"hemlines" poems
up
up
up
they did rise
the skirt lengths
in the sixties
were
up
up
high
the stock market
was in step
with the high skirt lengths
it powered
and surged
up
up
high
the outlook back then
had a light of boon
bright and positive
was the tune
fast forward to 2008
the outlook at that time wasn't too great
the stock market fell
there was an air of doom
skirts were more austere
in their length of gloom
money was tight
the hemlines more restrained
the world of finance
had become more constrained
stock exchanges
and
skirt lengths
have cyclical phases
one year
they
rise high
the next year
they're down
on a flat lining lie
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 6:17 AM UTC
?????????
Time is not flying
the evening hours are so slow, inching by
and spent tossing and turning
my restless mind roams dark avenues
my restless feet roam the bed,
left...right...then back, over and over.
the bed, that was my hammock....no longer sways
a promise of peaceful slumber, flies away,
???????
new and strange images
start to trail me...they're heavy tassels,
tagging on the hemlines of my mind,
seeking to connect...to be known
???????
this late hour, i recall
a forked road, not far from a winding road,
from afar, a child admires a white castle
high as the clouds, its windows, foggy,
its high fence, mossy...on its front lawn
is a treehouse, perched...resting like a bird
inside a very old tree, leaning to its left side,
with a long set of steps...all painted white.
just below the white steps are gathered,
doyens of poetry...seated in their own chosen
corners...tacit, yet, empowered by their brilliant minds
the tips of their feathered pens, smoothly sliding on
paper......strange, that they're waving at me,
why, they could be dead!
???????
i must be dreaming...my muse is showing
me paths, i would think twice of treading
???????
a quartered moon selfishly glows
unsettles even more, my murky thoughts...
yet....my pressing thumb is on my journals
i must heed.........the need.
???????
"o' my elusive unknown poem,
kindly show me...lead me to your home
let my pen give light to your dim path
give second wind to my weary mind and heart,
deny, even a bit of a space......for wrath,
help me, push me...my efforts musn't cease
show me your face...we'll both have peace."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
~ ~ ~
~
Sally
© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
April 21, 2018
Apr 21, 2018
Apr 21, 2018 at 2:32 AM UTC
Sometimes I think of long lace hemlines, following a trail of white petals
and tree branches arching to form a dome,
sunlight dappling the green leaves like stained glass in a cathedral
But that’s not what I dream of.
Instead, I dream of black nights that turn into dim mornings
where we crowd the couch
And you play your guitar while we sing, voices cracking
and when we look at each other with blood-shot eyes,
we can’t help but laugh.
I dream of rain slapping our skin when we run, arm in arm, for cover,
my jeans are soaked, I shake from the cold, but your hands are warm
I dream of alarms ringing in the apartment, smoke billowing from the pan,
Because I burned the eggs again, the steam and smell of soap and grease
when I scrub the pan and make toast instead–
and you insist you don’t care—
but I make up for it with coffee later.
I dream of long trips, arms out the window and arguing over who’s going to drive
or who gets the radio station this time
because I’m tired of your folksy rock and you really,
really don’t want to listen to Beyonce
but we both do it anyway.
If I dream of a white dress, it has stains from the coffee we shared.
If I dream of petals, they’ve been drenched by rain and torn and trampled by our dancing.
Don’t tell me what I dream of isn’t beautiful because it’s messy and flawed.
For a thing of joy is a thing of beauty forever.
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 3:35 PM UTC
a car u-turns
in an ill-lit street.
hemlines measured
in inches
or feet.
a door leaves cheek
bones
lilac-blue.
something ever-borrowed
it's nothing new.
a downy pillow
held over the face.
a secret
half-packed suitcase.
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 7:28 PM UTC
Take me to a place of rest
Of sweet circumstance with grace
Of shared riverside picnics
Of low hemlines and modesty
Enchanted by a smile
Of gentle persuasion
Of sideways glances to court the dance
Of eyelash flirtatiously fluttered
A peek of ankle to stir the passion
Of the brief touch of skin against skin
Of carriage doors held in style
Of expressions concealed behind
Protective feathers
Take me there …..
Aug 18, 2012
Aug 18, 2012 at 2:24 PM UTC
Gimmie that hat of yours darlin’. Let’s race up ladders to the top of the book shelf. I crave meaningful conversations so I outgrow this awkward stage. Like those comfy sweat pants I outgrew, the ones I never wanted to take off. They were too **** comfortable. I think you might be the one to buy me a new pair of comfy sweatpants; force me out of the old hemlines. Baby, this cliché is crazy and all those teen poppy songs never felt so true. Rip these hemlines off, force me into a new; let’s learn to climb these ladders together. And once we get to the top, let’s learn to fall because nothing hurts better than falling for you.
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 11:33 PM UTC
There’s a stain on the floor
I can’t get out.
I put a rug over it, but it peeked over the edge.
I made the dog sleep on it, but he wouldn’t stay.
I drew a face on it and called it Frank.
There’s a stain on the floor
I can’t get out.
It screams at me when I sit visiting with friends.
It waves its arms at me when I try to read my book.
F*ck you, Frank.
There’s a stain on the floor
I can’t get out.
It keeps me company when rains come.
It listens to my midnight rants about politics and war and hemlines.
Frank and I are very happy.
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 6:22 PM UTC
women are not beautiful.
they are magnetic, majestic, magnificent,
they are more than doll bodies and ****** eyes,
they are more than what they were born with.
women are not beautiful.
they are effervescent, enigmatic and evergreen,
they are more than paper-thin waistlines and cherry lips,
they are more than what the eyes can look upon.
women are not beautiful.
they are powerful, passionate, and puissant,
they are more than barbie figures and pink hemlines,
they are not beautiful simply because they are more than that.
Feb 5, 2018
Feb 5, 2018 at 10:24 PM UTC
as Alice poured her tears into an ocean
I pour myself into him
I surround myself in his arms
for he is a ghost, a specter, absent of the living
whispering in my head
but the blisters on my feet from dancing with him in my dreams are far too real
raw.
to the boy who is taller than trees and brighter than the streetlight that shines through this distorted glass
making this modern glitch in my room
unearthly, unreal, ethereal, untouchable
a virus of humanity, running in real time
I put my juice boxes into briefcases and hope he notices
the hemlines get shorter
the nights get longer
he passes me in the hallway and I watch him go
I sit 130 feet in the air
a carnival, a ferris wheel
pas de cheval
my mind trapezes to him
I grow weary of jumping through hoops
Is he afraid of heights?
am I afraid of falling?
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 11:45 PM UTC
My love unfolds only,
where hemlines meet.
In the space between skin,
and black satin sheets.
▪︎ mica light ▪︎
Feb 15, 2024
Feb 15, 2024 at 3:46 AM UTC
The night creeps up,
lifts the skirt of the sky
and crawls out.
The hemlines after British Summer time
get shorter.
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 7:00 PM UTC