the one I really want
But if she moves off to the city
It's my heart she'll stay and haunt.
It was two weeks past commencement
When I told her what I thought
Then I dropped down to me knee right there
And I showed her what I'd bought
I looked into her smiling eyes
And prayed that she'd say yes
Would she choose to stay in Daisy Dukes
Or go back to her chiffon dress
I'll let you guess the answer
By the way I end this poem
But I'm still here in the country
And she's waiting now at home.
She's my pretty city country girl
She's something I can't lose
Is she livin' in the country
or the city, she must choose
You know I really love her
She's the one I really want
But if she moves off to the city
It's my heart she'll stay and haunt.
May 26, 2012
May 26, 2012 at 7:08 PM UTC
In class the big black and white tick-tock pinched
my mid-morning belly. When everyone else
borrowed numbers, my pencil lead and yellow paint
scratched out hunger. Minutes chugged like school
buses. Even columns of three-numeraled numbers
minused the bottom line, scold of lunch.
A borrowed quarter and dime from the office,
meant a secretary’s red-lipsticked mouth, bent
and accusing. Her coiffed curls shook my dreams.
I would starve before sailing into that office
for my little belly, but forever yearned for the secretary
to pet my hair. Say, “There, there,”like to a character
in a book rosy with girls in gingham dresses.
But, for all those lovely boats of hot lunches: meatloaf
with crusts of catsup like a winter cap, buttered beans,
dinner rolls
and cold-cartoned milk, not watered down--
Missing lunch, I'd hide out in the cold storage
room of sack lunches next to the playground.
While the others ate, I'd escape at the right tick
into the recess of blacktop and tetherball.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 2:28 PM UTC
the roads are wet
i don’t know when it rained
maybe i’m not
a writer anymore
maybe i stopped
paying attention
maybe i left
behind all wonder
in my adolescence
maybe i forgot
how to find meaning
in ordinary things
flowery air
and lemonade
gingham dresses
and handwritten
letters covered in
glitter and cursive
maybe i need
to read more books
and take more walks
and spin more
beach house records
then, maybe then i’ll find
stars in blue irises
and messy hair again
Jun 3, 2018
Jun 3, 2018 at 11:30 AM UTC
In the morning the mist arises
but some will say it is
yesterday's hubris.
I dont have an attic
to wayleigh communications
or require windows
to twitch gingham curtains
so the deep chill
void remains.
A debutante passed by my uncut grass
but she was no better served,
a dream interview with ******* Club
turned sour, this time of year.
At least she hasn't endless dealership openings
or humoured the word "exhilarating" in interviews
when inventing a rich Stepfather.
Like me there be few visitors.
Thirty stubborn years will pass
but at least she know the meaning.
The pride of the morning.
Apr 24, 2012
Apr 24, 2012 at 4:11 PM UTC
For me, you are Sunday. Today is Sunday,
and tomorrow will be Sunday. Because I am stuck
in gingham yellow sheets, small white saucers
with matching ceramic cups, cigarette ashes
like a crop circle around them as I sip homemade
coffee. The ***** brown liquid sloshing
in the back of my throat, scorching my insides
as I swallow something not nearly as
painful as looking up for an answer to the crossword
and realizing you are not in fact actually there, and your hand
is not on my thigh, tracing the outline of my knee
with your thumb. I am stuck
like a kid on the monkey bars. Deciphering
between reaching my hand out to grab
the next rung or just allowing myself
to fall into the wood chips, welcome
that scraped skin and soil in the worry lines
of my palms. Because calling you,
reaching out to that line, could end with me
face up on my bed staring at the blades of my fan
trying to pinpoint just one to follow around and around
again. Or I could get your voicemail. Or you could
see my number and decide to hang up. How close
were we really anyway?
Or you could answer and we could talk through
how bad the weather is, how we've been doing,
and then get to the poignant silence, that hum
in the background that coils through the wires
into my ear, down the canal, and sinks into my heart
until the pressure becomes too much. Until
I tell you that its Sunday. That I need the 1994
Tony Award winning musical for 3 across, and hopefully,
you'll give me the right answer.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 11:55 AM UTC
The hobby horse it bolted,
To him I'm still attached,
Bumping along the gravel track,
My arms are torn to ribbons,
My head is sorely hurt,
Hobby horse was just a game,
Grey corduroy head bowed low,
A matter of respect ,
I'm told,
It's neckerchief of gingham was checked in red and white,
Caught him on a bramble bush as I went flying by,
It poked him smartly in the eye,
Never saw what was going on,
His brain was made of fluff,
His heart was made of solid wood,
He wasn't always very good,
He was a dashing fellow,
His slender body pole,
Painted florescent yellow,
So all could see him coming,
He was just my favourite hobby horse,
Of course!
By ladylivvi1
I don't know if Americans have hobby horses. A horse made out of broom stick with a fabric head and children pretended to ride them!
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 5:03 PM UTC
I held up that grand quilt in my tiny hands, thoughts rushing past my mind.
That denim piece splattered with red paint,
ah, remember when you wore that for the first time as you picked carrots with Dad?
That cotton piece filled with a vibrant orange,
how could you forget? That was the dress you wore to your first ever play recital.
That baby pink rayon piece,
you wore that on the first day of high school, you could not forget.
That grey wool piece,
that was your Christmas present, and you wore it near the fire. You spilled hot coco on it.
That rare purple leather,
that is too important to forget. Remember, it was the jacket you wore on you first date.
That blue flannel piece,
you loved that one. You wore it all the time, ever since the first time you wore it when you won “best speaker” at a school competition.
That brown cupro piece,
you wore that to your mother's birthday, the one where she got promoted to L.A.
That green polyester piece,
never can forget, could you? That was the shirt you wore when Dad and Mom divorced.
That white lyocell piece,
you wore it at your graduation party, and your whole family was there.
That barkcloth piece,
it was a day to remember, you united with you brother once again in that dress.
That calico piece,
you wore that to the hospital when Granddad got a heart attack.
That black and white damask piece,
that was so beautiful, so you kept it for your dinner. Which you hadn't realized was your engagement dinner with your boyfriend.
That red gingham piece,
wow, that was the time you met your dad's girlfriend. And Mom had not moved on.
That black lace piece,
a day never to forget. It was the funeral of your Granddad’s, and that was the dress you wore.
That grey gauze piece,
it was the shawl you wore when you visited your grandma, and found out she was ill of depression.
That amazing white gazar piece,
a memorable day. It was the dress you wore to you wedding.
That turquoise silk piece,
*too soon after your wedding. It was the part of the purse you took to your Grandma's funeral. *
That white and blue jacquard fabric,
that was the fabric you had for your curtains, when you moved into your own house.
That leopard print intarsia piece,
it was an amazing day. Your mother visited you the first time in your new home. The both of you cried with the rain pouring outside. Nothing could have ruined that beautiful moment together, united.
That satin cobalt blue piece,
that dress you wore to the dinner with your parents and husband. Only to later realize that you brother had met with an accident.
That exotic lantana piece,
you remember, don't you? You wore that dress when you met your brother days later, severely hurt.
That red lace piece,
you went to London with your husband wearing that. You were so excited.
That madras piece,
it came from that cushion out of the four your husband bought you.
That cream organdy piece,
your mother had found it in her closet, a dress from her mother's, and wanted to give it to you.
That deep purple paisley piece,
you wore that on the day your mother died.
And like that, all the thoughts came back to me. All the pieces of my past, fit in together. But it never made sense – that was how my life worked. And there were more pieces, more parts, to fit together, until my life was spread out in front of me. Like a patched quilt.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 3:32 AM UTC
You almost kissed me,
and you shouldn't have.
On the gingham tablecloth in the yellow light,
you lifted me from the counter top onto my feet
putting your hat on my head and tickling my ribs.
You know it's my sweet spot,
leads straight to my heart if you're gentle enough.
I told you to stop and you walked away,
eyes lingering on my bare skin between where my top ended on my waist
and where my dark denim jeans began to hug my hips.
I flipped my hair back around, joining in some conversation too late
between a girl drunk on grape juice and a wedding crasher straggler
in a forest green flannel with camel cigarettes in the pocket.
That's when you came back over and started yelling
some story that happened to you the night before.
You told it well,
the circle captivated, me mesmerized
by how blue your eyes stayed all this time without me noticing.
You had the whole room laughing with your wit and stupid vernacular,
but I was smiling because you looked so beautiful in those drunken
honest moments
where I recognized the person beneath the banter
where I saw you.
I was saying my goodbyes to the carhartt boys and their one night girls
when you grabbed me by the hand and spun me around
like we were dancing,
pulled me in by your hand pressed on my shoulder blades
the other around my waist
I gasped as your lips almost touched mine,
but then you looked down at me
with those same blue eyes
and took a deep breath,
slowly letting your hands glide down my back then to your sides.
I just stared back at you,
wishing you'd forget the logic and put your hands back where they were,
tracing your lips with that almost kiss,
and I could feel how much you wanted to be in this moment
desperately searching for a way to my lips
but something stopped us.
And I think it was because we knew it would only lead to something messier
than where we were at
it would be a backwards romance, reversing our ***** footsteps
in something we've tried and tried to understand
that it never works out the way either of us plans.
We were both doing so well, moving on
but in that moment we almost gave all that strength up
gave into something too tempting and too wrong.
Because we can't really stay away from each other all that long.
I mean,
you almost kissed me
and you shouldn't have,
but I swear
I wish you would have.
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 1:14 PM UTC
ELSIE FLIMMERWON, you got a job now with a jazz outfit in vaudeville.
The houses go wild when you finish the act shimmying a fast shimmy to The Livery Stable Blues.
It is long ago, Elsie Flimmerwon, I saw your mother over a washtub in a grape arbor when your father came with the locomotor ataxia shuffle.
It is long ago, Elsie, and now they spell your name with an electric sign.
Then you were a little thing in checked gingham and your mother wiped your nose and said: You little fool, keep off the streets.
Now you are a big girl at last and streetfuls of people read your name and a line of people shaped like a letter S stand at the box office hoping to see you shimmy.
1.6k
lets dance our way to victory street
if i find a feather on the pavement
i'll tuck it behind the ear
of an unaware passer by
a toothy girl with gingham ribbons
a stooping man remembering his wife
thats the kind of thing you'd like
if i find a flower on the common
i'll save it for you
the yellow ones were always your favourite
with pollen as sweet
as the smell of the warmest soup
or chips on a monday eve
or the smell of your scarves
I'll find it in the field, with the stream
remember the time we saw a kingfisher
singing a song of his own
neither of us knew the melody, the score,
yet we smiled in silence at his moment
lets dance our way to victory street
i'll save the yellow flower and king feather for you
keep them in my pocket for a moment which suits
maybe one day
when it's all a little easier
i'll let the flower and the feather float away downstream
i'll ease my fingertips open
release the grasp
of them, of us, intertwined
I'll stand and watch
smiling in silence
as they dance the way
to the street of victory
for the final chapter of this story
Nov 4, 2010
Nov 4, 2010 at 5:50 PM UTC
You might have seen them through the window,
a little girl pouting on the stool and her mother
behind her, deft fingers weaving the strands
together, chocolate hair in french braids and the
wrinkles in her blue gingham dress.
There is a beginning to everything.
Golden-hair boy, caramel colors glinting in the sun,
pieces that flopped over his eyes and plastered
themselves over his forehead when the wind blew
erratic. He wears t-shirts streaked with dirt and high-
water jeans half-rolled, half-bunched up to his knees.
She thought, I could love this boy.
They're in the field again, ankles itching under her
frilly socks and ants crawling over her shoes. He lets
one amble around on his finger while she studies him.
Holding it up to the light, all serious and squinting,
He whispers, "They are so small."
She remembers this field for a long time.
She points to his heart. This is where I live. He looks
at her skeptically, raises an eyebrow."Is it awfully
uncomfortable there?" She lets the silence grow while
the birds make conversation and smiles to herself when
she sees him listening too.
Sometimes it is cold, but then you remember me.
There are pieces of love scattered around this world.
I have been trying to find them, trying to arrange them
into a comprehensible hope. There's the field. There's the
beach. There's the little stream that carries us where we
need to go. There's you, in that one summer.
It's been so long, but I remember. I remember it perfectly.
She's making a daisy chain while he looks out over the
lake. *Climb the tree for me. I want to see how high you
can go.* Nearly breaking the branches with his weight, he
calls out, in the purest joy you've ever heard to this day.
"You should see this view!"
I do.
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 1:22 PM UTC
welcome
she welcomes my energy inside and gives me tea
calms my busy light without a single word
smiles at my bright aura
a tabby ginger cat purrs on a gingham cloth
blue Delft plates in a row
this was a time with no fuzzy
no noise
no waste
no haste
dimming of all goodness
a woman’s head rolls on the fine sifting sand
dry and warm
a rapier juts forward, pierces the guts of an old man
who carries a child on his back
there’s a red blanket what flies on the line
soggy and now, it’s hard to tell whose blood drips so
an elongated horn is blown from a desert hill
nobody lives in the mountains of Miranda anymore
her ghost has found voice in the echo of the brambles
her secrets still buzz in heavy hives of long ago
discovered and ravaged by trusted traitors
now hanging in clusters, newly unfound
dried corpses also hang (unmolested) in bloodwood trees
where every trace of gall is let flow in kino
the blood of Miranda flows on
she of terminalis
lives on eternal
in brook and vale and bush
in veins of progeny bee
and also
in the crickets of the field
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 11:50 AM UTC
all I've ever known are ****** ex-prostitutes,
madwomen. I see men with quiet,
gentle women I see them in the supermarkets,
I see them walking down the streets together,
I see them in their apartments: people at
peace, living together. I know that their
peace is only partial, but there is
peace, often hours and days of peace.
all I've ever known are pill freaks, alcoholics,
****** ex-prostitutes, madwomen.
when one leaves
another arrives
worse than her predecessor.
I see so many men with quiet clean girls in
gingham dresses
girls with faces that are not wolverine or
predatory.
"don't ever bring a ***** around," I tell my
few friends, "I'll fall in love with her."
"you couldn't stand a good woman, Bukowski."
I need a good woman. I need a good woman
more than I need this typewriter, more than
I need my automobile, more than I need
Mozart; I need a good woman so badly that I
can taste her in the air, I can feel her
at my fingertips, I can see sidewalks built
for her feet to walk upon,
I can see pillows for her head,
I can feel my waiting laughter,
I can see her petting a cat,
I can see her sleeping,
I can see her slippers on the floor.
I know that she exists
but where is she upon this earth
as the ****** keep finding me?
Charles Bukowski
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 12:15 PM UTC
Mother,
you grew up
on honey
and white bread,
cream between your teeth
******* dry against
the roof of your mouth
And Mother,
your dolls
were always
children -- you swore
you'd treat them better,
dressed them up
in pink gingham cloth,
ran with them through
the jungles in your
backyard,
and that backyard
swallowed you
in secrets, you never
questioned what lay
beneath the floorboards
where your father slept
in the basement, you
tangled yourself in
the reeds
Some days,
you wondered why
the walls of your house
shook (they never knew
you listened) and some days,
the dust tracked itself
along your skin like evidence,
giving your hiding place away
You sheltered yourself
in paintings and broom closets,
caressed your clouded heart
against a generation built
on dreams and divorce,
the echoes of war aching
in your father's palms --
Neil Armstrong
landed on the moon
the day after your birthday
and you took it as a sign
that you would never
hold the stars in your hands
Instead,
you cradled
a child
against your chest,
hoping
it would be enough
to save her from
the sunlight in your eyes
Apr 16, 2012
Apr 16, 2012 at 2:32 PM UTC
THE MELAMINE TABLE TOP WITH
THE PINK GINGHAM TABLE CLOTH
You're kidding?
The goat is on
the table.
The goat comes in
( doesn't even bother to knock )&
stands on the table
for a good half hour
as if it were an art installation
or some obscure goat ritual
that humans are
unaware of
as if it were a phrase
in a foreign dictionary
the equivalent of
the cat sat on the mat.
And when the goat
is done
it just jumps down
and leaves
just as it came
as if it were
the most ordinary
of ordinary things
to do.
Even now, I still see
the ghost of that goat
even though it was long ago
made into stew
as if the goat realised
that a time
would come
& come it would
when it would end up
on the table
but not of its own
volition.
But right now
it is standing its ground
on the Melamine table top
with the pink gingham table cloth
and becoming that something that
just can not be
forgot.
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 9:45 AM UTC
In the dark velvet lining of a humid gilded box
is a little china doll:
a delicate charm for her grandmother's gold bracelet.
She lies languid. Her sinews are chains and her bones glass.
Light swarms through her: a mess of wispy snakes.
At noon
it bounces wildly like the pinball game
she's heard so enthusiastically described
in a wildly raucous rock and roll song.
Tentatively she reaches for the stars painted through her hair
raised a bit like brail and hot to the touch.
They're made of fire billions of miles away.
They have halos radiant at midnight.
At midnight
the humid gilded box
is damp and muggy and she twists and wakes
sullen with panic and covered in stardust.
The grime of the moon coats her gingham dress,
collected as she skidded to home plate.
Precious Darling,
Bless her heart,
for unbeknownst to her the humid gilded box
is within a teapot,
upon a shelf,
within a cupboard,
beside a grandfather clock
that chimes at each curly hour and rattles the gilding
so that as the hours pass - as the days disappear:
her darling little precious box
dims like the tapestry her grandmother hung
to mourn the grandfather clock.
Apr 8, 2012
Apr 8, 2012 at 2:47 PM UTC
On a bench in a park I sat alone
to watch the sun go down
and as I watched
the girl with the braided hair
sat next to me
I taught her about life
she lived where shadows roamed free
in a house on a field
with harboured secrets
silently, assuredly,
she mouths out to me
touching my hand
living the life I left behind
the girl with the braided hair
talked with me
I distract her from life
she pranced around in white mary-janes
in a blue gingham dress
with too-mature worry
sweetly, cautiously
she laughs with me
brushing my hair
living a life she wished to live
the girl with the braided hair
watched the sunset with me
creating her own life
where no shadows dared to roam
in a castle by the sea
with fairies, and light
sadly, wishfully,
she rests her head on me
dreaming her life away and I realise
the girl with the braided hair
is me
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 4:18 PM UTC
Lost between here and there
A roadless road
Some cactus whiplash sun juice dry hope heaved onto an omlette of cow brains and mothers stale toast warnings. A gingham curtain on a beat up pickup truck / home shakes its dust in the desert wind where nothing runs only lives
Sep 27, 2010
Sep 27, 2010 at 2:36 PM UTC
Looking down
I pull out the chair,
the two empty cups
still where they were left,
spoons on saucers,
granules of sugar spilt
all over the gingham cloth,
with a few drops of coffee;
I watch them leaving
arm in arm, smiling,
so in love;
The mess aside
I picked a good table,
shaded from the sun,
Café con leche por favor
I ask,
as the waiter clears away
the lovers conversation.
May 10, 2016
May 10, 2016 at 8:26 AM UTC
.
Laughing endeavors with marigold dreams
Soft interventions in line with the seams
Post card adventures with reasons to share
All this I love every time we are there
Paintings of pansies and red apple trees
Kites filled with colors a’ sail on the breeze
Sunsets at twilight that cause us to stare
All this I love every time we are there
Sidewalks with tables of gingham design
Minutes and hours along just in time
Butterfly moonbeams so swift on the air
All this I love every time we are there
White picket fences along every street
Butter cream candies so tasty and sweet
Secret emotions that show that we care
All this I love every time we are there
Books filled with pages the two of us read
Empty filled spaces with just what we need
Vegetable gardens at harvest so fair
All this I love every time we are there
Days of the week as we call them by name
Dancing together so slow in the rain
Sunlight reflections a’ touch of your hair
All this I love every time we are there
Leaves that are changing in colors so bright
Holding you close on a cool autumn night
Feeling your love that can hardly compare
All this I love every time we are there
So many reasons I find in your love
Sent by the light of the moon up above
Tickles my heart as my world is aware
Each time I’m with you, alone, anywhere
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 7:43 AM UTC
we don’t need
to be fixed.
we need to be
aware. open. owning it.
embracing
our pain, our history
our patterns, our spasms.
confession:
I've been fantasizing…
that one day you'd roll up,
like Richard Pryor at the end of Moving,
sitting atop a semi-truck of your whatnots,
war paint smeared upon your dashing,
wearing a tie bandana and bullet sash,
carrying a semi-automatic weapon,
after stalking your **** cross-country,
to the front of our gutted dream house,
after this misadventure, arriving, finally,
at home imperfect, thankful just to be,
there with delirious, Cheshire cat grin,
like a lion dragging in a carcass,
bloodied, brave and proud,
eager to greet my eyes and say:
*Honey! Look what I found!
I found my ****
I brought my **** home...
This is my ****
and I would greet you,
with water-colored greys
inking down my dimpled peach,
in a black and white gingham apron,
heels, nylons and corseted vintage dress,
mirroring that ********* right back,
tray of warm hash brownies in hand,
that got nothing on my toasty sweet
lips dripping to say:
*Your **** is lovely, darling.
It'll go perfect with mine!
It's up in the attic - properly labeled,
arranged and categorized.*
and with that kind of
ownership, acceptance and bravery,
there is no way our stuff will ever be
more powerful than us, together,
merged and emerging,
by way of wings, soaring,
above our shit-spattered clouds.
Jun 26, 2017
Jun 26, 2017 at 2:07 PM UTC
Barefoot she walks along the beach
Retracing lost memories in ripples of sand
The murmur of the surf plays in her ears like muffled notes bowed on a cello, as the sun drips down behind the cobalt waves casting shadows to equal those of her longest night
Hushed colours paint her skin in hues of poignancy, her heart beating in rhythm with the tide as she glides through the surf
Footprints erased as if she herself had ceased to exist
A hallucination in the twilight
She pauses
Salty spray kisses her cheeks like unshed tears from fatigued days and solitary nights
Gazing out upon this vast entity
Sublime in its majesty
She recognises
The meaning of it all
Life, love, death
Images of antiquity play a delicate overture weaving dreams
A skittish child, pigtails and freckles, wearing a yellow gingham dress - collecting precious shells that will gather dust in a long forgotten attic
A timid teenager throwing pebbles into oblivion with the boy who will steal her heart, her kisses, her youth
A young family drawing their lives in the sand, building castles for the sole pleasure of knocking them down
A graceful woman cloaked in bereavement concealing a smile for the reflection of youth glimpsed in the wrinkled mirror of time
She lays herself down on a bed limestone
Silver hair fanning out amongst the seaweed
And gives her last memory
Back to the sea
(C) Pixievic
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 7:31 AM UTC
Dorothy Gale, all freckled and pale
Was asleep in her gingham print nighty
When a ****** great twister enveloped the vista
And blew like the good lord almighty
It ripped up the grass and it took out the glass
As it lifted the house from position
And a blow to the head from the post of her bed
Put young Dorothy out of commission
She awoke with a fright as she fell from a height
Landing squarely on somebody's gran
She emerged from indoors to a round of applause
And her journey had surely began
The people of Aus (because that's where she was)
Gave her hazy but helpful directions
She should hastily wander the road over yonder
To reach Tony before the elections
So she took to the road from her former abode
In her quest to get back to her folk
She aquired some mates, all in similar straits
Or the **** of a practical joke
A man made of straw was quite hard to ignore
With a lion quite lacking in guts
And a fella whose skin was constructed from tin
Held together with rivets and nuts
Such adventures they had, though I think you'll be glad
That I've cut to the crux of the rhyme
Where a meeting was set, their request would be met
To meet Tony in ten minutes time
They arrived and were greeted, quite comfortably seated
It was then Mr Abbott appeared
He regretted to say, to their growing dismay
That their wishes had not all been cleared
"As I haven't a heart" he was heard to impart
"then the tin man is leaving with jack"
"And I'm gutless as well" he was careful to tell
"So the lion can hurry on back"
"And I've also no brain, so it's no once again"
"But young lady, your problems are sorted"
"You'll be locked up off shore for a month, maybe four
"And by christmas, we'll have you deported"
By Ben the Poet
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 8:05 PM UTC