"nightgown" poems
*Supreme Love,
Through a land of barren fields, leads to a nourishing tree, that rhythms in the wind like a heart of bleeding green.
There, you will find me, prostrating in its lingering boughs, gazing into your sky with smiles of Eros.
A nightgown of innocence awaits you in the lotus, falling amongst the constellations of my parallel.*
©Copyright 2007 Written and Edited by Racquel Davis
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 1:49 PM UTC
It was early morning when she descended the steps
to the porch side, teacup in hand, dressed in her nightgown.
Steam billowed from her cup, and with a swallow
she examined her garden of weeds and unexpected peonies.
It was early for blooming peonies; frost, like glass,
still settled on the lawn, reflecting sunrise light of tangerine.
The radiant glow of tangerine
cast amber trails across steps
covered in an icy coating of glass.
Between her fingers she tucked her nightgown
and gingerly treaded the garden of peonies
that melted the frost in one great flower swallow.
The barn swallow,
perched not far from the path of tangerine,
must have also taken notice of the peonies
as he took the first steps
to nest-building. She imagined that his lady bird, also in her nightgown,
would enjoy the flowerbed of glass
that he chose for their home. Sipping her glass
of tea, she admired the familiar swallow
lover as she folded into her nightgown
bouquets of peonies that glistened in the tangerine
sunlight. She took the steps
back to the house, recalling her own swallow’s peonies:
Peonies
placed in vases of glass,
peonies lining the porch steps,
peonies presented over morning tea. With a swallow,
she carefully, methodically lined the tangerine
trail with the peonies from her nightgown.
Her nightgown,
stained with the rouge petals of peonies,
dragged along the tangerine
terrace of glass,
blood red with the memory of her swallow
lover’s peony-petaled steps.
The steps to the house creaked beneath her nightgown.
The barn swallow, quieted by the rouge of the peonies,
shut his glass eyes to the skies of tangerine.
Feb 16, 2010
Feb 16, 2010 at 4:49 PM UTC
Love set you going like a fat gold watch.
The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry
Took its place among the elements.
Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue.
In a drafty museum, your nakedness
Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls.
I'm no more your mother
Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow
Effacement at the wind's hand.
All night your moth-breath
Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen:
A far sea moves in my ear.
One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral
In my Victorian nightgown.
Your mouth opens clean as a cat's. The window square
Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try
Your handful of notes;
The clear vowels rise like balloons.
8.2k
Rugby town, of landlocked streets,
of wasted field and barefaced retreat;
I miss you now, in absence of a friend,
I miss you now, in the verse that I lend.
Suburb grove, of sleepy mist,
oh, battered housewife, oh blastocyst;
you will remain in place forevermore,
and forevermore, you'll become a bore.
Holding cell, of sporting fame,
you stole my dreams but gave me my name;
I think of you: a multi-storey view,
of happy faces, of which there is few.
Still, my town, in debt's nightgown,
the shop-fronts vacate, we're feeling down;
these streets are poisoned with names of the past,
each memoir to teach: nothing's built to last
Rugby town, of weary folk,
the private school is a private joke;
I miss you now, as I sleep through the day,
I miss the old walks, and all that you'd say.
Old market town, the aftermath,
of British summer, suicide bath;
of open mics and closing the shutters,
of waking graveyards, sleeping in gutters.
Hopeless climbs, of dreary times,
of childhood state and nursery rhymes;
each time that I come home, I know you less,
becoming a stranger in my redress.
Clock tower, chiming, chiming loud,
singing for history long and proud;
of Rupert Brooke and the question: “what if?”
What if I was born to some lover's tiff?
To some large and friendless town,
to some body of land, which I drown;
to some active place of pain unknown,
to some place that I'll not gauge that I've grown,
oh Rugby dear, stay with me,
let me live on the periphery;
and although this town seems terribly dull,
it could be worse – I could live in Hull.
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 7:18 PM UTC
A secret society founded as a dark, heavy rainstorm
loomed menacingly one night in November of 1888
over Boston University; Sarah Ida Shaw,
Eleanor Dorcas Pond, Isabel Morgan Breed
& Florence Isabelle Stewart sneaking in their
nightgowns into the dusty attic where Florence
swore she had seen three black cats sitting
in the rocking chairs talking; to humor their friend,
the others followed her up into the dark attic:
meaning only to frighten Florence, Eleanor
pulled a kitchen knife; the uncomprehending
Isabel & Sarah forcing the terrified [so they thought]
Florence to her knees; while there, eating the *****
of the knife-wielding Eleanor, who raising her stiff
nightgown told the others to do likewise until they all
were satisfied, shouting - meow meow meow meow -
old lady Murphy hollering up the attic steps: 'who's up there?'
the three girl giggling their little heads off running
past her down the stairs; Florence nearly tripping,
coming down a few moments later, also grinning
but silently to herself.
'what are u girls doing up there?' -
'playing w/ the cats,' said Flo, slipping past her;
'Cats! Cats!' shouted the old witch, rushing up the
stairs raising her broom [from that evening Delta Delta Delta (ΔΔΔ)
has met to lick talking black cats in secret college sorority rituals]
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 12:28 PM UTC
Standing outside the coliseum
He wipes his tattered brow
As he waits in chains
And what remains
Of a worn and used nightgown
The oak doors creak as they slowly bow
He walks the axis road
The dogs at his heels, he knows, he feels
Pains that have been bestowed
A table is set upon which blades rest
The choice of which he makes
He reaches forward, picks up the sword
No room here for mistakes
The helmet is hot, he feels his breath
As he walks upon the field
He is a trapped snake inside a crate
He raises up his shield
His adversary stood there watching
With a shaking fretful eye
They prepared to fight until deaths bite
Took and run them dry
With one fell swing of the sword
He brings his foe down
The steel glistens in the sunlight
Enhanced with the smell of blood
The crowd cheers and roars
What do they know of it?
The life he has taken
It cannot be replaced
He is trapped inside
He cries for freedom inside
Slowly he dies inside
Inside himself.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 6:40 PM UTC
step one.
you close your eyes.
you close them tight.
then you press your palms
against your
closed eyelids,
until
you start seeing red spots that remind you
of a song you wrote
for someone so long ago.
that someone doesn't matter anymore,
not really, so eventually,
neither will he.
step two.
you wear a nightgown.
the one with the lacy v neck, the one
that exposes your thighs,
the one with the vintage roses.
you wear it to bed to remind yourself
that you don't have to wear his attention
like a perfume
to feel ****
step three.
you listen to those songs.
you know which ones.
you listen to them and sing or rap along
until your throat is sore, until
your chest hurts. do it
until you don't know why you're crying,
then write a song about why
you are crying,
so that when you look back,
you can see that it doesn't matter.
heartache fades.
step four.
dive into a body of water in only
your under garments.
force yourself
to swim,
no matter how much
you want
to drown.
Oct 4, 2016
Oct 4, 2016 at 1:18 PM UTC
I wake and the light of this fine day edges round the curtain.
The birds have chorused and my left foot lies cold outside the sheets.
Standing in my nightgown I draw the curtains and look out at my garden.
Let me pad downstairs, open the front door and walk brief steps
to the arbour of ferns and shells. From a cane chair
I shall view my private corner with its tiny pool and privet hedge:
whilst there is still a little dew; whilst the cobwebs still glisten;
whilst there is no wind, just a grumble of the surf at Porth Neigwl,
the sound my father makes dozing over his paper.
Miniature, enclosed, protected I will place my thoughts
in this dolls’ house garden, amongst the dank, dark shadows
of its many rooms, its parterred spaces.
You don’t walk in this garden; you take a step . . .
and you are elsewhere. Take three steps and you are quite lost.
I hear the kitchen door bang in the manor house,
Meriel is taking breakfast to my sisters.
I think I shall stay here a moment longer.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 2:33 AM UTC
Your Uncle Fred
on Christmas Eve
at Gran’s house
when you were a kid
did the sand dance
wearing an old fashion
man’s striped nightgown
and a red fez
(he got that in Egypt
during WW2
Gran said)
and brown
open toed sandals
and Uncle Ed
turned the handle
of the windup gramophone
where an old
78rpm record
was playing
and there were
glasses of sherry
being consumed
and cigarettes being smoked
and you sat watching
clapping your hands
and Gran would get up
afterwards
and do her Can-Can
like she used to
as she young woman
on the stage
and Granddad sat there
quiet saying nothing
looking at
the people gathered
sipping his sherry
watching his wife
lifting her legs
her white fuzzy hair
going to and fro
as she moved
and you wanted
to have some sherry
but your mother said
no you have lemonade
little boys
don’t have sherry
so you sat
with your lemonade
watching Uncle Fred
and his dance
and the music coming
from the old gramophone
and the smell of sherry
and beer and cigarette smoke
and Uncle telling the adults
one of his old army jokes.
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 5:26 AM UTC
Muck bit her ivory nightgown, as if earth hungering
after her...the delicate collapse of a napkin,she.
Hours poured atop her head, her shaggy, silvery
mane suspended--its reluctant bounce captured
at midpoint...as a spiderweb under ultraviolet light.
Desert sands lost in contemplation, reminiscent of
her flesh--divulge her core as she sleeps in a
fetal position.
Her body spasms awkwardly...its will visibly slowed
from initial motion.
As the paralysis experienced by prey amid the astral
annals of nightmares.
She'll rise into that shine, wonder at the nightmare's
symbology...talk to her garden--whilst thinking of her
time to come.
Silkworm breached the parcel
of time, its cocooned inertia
coarsed through the opalescent
eye of God to Godhood.
Of time's ruination redeemed
in a solitary work...cupped
airless the unbridled form of
a trapezist spent itself.
Opened and closed somersaults
atripped a piece of said space...
nothingness regenerated to
move, to take step of itself.
A self-argumentative abstraction
glowed...undid its silken flag--
firmly planted in an undiscovered
region...her time come.
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 7:45 PM UTC
Evenings were sandwich time
brought in by big Ted
sandwiches cut in triangles
in white and brown
and he laid the plates down
on the center table
and the patients
bored out
of their fragile brains
pounced upon them
and ate ravishingly
as if time
was running out
to eat
but
Yiska nibbled hers
took small bites
her finger tips
holding the brown bread
her white teeth
nibbling gently
Naaman watched her
his sandwich held
but uneaten
smelt
viewed
but held away
from lips
he took in
Yiska's nibbling
the way her fingers
held as if a holy host
not fish paste
and her lips
parted just so
her tongue seen
the white teeth
and her eyes
unfocused
her nightgown
buttoned at the breast
with a missing button
and he wanted
to be that sandwich
in her fingers
wanted her lips
to feel him
her teeth to nibble him
but then
the foreign woman
distracted him
by taking
her sandwich apart
opening it
between fingers
sniffing the contents
******** up her nose
muttering something
in her foreign tongue
throwing it on the plate
and picking up another
don't waste them
a nurse said
ask if you don't see
what you want
the foreign woman
chewed on the sandwich
she'd picked
the nurse removed
the torn open sandwich
Naaman ate
a small portion
viewing Yiska meanwhile
licking her fingers
******* the ends
in and out
and he wished
it he she was doing thus
he looked away
the evening sky
was darkening
through the locked
ward windows
the bright electric lights
above their heads
made mirrors
of the windows
and Naaman saw himself
in his blue dressing gown
sans belt in case
he tried to string
himself again
and he gazed at Yiska
once more nibbling
another sandwich
the same *********
technique
the similar lipping
routine
and the missing button
on her nightgown
revealed a small portion
of flesh viewed
her small *******
pressing the cotton cloth
of the nightgown
and he ate unceremoniously
the last of his bread
watching her fingers
licked again
while outside the window
the sound of fresh rain.
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 3:40 AM UTC
Let Christ give his final sacrament to us through the holy Eucharist of his jizzum.
He shall raise the skirts of all boys and decimate the trousers of all who fear him.
I was a kid once and i know this.
Don't worry he ***** me too.
Feels good if you know him in the flesh in fruity underwear tighty see throughs.
Death plague.
He brings to us.
Through the work of his *****
Whacking off each head to ***
Come one come all,
to the shitshow circus called religion,
**** morals owned by slavery and god,
All fallacy is see through like his ******* nightgown
God is the **** of ********
Get a hard on from your violence absolvance.
**** one another destroy.
Empathy is for *******
God is dead.
Shot with led, fed to the Nazis, in their death holes for the unclean,
God is a ***
The **** of earth isn’t me or you
It's the constructs of dogma,
That they abused us with as children.
Come on now we all aren’t bad guys.
It's the ***** in power.
**** ****
Follow, follow,
into a pit like the communist.
I had *** with Stalin and created democracy.
Chairmen Mao is necrophagist.
****** was was the savior of the Semites.
The Popes are the largest mass murderers in history.
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 1:58 PM UTC
Nightgown still on....feet bare
Tangled mess of curly chocolate hair
Not a stitch of makeup on but that is when you say I look my best
Your knock this morning was a surprise I was not expecting a guest
Silly me, when you said I am hungry I thought you meant for food
Till you came out from under the breakfast table and I got a better view
You play with the bow at the top of my gown
Then pull my arms up and then let it fall to the ground
You search out and make love to my mouth with exploring tongue
You drink thirstily as we both slip into oblivion
Your warm lips feast by licking and nibbling everything you can get to
I whisper in your ear I cannot wait to feel you inside me...every inch of you
An overwhelming necessity to have you RIGHT NOW comes over me
I yell out Don't stop, Please do not Stop as I begin to wiggle against you with my hips
You finally release the ache inside of me as you enter and part my lips
They say that breakfast is the most important meal of the day
Cannot wait to see what lunch will bring my way :)
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 11:24 PM UTC
nightgown floors
episodic
pulses in knots
spread your pink punk drama
like the blossoms on the streets
china town
red lights
i bite off more than i can take
Jun 27, 2018
Jun 27, 2018 at 6:02 AM UTC
I have a pack of letters,
I have a pack of memories.
I could cut out the eyes of both.
I could wear them like a patchwork apron.
I could stick them in the washer, the drier,
and maybe some of the pain would float off like dirt?
Perhaps down the disposal I could grind up the loss.
Besides -- what a bargain -- no expensive phone calls.
No lengthy trips on planes in the fog.
No manicky laughter or blessing from an odd-lot priest.
That priest is probably still floating on a fog pillow.
Blessing us. Blessing us.
Am I to bless the lost you,
sitting here with my clumsy soul?
Propaganda time is over.
I sit here on the spike of truth.
No one to hate except the slim fish of memory
that slides in and out of my brain.
No one to hate except the acute feel of my nightgown
brushing my body like a light that has gone out.
It recalls the kiss we invented, tongues like poems,
meeting, returning, inviting, causing a fever of need.
Laughter, maps, cassettes, touch singing its path -
all to be broken and laid away in a tight strongbox.
The monotonous dead clog me up and there is only
black done in black that oozes from the strongbox.
I must disembowel it and then set the heart, the legs,
of two who were one upon a large woodpile
and ignite, as I was once ignited, and let it whirl
into flame, reaching the sky
making it dangerous with its red.
2.3k
He was lying on the futon, watching Battlestar Galactica. I was in my nightgown sitting in his windowsill, smoking a cigarette, bored, restless & lonely. I stared out the window, looked down at the ground.
“Do you think if I fell out of your window, I would die?” I asked him.
“I don’t know if you’d die, but you would get seriously hurt that’s for sure.” He mumbled.
I took a long drag from my cigarette and looked back out the window. The street was empty and dark. The only illumination came from a single streetlight about half a block from where I was sitting. I stared at that streetlight for a long time, feeling as alone as ever. After a minute or so, I began to feel his eyes penetrate my core. I looked at him. He was all limbs spread in every direction. The flame in his eyes told me more than I wanted to know.
“Do you ever feel like a moth?” I asked him.
“In what sense?”
“I dunno, like do you ever feel like you’re always attracted to something that is out to destroy you in the end? Like no matter where you end up, you find yourself hitting the same lightbulb over and over as if it could save you… When really it will be the death of you?”
He looked at me quizzically. Electricity filled in the gaps between us.
“Why are you thinking about that?”
He reminded me of myself - always answering a question with a question.
I looked back at the streetlight and I could see the silhouettes of insects all around it.
“Oh, I was just noticing the streetlight over there and all of the bugs surrounding it. Don’t you ever feel like that though?” I asked him again.
“Well when you put it that way, I’ve always felt like that, yeah.”
“I have a book of poems that my friend Emma gave to me a while back - there’s a poem in there that reminds me of feeling like that. It’s called ‘the lesson of the moth’. I’d like to read it to you sometime.”
I took a drag from my cigarette and looked at him again. Beautiful, he was in that moment. Just lying there listening to me, I felt like I was being heard for the first time. Battlestar Galactica had then become just a fuzz of white noise. I stared at him in silence.
“What are you staring at?” I smiled.
“You.”
“Why?”
“You’re beautiful.”
I looked back at the streetlight and exhaled a long puff of smoke.
Minutes rolled by. I couldn’t bear to look at him again. I have a hard time being seen.
“Looking at you is like listening to a symphony.” He said at last.
I was caught more by the charm of how he was more absorbed by the moment of me and not the boring television series that blurred in the background, never mind the romance of what had just escaped from his mouth.
Because I knew I wasn’t the first girl he’s looked at like that, and I wouldn’t be the last.
But dammnit, he sure knew how to make my skin melt and my heart burn.
Nov 22, 2012
Nov 22, 2012 at 10:35 PM UTC
cool, glass favors
and steep, narrow stairs,
and I'm just a boy as a murmur.
nightgown elicit
and curving's entranced
and a boy well set up for a fervor.
with all borders destroyed
on the floor by her bed
and an innocence thrown out to sea.
I sit on this isle now,
well alone and awake,
searching for a raft
made by me.
Feb 18, 2012
Feb 18, 2012 at 12:29 AM UTC
Eight times a year I go barefoot to wish upon the moon.
I leave my sterile religion folded neatly in my bedroom closet
And go hunting for fairies in my nightgown,
Following druid shadows across the sloping midnight lawns.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 3:07 AM UTC
The Sun is growing distant
The Earth is turning in her bed
Waking up in an instant
With her nightgown
White in the cold
Opting to sleep it through
And dream herself up, green
And breathe proximity, serene
Oct 26, 2017
Oct 26, 2017 at 2:59 PM UTC
Up and down,
I've been letdown.
Will I drown,
In this horrid nightgown?
For I am only a clown,
Fallen face down.
They tell me to slowdown,
For I am the talk of the town.
I've achieved great renown,
My name has gone around,
My name a common noun.
Upon my head sits a crown,
In my voice a funny lown.
The earth has turned to a deep mud brown,
The grass has gone from my hometown.
I can't help but frown,
I begin to countdown.
Lost in this wedding gown,
My body so rundown.
I want to leave this small devastating ghost town.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 1:25 PM UTC
Dawn breaks. Sliver of light
through shutters, wakes Sister
Blaise, stirs her from sleep.
Bell rings. Chimes loud.
She sits up, legs over the
side of the bed. Bare feet,
wooden floor. Coldness bites.
Rubs arms, legs. Crosses
herself with middle digit,
in nomine Patris. Bright light
through shutters slices into
floor. Prayer said she rises
from her bed. Thoughts race
through her head. Drab night
gown, grey, long. She walks
to the enamel bowl, pours
cold water, washes face and
neck and hands. Et Filii, et
Spiritus Sancti. Lets water
run through fingers. Wash
me whiter. The Christ on
the wall hangs there in His
silence. Picture of Christ on
her desk, hands out stretched.
She runs water through her
fingers, wet, cold. Wash me,
cleanse me. She dries her
hands on the old white towel,
rubbing dry fingers, hands,
face and neck. Uncle used to.
Pushes thoughts of him away,
they slip back in place, eel like.
Uncle used to touch. Bless me
Father. She folds the towel,
places it neatly at the foot
of her bed. She removes the
nightgown. Dresses in her habit.
White and black. Mother said
nothing. Silence and the turning
of the head. Finger pressed
against lips. Dressed, she sets
about her cell. Tidying, sorting,
bed making. Uncle used to touch
her. For I have sinned. She opens
the shutters, lets light in, opens
the windows, fresh air, birdsong,
slight breeze. Father used to beat.
The Christ hanging from the cross
on the wall is silent. Nailed hands,
hands curled. She has kissed the
nailed feet. Now she stares at the
turned head, turned slightly to one
side, crown of thorns, wood carved.
Sister Clare is in the cloister. She
watches her walk. She stops. Looks
into the cloister Garth. Flowers
growing, neat rows, large bushes.
Mother said nothing. Beatings.
Lies told about Uncle he said.
Sent to bed, no supper. The sun
is warm, light on head. She walks
from the window and stands in
front of the crucifix. His hands
curled, nailed, old nails, pins.
Feet one on top of the other, nailed
in place. She kisses His feet.
Presses soft lips. Uncle used
to touch, said our secret, sin
to tell, little girl. She presses
lips to His feet. Mother weak,
said nothing, dying now, cancer,
pain, hurts. Father dead. Never
make old bones he said. Proved
right. She closes her eyes. Touches
His legs, runs finger along. Stiff,
cold, smooth. Uncle did; she never
told again. Father displeased, the
beating pleased. The bell rings again.
Echoes along cloister. She crosses
herself with middle digit. A bird sings.
Wind moves branches by window,
He calls, must leave, must go.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 4:58 AM UTC
the doctor
wore secretly
a nightgown
and poured
a glass of milk.
his wife
disappointed
she had not seen
a ghost
remained his wife.
-
( the wellness of my mother
does not need
my mother
nor does
the wellness
of yours )
-
if you see a white mouse
in a dark city
a light
for which
I have kept
vigil
goes on
in my son’s head…
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 4:58 PM UTC
We've done the battle of the toys, cleaned up the crayolla mess,
Mawmaw won't see the artwork on the wall and that high heel won't be missed.
The dog has finally setttled down, the baby doll dress was a close fit,
it's time to run the bubble bath and try a night of rest.
Well half a bottle of supper bubbles and four soaked toilet rolls,
we finally get the nightgown and powder on the nose.
There she is , so peaceful now, a little angel
don't you think?
Now how did my car key keys end up in the bathroom sink?
May 14, 2012
May 14, 2012 at 4:20 PM UTC
I kissed a man and he called me a *****
the name floated like a swan upon glass waves
but I tucked it into my nightgown,
I saved it away. Then one morning he said
it again and I wore it just like pearl feathers –
oh, such a shine that brightened my face!
I am a ***** I told him, but at least I get laid.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 5:21 PM UTC
You shuffle in
from the kitchen
half stooped over
under the cover
of your nightgown.
Dry lips smeared with Vaseline set in a lazy frown.
Stinking of Vicks vapourub
and oxtail soup steaming from your favorite mug.
Eyelids heavy and more than a little dozy.
Hand reaching for a *** of tissue to blow your dribbling nosy.
With the mug in position you slump on the sofa
propped up with pillows, I've no choice but to move over.
Despite the max level of the central heating
I can see you are still shivering.
A fit of coughing erupts, raw and bone rattling.
There's a wheeze to each breath of your laboured breathing.
Moments pass and then comes the first snore
like an animal staking claim to its **** with a roar.
I carefully remove the mug and fallen tissue
Softly I kiss your forehead and whisper, “Get well soon. I love you.”
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 8:11 PM UTC