"skirted" poems
Speaking of broken hearts
and mended fenced in mem'ries
I am painting skies
of tangerine, saffron
& an illuminated lilac hue
against the starkly contrasted crisp cornflower blue, stretching canvas that is
along with all the
other blindingly beautiful colors of a twilight sky
And those dripping cotton candy stratospheric clouds
Ice crystals freezing into supercooled
water droplets
Streaking the sky in cirrus whispers
..I hear them whisper, "hello"...
Blinding beauty
through unadulterated sunlight
I am fleeced like a lamb
watching in awe,
..in wonder
then stomping sounds
of coming thunder,
Finding depth and height
out in the stratosphere
Blinded by the
After Light
or afterglow
affected by the amount of haze
I'm in a daze
...as I am reaching
High above the fading light
of a brilliant early fall sunset
I take a big breath
of that sumptuous air
and twirl my skirted legs
my painted toes
where I know
I am back
to solid ground
Appreciating the last time
I say sleep well
to you my dear
summertimes sweet mem'ries
and the fun we had this year.
Cherie Nolan © 2016
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 2:39 PM UTC
Time to be in Tune with my own Best Dad
Much would it take to cause Celebration
Sermons apart, yet Insights I just had
Took me some Yards taped for Inspiration
Rarely such Species can just Understand
The Skirted *** most Males eliminate
Still most Sires force their Sons on Demand
To spout their Seeds for Pride to propagate
If you can recall those Sales-Slips within
How Footed and Devote your Presence was
Tri-Dimed Corporate; Or Sea-Tigers therein
Is just the Greeting Card I'll Love at last.
Senior come hither; In Prime Deposit
Father my Mentor; In Wisdom ask it.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 5:08 AM UTC
There's an earthy blood-smell to lavender
It surprises you when the nose gets too close
Once you get past the modest skirted blooms
To find the green blood of torn out flower
Fetid black dirt clings to blood ragged roots
Blue-black blood of returning vena cava
Lavender scented babies and lavender tinted men
Planted for eternity underneath fertile soil
And blood-rise suns bake their tender heads
Blood drenched scent tempts the droning insects wing
Their distilled spirits resurrected in hives
Their earthly blood now ours to imbibe.
Oct 14, 2011
Oct 14, 2011 at 1:18 AM UTC
The flag, a white crescent and single star
on a field of crimson — kırmızı, not just 'red' —
tells of Islam. The men drinking beer and rakı
at pavement tables, even in Ramadan,
and the short-skirted, bare-armed girls,
parading with bare-faced confidence,
tell of other influences;
but at the appointed hour we hear the call to prayer
from the marble minaret, a slim finger
pointing to the sky beside shining domes
reflecting the vault of heaven.
At five a.m. we hear it faintly through hotel double-glazing,
or at sunset, as a peaceful accompaniment to the spectacle,
and we remember where we are.
But especially at the midday hour,
when the voice of the muezzin echoes
over noisy street or market,
and from another minaret and another
the duet becomes a trio, a quartet
of different melodies, out of tune
with each other but never discordant
(in these tones the word has no meaning),
the faithful are reminded, however busy they may be,
that their God requires something of them.
Then, entering the cool calm of the mosque,
entering the quiet forest of pillars,
feeling through the soles of our bare feet
marble polished by the tread
of generations of worshippers,
fine-grained wood,
the rich softness of crimson carpet,
we luxuriate in the textures as they combine
with the formal floral patterns of the tiles,
the ornate calligraphy of the inscriptions,
the rich colours of the glass,
and we realise that the builders of these mosques
knew what they were doing, so many years ago,
how peace can enter the soul
through the senses.
Aug 6, 2016
Aug 6, 2016 at 11:43 AM UTC
They enter the café just as some sappy pop song is playing
They order then immediately hug
Embrace
Swaying to one side, together, like the wind
Encircling the leaning tower of Pisa
Then teetering to the other solstice
Foot to foot, smile to smile, hand round skirted waist
Forearm resting on his tall blazered shoulders
This is forgivable in the young
Those teeny-boppers with defiant hair-cuts and posters
However, he has peppered hair
She, though voluptuous and tanned,
Must be in her 30s.
“Affair.”
My cynical devil snickers, between sips
But I sit mesmerized, and for the first time ever
Envious.
The chairs and the tables somehow seem more distant
The song now sounds as if it’s funneled through some crackling phonograph
The very light disentangles itself from stones
It’s as if a sky has opened up in my chest
Flying high overhead, one lone raven,
Its slow shadow
Gliding across my heart
Oh, how I miss you
5 states away
I see your smile on magazine covers
I vaguely sniff your scent on passing women
Yet you remain elusive - immaterial, haunting,
While this visceral assault
Leaves me bewildered - empty
An echo in a chiaroscuro cavern
Fading for thee
Jul 28, 2016
Jul 28, 2016 at 5:31 PM UTC
With dusty wings
and awkward flight
Your tiny buffalo body
bounces on the
delicate glass surface.
An exaggerated shadow
announces your plight.
Is it the beauty of
the butterfly
that spurs you.
Why so frustrated;
so persistent?
Do you know of emotion?
Maybe you do,
and it is your own
dark turmoil
that draws you to the
glass skirted flame.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 7:54 PM UTC
777
The Loneliness One dare not sound—
And would as soon surmise
As in its Grave go plumbing
To ascertain the size—
The Loneliness whose worst alarm
Is lest itself should see—
And perish from before itself
For just a scrutiny—
The Horror not to be surveyed—
But skirted in the Dark—
With Consciousness suspended—
And Being under Lock—
I fear me this—is Loneliness—
The Maker of the soul
Its Caverns and its Corridors
Illuminate—or seal—
4k
Early.
I became the bottom of a shoe. Worthless, unwarranted, but there, needed.
Rubber and worn, worn away to the thinnest part, and still used.
Hands became words, and hugs became extinct, tears became invisible, the 'childhood' was erased.
Diabetes became my mother, known as rejection, and depression, her twin, known as rage.
Insulin and Fluoxetine became my equally demanding toddlers; I was feeding a family of 6 at the age of 8.
Later.
I watched my brother become a tortured child, in his sleep - the sound of his waterproof sheets would keep me awake, as i lay worried that his screams were words he could not utter at his age.
I watched my sister grow cold as she watch her house burning down around her, and crying tears at the loss of her childhood, her eyes burned at me.
As i looked in the mirror, when i cried, i would flush the toilet just to hear what it feels like to be washed away.
Disappeared down the drain.
I shrunk 4 inches in 4 years, one inch for each bottle of poison, that said 'drink me'.
I shrunk 4 inches in another 4 years for every word that said 'eat me'.
I shrunk so that I could not grow, up.
Later still.
I became broken, hard to 'fix'.
I became lost, without a cause.
I became the rebel, odd-one-out.
Family grew fractured, broken mirrors lay on all our floors, that we skirted around, lest we should bled it all out, what had happened.
Relationships broke, one after another, after, another, after, another, after....
Faces lost feeling, words became laws, feelings became problems, love became, raw and unused.
We dissipated, dissolved, into a million pieces of broken, into the world, held together by very thin words of 'family'
Now.
I am not a child anymore.
It's time to be heard.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 7:01 PM UTC
Blue is the color of the dragon-winged girl,
The color of the girl whose life was lost.
Blue is the color of the deity girl,
The color of the one who wouldn't pay the cost.
Teal is the color of the water-loving girl,
The girl who lead into a new world.
Teal is the color of the frightened-eyed girl,
The girl who into a new life was hurled.
Grey is the color of the logical girl,
The color of the girl who teaches demons how to love.
Grey is the color of the snake-tongued girl,
The color of the boy who thought he was above.
Green is the color of the story-telling girl,
The color of her brother who would fight and **** to own.
Green is the color of the blind and mute child,
The color of those who may have yet to be known.
Orange is the color of the reckless girl,
The color of the girl filled by desire,
Orange is the color of the samurai man,
The color of the man filled with fire.
Red is the color of the five-fold girl,
The color of the demon at the core.
Red is the color of the half-vampire,
The color of the one who wanted more.
Purple is the color of the plaid-skirted girl,
The color of the feral demon child.
Purple is the color of the girl who lived in the sky,
The color of the eyes that watch the wild.
White is the color of the once-afraid man,
The color of the child who never got to have a say.
White is the color of the defender in the skies,
The color of the one who took her own life away.
Black is the color of the white-pawed cat,
The color of the girl who shows one their mind.
Black is the color of the silhouetted man,
The color of the world they left behind.
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 1:09 AM UTC
Young women know all about style -
how to fix the decimal point
between them and their mothers
differentiate themselves
from Special K over 40s wanna bees
mini skirted and high heeled
trying to catch their husband’s eye
Yummy mummies in their 30’s
are separated from the new stock
by firm elastic flattened midriffs
no bulge or wobble
unlined skin taut sometimes
navel peirced or *******
their legs wear the 4” heels again
on winklepicker pointed toes
for a mid century crop
of bunioned feet.
No scraggy necks or waddle
no tea tray arses only
plump peaches
in the bend over show
of skimpy, lacy thongs
of ****** floss
So, **** femme fatale is cool
body object the thing to be
flouncing and preening
flirting and *******
random hook-ups on the run
in the alleys of time on the net
in the warp of space
Killer ! Whatever !
Wicked ! Yeah feral !
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 1:08 AM UTC
So this is as it was, the old wound still itches
Glimpses of your face and my heart still twitches
If time heals all wounds then what am I to do
When my life has been frozen
Since last I saw
You soften your eyes as they flickered to mine
Skirted the contact then burned deep inside
Gritting my teeth in the pleasurable pain
A razor machete in welcome invasion
Expertly wielded through my jungle of thoughts
Clearing a path and discovering
My soul lost in
Your damp forest of evergreen trees
Rooting my soil and growing up through me
Bringing fresh life to my stagnant dirt
Oxygenating the air of my earth
Reversing pollution, reviving, refreshing,
Regressing the growth of the thorns in my flesh and
Cutting the cancer that
I might live,
Leaving your legacy scars.
So this is as it was, the wound still itches
Glimpses of your hand and my heart still twitches
If time heals all then what can I do
Since my death was frozen
When last I felt you.
Mar 30, 2012
Mar 30, 2012 at 4:22 PM UTC
Oh, phalo skeptic,
part your wave for skirted ***** surfers,
tho, trout, tripe, and titmice thrill thrice..
Will duct tape save us?
Urge the Zamboni machine,
to microwave ice.
Quince down that pouting sphincter,
Oh, the tides do swell
on the morrow of passing fish.
Wheelbarrow pious.
Swift, awesome biblionauts,
Fire! Fire! Pail, Pail thy watered pitch.
Know this, every potato is somewhere vane ...
I'm busy now, rude duuude,
have you sweated a recumbent lout?
Indent chill mots,
Pete, I'm big in Europe, pal,
Have seen me dance the Macarena?
Fool, fool on that high hill,!
Take care when licking spiny urchins
Oy! I scare myself.
Jan 19, 2011
Jan 19, 2011 at 2:34 PM UTC
You know the the feeling
of inseparable grace
hand-in-hand with a sense
of apparent distaste.
I'm so sick of sorrow
skirted by unintentional affection.
Plus, you confuse the relation
between my heart and thought sensations.
I've never hurt worse
in such a short amount of time.
You'll never read this spiel,
but a silent thought is fine.
**** this thought of hope.
**** what I would like to see.
I was so full of accusations
that I forgot to breathe.
Sep 25, 2010
Sep 25, 2010 at 11:40 PM UTC
They chase them down
through field and town
intending then to eat em'
with plastic forks
and champagne corks
they wallop and they beat em'
They chase by day
and most the night
though I can't understand em'
through thistle grass
and snowy pass
with knives they roughly brand em'
With Caber tossed
and y-fronts lost
these skirted men assault em'
big burly men
with beards yer ken
you really cannot fault em'
With claymore sharp
and Scottish harp
they catch and set to roast em'
with whiskey ryes
And blood shot eyes
these hunters fair do toast em'
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 6:19 AM UTC
Nestled in a pencil case
And snuggled up in fluff
There snoozed a tiny pirate man
Of legendary stuff
He'd spied the hidden secrets
And trod the haunted shore
Blu-tack Beard the buccaneer
Scourge of the open floor
He stole a shoe-box galleon
And sailed the carpet blue
With pencil mast and paper sails
And crayons as his crew
They forayed on the crooked tiles
And crested every ridge
Blu-tack Beard the scallywag
The raider of the fridge
When moored up in the kitchen
With all his crew around
The captain showed to one and all
A treasure map he'd found
It bore a chart of distant parts
And quite a course it plot
It pointed to the bathroom lands
And tip-ex marked the spot
They crammed the hold with cornflakes
To feed them on their trip
They pulled hard on the piece of string
And weighed the paperclip
The crew they dragged their boat aloft
On neatly woven hairs
Blu-tack Beard the privateer
Surmounter of the stairs
They heaved their vessel restlessly
Atop the final brow
The crayon pirates caught their breath
And leaned against her bow
Then scaled tiny ladders
And each took to their post
Blu-tack Beard was at the helm
And watched the foreign coast
Through countless minutes voyaging
There loomed the bathroom door
They slacked the sail and went below
And each took to an oar
They pulled a mighty rhythm
Till their waxy arms were numb
And Blu-tack Beard the plunderer
Was beater of the drum
But though they pried in every nook
And each last inch of grout
They skirted round the skirting board
They tapped each silver spout
Illusive was their bounty
And they grew ever the crueller
They took their skipper angrily
And made him walk the ruler
He landed glum and ruefully
Amid the ***** socks
He heard the merry spiteful sound
Of laughing, taunting mocks
And saw the sight of mutiny
With waxen little smiles
Blu-tack Beard the cast-away
Alone among the tiles
He commandeered a washing cloth
And weaved himself a rope
He scaled the dreaded washstand
And stole a bar of soap
He carved himself a coracle
And set his sights on home
Blu-tack Beard the wanderer
Awash amid the foam
He slithered down the stairwell
And landed with a plan
For warmer climes and restfulness
A cocktail and a tan
And so he met his final port
Right then did he retire
Blu-tack Beard the pensioner
Of the warm spot near the fire
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 4:33 PM UTC
Altogether, the night we wove
a trickled treasure, tangled:
skirted legs spilling out from
the teacup of a denim lap,
validation in the vacuum cove.
- Dusty Nikes before the dusk,
who art in heaven, my god
he thrusts.
- Why'd your mother
let you talk that way:
You smoke cliche cigarettes
in such an unfamiliar way.
- The hanger left welts, weeping
into post-relevance landline love,
body lay like the hands on the clock,
copper landmarks seeping.
What a feeling, ever so same.
Arched eyebrows, a trademarked shame:
like a fighter, like ****** oozing.
Like a functional inability,
divine in its losing.
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 1:01 AM UTC
I remember creeping reverently past
The yawning maw
Snarling braches, overgrown foliage
Sad eye sockets
The defeated roof
Listing drunkenly to the left
The black spirals on the ground
Where the fire had scored earth bare
Crouched from the sanctity of the sidewalk
Damp palm snaking back to
Clasp tight
My best friend’s hand
Fear skittering up our spines
We skirted past poisonous green weeds
That swayed in the yard
Unkempt and our eyes
Darted, seeking, feral
For movement in that open doorway
Her shadow
The witch
Years pass
Looking out into suburbia
Manicured green boxes
And cookie-cutter plans
From my own cracked window
My newly acquired reno,
I spot a flash of moving colour
From beyond the overgrown hyacinths
A tousled flash of curls between the green
Puzzlement ripples as
Three lanky preadolescent forms
Snake from the protection of my shaggy firs
Thin chests taking a breath before
Their whippy arms point accusing
And I barely see a flash before
The clutched rock leaves the
Stupid-looking red headed one’s hand
Crashing through my upstairs master
And I hear it
Witch, witch, where’s the witch?
And I feel it.
My eyes beadily narrow
Peering over my bulbous nose
Shoulders hunching
Toes curl
And I reach for
The broom leaning next
The painter’s cloth
Grabbing on with knobbly fingers
Hurling myself
Out
Of
The door
Their eyes widened
Disbelieving
As they spot me
And thumbs clutched between index fingers
They run
Leaving me cackling
Breathless
While my familiar
Looks up from
Sunning her black self
On the step.
Sep 2, 2009
Sep 2, 2009 at 7:49 PM UTC
I found you in
peeling silk shadows
and socially unacceptable acronyms.
I met you
and you remade me
in the image of self-realized dreams.
Frayed heartstrings
blossom
from used ***** dealerships.
Spinal cord columns, rib rotunda,
cranium cabaret and Lazarus lungs.
We hugged on collarbones and
loved in dimples.
We ran.
We ran along shores we never knew,
skirted expectations like cliff-side raceways.
Somewhere
along a three way road of cobblestone delusions,
at an intersection of gas stations
advertising ninety-nine cent perfection,
we misread the legend
and the map lied anyways.
There are no u-turns in relationships.
You made me dependent upon
perfectly posed pixels and
lacing my fingers with the air.
Half of lace is empty space.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 8:38 PM UTC
She’s a go-getter,
A real achiever,
Ambition burns her,
Dreams filled with fever.
Lipstick, red and slick,
Ears, gold spins and spirals,
Hair, long and beautifully curled,
Skin, supple and smoothly pearled.
Neck, exposed and proud,
Shoulders, open and marbled,
Chest, creamed and perfumed,
Hips, mini-skirted and revealed.
Posterior, raised and inviting,
Interior, poised and excited,
Exterior, rosy and aroused,
Inferior, dirty and discarded.
Money showers her at the town table,
Attention applauds her in the tabloid papers,
Men wine and dine her up and down the land,
Silken beds caress her shapely legs and soft hands.
Flaunted,
Used,
Abused,
Dreams sold.
Jan 2, 2012
Jan 2, 2012 at 6:46 PM UTC
The sun shone bright
on the Saturday afternoon
as Helen put her doll
Battered Betty
on the bombsite rubble
off Arch Street
near the coal wharf
and sat down beside you
(crossed legged)
peering
at the bombed out ruin
of a nearby house
wonder what it felt like
being bombed?
she said
I mean
one minute
you’re trying to get
the kids to sleep
next minute
a ruddy great bomb
blasts you all
to Kingdom Come
you offered her
a sweet candy cigarette
from a blue and yellow packet
don’t know
you said
but my mum said
that when she was home
with my gran
during one bombing raid
they hid under
the kitchen table
with her baby niece Carol
Helen sat opened mouthed
her hand holding
the hand
of her battered doll
anyway
you went on
my mum’s stepfather
( her dad having died
from TB in 1936)
was under there too
but my mum said
he had his backside
sticking out
from under the table
as if
that was unbombable
Helen laughed
and so did you
bet it was horrible
to be bombed
she said
but I would have hated
being evacuated
from my mum
even for a day
she ******
on the sweet cigarette
held between two fingers
and stared
at the ruin
with half a roof
and two walls standing
revealing wallpaper
on the inside
of one wall
my gran said
you continued
an old couple
next to them
on hearing
the air raid siren
began to run
toward the bomb shelter
in the garden
when the old lady stopped
and the old man said
what you looking for?
my teeth she said
and he said
they’re dropping
ruddy bombs
not mince pies
Helen spluttered
into laughter
almost on choking
on the sweet cigarette
don’t
she said
I near wet myself then
and she clutched her doll
to her chest
patting its back
there there Betty
she said
it’s only a story
and you looked
at her small hand
tapping the doll’s back
the fingers tight together
love in each tap
a good mother
she’d make
you thought
with schoolboy love
looking at her profile
the thick lens
spectacles
the plaited hair
and her small hand
going tap tap
on the back
of the battered doll
in her flower skirted lap.
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 2:28 AM UTC
Hidden behind a myriad of
guises and castings of a
thousand projected distortions,
he brought himself
suspended like a pendant
detached
&
objective.
I bequeathed a
tumult of love,
tumbled down
the scope of
archaic collective conflict
that shook with a spiral quake like
the wakening of my
hallowed g a s p -
the corridor echoing of the first gallop.
Lifted the skirted veils of
celestial taffeta,
surrendered to the
feats and enchantments of
The Rider
who arrived on a
rogue wave,
crest and trough and
splendorous swells of
blue and white,
reverberating from
essence centre
like Doppler
outward my firmament fingertips,
cascading around the sphere
in astral star fall,
an overflowing cup of Milky Way
and melting atoms
into grains of sand
between the blended confines of
here and there,
escaped to the ever expansive space,
Empyrean emptiness.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 5:07 PM UTC
I hadn't meant to spy on them; just one of my evening walks along the beach. Moonlight gleaming on wet teenage backs. Horseplay crackling in their young male voices-- “King of the Hill” from a rusty life guard chair. I like these memories, the ones that just occur-- when everything is there again....
Coming to find myself again in October. Long trudge to the “Shanty Village” gets me thinking about the wrinkled hand that first took me close to the ageless roar and seething. Skirted bathing suit, indelible tremble of voice-- the woman bringing me beyond the fear that had watched all day from those cautious castles, after being so rudely trounced! She helped me make my peace with what I could neither own nor tame— the sea and me. We walked along the channel then, watching slender fishes in their school-- that even fish would go to school! We had to laugh. Scorching the soles of my feet in the parking lot! Oo-ah-oo-ah! Forgot my flip-flops!
_____
October now, piling sand along the roadside.... First kiss at Cooks Brook Beach. Surf breaking over this jetty, could have been my heart. I think his name was Stan....
How can people leave their flowers still blooming in window boxes? In the cottage quiet, I can almost picture... bicycles leaning by dripping shower stalls. Beach umbrellas, the smell of suntan lotion, kids roving in barefoot bands.... Fall packs them all away.
While cold advances on the struggling song of crickets, a man, wearing a painter's hat and whistling, does the unthinkable-- hammers plywood over his shanty's windows. I think that summer people can close their eyes. We, of October, have vivid memories-- savoring sources that linger in their endings. Coming late—staying long beyond the leaving-- sleeping warm in winter sands.
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 2:05 PM UTC
Like a shadow, fox
Skirted across the road, sly
Dark and beautiful
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 2:29 PM UTC