Bas-Relief
She stepped up
and removed her coat placing it beside her
and turned slightly.
She took her cocked hat, twisted it
and let it fall to the floor;
it landed askew.
Hesitating she dabbed her eyes
to remove the makeup there
and the foundation too.
The pins in the hair were identified
pinched and removed;
each pin planted in the pin-cushion on the bureau.
A single shaft of sun-light was forming
retreating across the floor toward the window.
Standing in place
her hair fell softly around her shoulders;
she shook it loose
while stepping down out of her shoes
moving them aside.
They made a little rubble pile of things past
and the promise of things new.
She fingered her blouse.
Each pearl button snapped
releasing the cloth
and a v-shape formed at the top;
each snap deepening the mystery
that the emerging bra revealed.
Her thin hands flutter again
and solider-straight her blouse line
is now straight up and down;
her breathing motivating the motion
of her chest expanding and contracting.
Life to her
in that moment
was a driving engine, irresistible.
Her blouse left her finger-tips and floated
away
landing on the floor flower-petal style
arranging itself it seemed on the carpeting;
a soft white thing arrayed within a hieroglyph
of shoes, cocked hat, red coat and abandoned makeup kit-
and her satin-red pin-cushion.
Her bra snaps and falls away, down to the plush floor
rounded pyramids on the sandstone colored carpeting
joining the assemblage there;
hiding and revealing some Rosetta stone of meaning.
Bare-breasted she stood exhibiting nature's bare skin-
its givings and takings;
one nipple touched now in that gathering light,
one breath lifting it- seeming to accentuate
and simulate the rising of some nipple-dappled sun.
She stepped out of her panties trembling
for it was the last act she knew
would be the last act
before becoming fully naked;
all of her now revealed
a mixed cauldron of leaping
swirling emotions;
evaluations and assessments
condemnations and praises-
she was the bas-relief in her own hieroglyph;
her own collage of tossed aside clothing
He said 'You look so beautiful.'
She turned swiftly removing the last of it;
her Soul reaching
offering that to him too
on this their wedding eve
before their wedding night.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Suffocated
Millie Allstruck suffocated
Her daughter. Millie held
The cushion down. Saw her
Daughter’s arms flap like
Some bird in a trap. Millie
Held her breath for as long
As she could, until the arms
Stopped flapping, until her
Bird was dead. She stood
There holding the cushion
In place waiting for sounds,
Any motion. Millie removed
The cushion, stood gaping,
Holding the cushion, breathing
In deep. Her daughter lay there
Staring into space, a sense of
Peace on her three year old face.
Millie had pushed out the cancer,
Put out the fire. She had her
Daughter back sans pains, sans
The creeping disease, sans
The long nights. She put down
The cushion, placed her daughter’s
Arms across her small chest, closed
The eyes, brushed the hair, thin
And fair. Millie Allstruck stood
And watched and saw sunlight
Touch her daughter’s head as if
The finger of God had touched
And took away. Better to have
Loved and lost than not loved at all,
Millie heard her mother once say.
poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
When summer comes
When summer comes
I will dress in silk blouse and skirt
Wear my new high shoes
Collared with green pearls.
And yellow cotton summer blouse
that sway like the stems of the pin Oak.
In August’s honey-dewed winds
Dark, hot, the time is right
To change dresses.
The pearl one
Slides over my body
Like a silky desire
And when I dance tonight
At his wedding
The hot diamond strobe light
Will dance with me
Like the moonlight across my
Window in slow, white –diamond illuminated
In this season
Of red, red light
When summer comes
poem by Natasa Tocuc
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Photograph and Memory
In my hands I hold a photograph
That, for years, I hadn't seen-
It's the only one I've left now
from when we were seventeen.
You head cocked slightly to the right,
You strike a playful pose.
Your blue eyes fairly sparkle
above a button nose.
Your skin is fair and freckled
No makeup, none required.
Peasant blouse and chinos
are your casual attire.
Here too, is the letter that you wrote
The week my father died-
Some years had passed since seventeen-
You were no longer by my side.
You said he'd taught me how to love-
a consequential gift.
I'd had such a good teacher
That, in me, his spirit lived.
The ink is faint and faded-
the fault of light and time.
Or is it tears and fading vision
that makes it hard to read this time?
It's strange the things a man retains
as time starts to expire.
The memory of your kisses
in some neuron's random fire.
As this world counts beauty
You'd rank pretty, I suppose
But if I was the little prince
I'd choose you for my rose.
poem by John F. McCullagh
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Aish is all graceful
Be in ultra modern jeans, with hair cropped,
Be in curves with a bikini, with hair cascading,
Be in swimming suit, with hair dripping,
Be in top and middy, with hair thrown back,
Be in velvet chudidhar, with hair hiding the cheeks,
Be in saree and blouse, with hair loosely knotted,
Be with chemise on breasts, with hair permed and ornamented,
Be on cotton saree, with hair made to bun,
Be in half saree and blouse, with hair tightly plaited,
Or be in any fashion that comes into being,
The actress Aish is blooming and beaming,
What not is the fashion or style for Aish, all the grace?
19.10.2000
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
When something in the dark depths of your eyes smoulders (Terzanelle)
When something in the dark depths of your eyes smoulders,
burning like a living thing
while you pull your blouse over your shoulders
making a scene of the undressing
a flame awakes in me
burning like a living thing
and in your beauty I see
your humanity that shines through.
A flame awakes in me
and in a way every lovely girl is perfected in you
and when passion awakes in your heavy nipple
your humanity that shines through
makes tender feelings of protection ripple
with their own heat
and when passion awakes in your heavy nipple
you make my life complete
when something in the dark depths of your eyes smoulders,
with their own heat
while you pull your blouse over your shoulders.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
White Hat White Coat
To the late doug whalan.... from your daughter.....
White hat white coat and greying in hair
he would dance around the dance floor with plenty of flair
White hat white coat black pants to boot
the men would all say 'silly old coot'
Whitehat white coat and a big friendly smile
when he went to a dance he'd dress in style
White hat white coat and a beat in his feet
it's of to the dance and people to meet
White hat white coat and a scotch on the rocks he'd love to dance
and the men would all mock
White hat white coat asleep at the wheel
he's danced all night 'boy i know how he feels'
White hat white coat have been put to the test
it's time to go home for a well earned rest
White hat white coat clean shirt and socks too
he's all geard up and ready for round two
White hat white coat so tired and run down
close your eyes and dream of your nights on the town
White hat white coat you've seen better days
your torn around the edges and your starting to fray
White hat white coat the time's come for us to part
but always remember ' i love you with all my heart '
poem by Debbie Gregory
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
She Loved Me; I Loved Her Not-Chapter Two
Audrey stood in front of the mirror that night
with the radio on staring at her body
in just in her bra and panties
evaluating her body, comparing her body,
her hair, her mouth, her behind
to Carly's
putting tissue paper in her bra cups
trying to get them look like Carly's breasts
puffing out her behind
pouting her lips
trying on a shade of lipstick
of lip gloss
that matched the kinds Carly wore.
She put her shortest shirt
thinking to hem to make it shorter
but not too short;
She didn't want to look cheap;
she would have to hide it in her backpack to get it out of the house.
She would have to change in the girl's bathroom at school
hoping no one would notice how her clothing had changed
that no one would notice and tell her parents,
or worse report her to the principal.
She didn't want people to start to talking about her
that would be mortifying
rumors would start
boys would start to think she was easy
and some of the girls would say she was a tramp or "fast."
Lots of girls at school wore short skirts but if she Audrey
wore one
people would notice,
her reputation would get ruined.
She looked at the skirt in the mirror
to see if her thighs,
now exposed,
looked fat or were too thick.
She stared at them not being able to tell
after all
she was not used to seeing her thighs in a short skirt.
She went to her closet to retrieve a top,
a white top,
because she felt that would not draw as much attention
buttoning up the front, with tiny pearl buttons.
staring at herself in the mirror;
examining her tissue-paper breasts
inside the top,
noting to her embarrassment
that her breasts looked lumpy.
Lumpy breasts would be a problem.
She pulled out a pair of socks from her closet
placing them carefully inside her bra.
They looked ok
but she would have to sew them in|
to be sure they didn't fall out
She dropped the socks on the dark carpet
and went to the closet to look again for something else.
She decided on cotton,
cotton
which she tore from the shoulder pads of the suit her aunt had given her
for her visit to New York
her junior year.
She took the shoulder pads out and tired them on,
turning slowing in front of the mirror to see how they looked.
They were perfect
and she breathed a gentle sigh of relief.
Now the eyes and the makeup;
She had some
and some she had borrowed
from her mother's makeup kit
and some she had gotten from her girlfriend, Mary
offering the excuse she had seen in a magazine some new things which could be done
with makeup.
Mary didn't ask any questions.
Arrayed before her was eyeliner, blush, powder,
and tweezers for eyebrow plucking,
gloss, foundation, false eyebrows, eyelash thickener, sparkles,
and something Mary had given her which she had no clue as to what it could be used for
(It turned out something which could thicken your newly plucked eyebrows.)
She never wore makeup before, at least to school
and it was suddenly dawning on her
that showing up with all this makeup was bound to be noticed.
She turned from the mirror, feeling dazed
going to sit on the side of her bed
realizing
that all this,
her plan
was dishonest
and not her.
It was too phony and people would see through it.
If her love was steady and strong
she thought
I would see that in time
eventually
or not.
But she would not pretend to be a person different than she was
because that would be obvious to everyone,
me and to herself.
If love was to triumph here Audrey concluded
it could not be based upon makeup and tight clothes.
She then decided what she would do, closing the make-up cases intinctively understanding it was an important decision in her young life.
The next day she told me what she had decided to do and I listened
not reacting
surprised
just looking at her for a moment
stunned
as she told me the details
of the night before,
The makeup, the short skirt
the tight blouse,
all of it.
To be continued
poem by Lonnie Hicks
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Southern Gospel...
he carefully pried at the screen
with his pocketknife... laying low
against the building, almost dissolving
in the shadows.
the probing lights of cars passing saw
nothing, no sign of life.
slowly, without sound, he removed the
screen.... pushing the window up just
enough, he pulled himself up and through
the window like a snake.
it was some kind of office at the back of
the church. he waited a minute for his
eyes to adjust. his body hurt, even his
soul hurt! every breath cut like a knife.
making his way to the door, he slipped
out into the hall. the silence was deafening.
on down the hall to the sanctuary... opening
the double doors, he made his way into the tomb!
waves of stillness.... and the smells...
redemption, morality, and sin... delicious,
tortured sin...
he slipped onto a bare wooden pew, and
the memories flooded back....
angels, demons, right and wrong defined
on chalkboards by hands that couldnt have
been human!
scriptures beaten against the mind... pictures
of a life he'd never quite found!
he took a deep breath, and winced... thought
of the hymns. peace everafter, always some
distant shore. yet they're often been a strange
sense of healing there.
he touched the offering plates, and shook his head.
the nickels and dimes of salvation, the cost of the
soul.
standing up, he made his way to the altar... and
fell in a heap to the floor...
agonizing, he looked up to see moonlight pouring
through the stained glass window... lighting the
face of Jesus, hanging on the cross...
the cold floor seemed to clutch at his heart...
his mind opened, and the waves rolled in.
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Silly: A Fart Poem #2:
Naked I stepped from the shower tub, bending over SLIGHTLY,
when all of a sudden came a sound to my ears, roaring, not lightly.
It was just gas (I hoped) but it burst from me like lightning from a cloud.
It was NOT one of your gentle lady's farts, but a fart very VERY loud.
And besides the loudness there was a sound that made me worry;
could it be that recently I had eaten too much curry?
I noticed the bathroom window did not shatter,
but I was quite worried that I may have left a splatter
on the dark gray tile floor behind me.
As luck would have it there was no mess,
so I put on my makeup and put on my dress.
(Nov.2012)
poem by Bri Edwards
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Silly; Gross: Fart Poem #2
Naked I stepped from the shower tub, bending over SLIGHTLY,
when all of a sudden came a sound to my ears, roaring, not lightly.
It was just gas (I hoped) but it burst from me like lightning from a cloud.
It was NOT one of your gentle lady's farts, but a fart very VERY loud.
And besides the loudness there was a sound that made me worry;
could it be that recently I had eaten too much curry?
I noticed the bathroom window did not shatter,
but I was quite worried that I may have left a splatter
on the dark gray tile floor behind me.
As luck would have it there was no mess,
so I put on my makeup and put on my dress.
(Nov.2012)
poem by Bri Edwards
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Squalor & Chips
My angel of the night
came down the stairs of morning
his hair, brown locks of greasiness,
his mouth, those sweet lips, yawning.
He stopped three steps from earth that day
and gazed at trainers in his way
and then as I began to pray,
stepped over and ignored them.
He took four steps across the room
he missed the cloth, the pan, the broom
and squashed cold chips, bare footed
upon the kitchen flooring!
Alas my fallen angel there,
sat his bottom on a chair
and sweeping hand through tousled hair,
ate his breakfast without care.
Without thought for chips all squashed,
flattened on that kitchen floor.
A floor so needy for a wash
as I exclaimed, "Oh my dear God! "
I found the mop, the bucket too
I cleaned the floor, mopped up the goo
and then I had a notion to,
but my angel wouldn't let me through.
Squashed chips on the kitchen floor
last nights washing up,
sticky table, dustbins full
and an empty coffee cup.
poem by Ruth Walters
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Gate Keeper
each night the wonder of darkness comes
in a most revealing light of what is leaving in
the midst of light
that's the most wonderful moment to happen
every night, when closing the eyes, comes the
unsolicited phenomenon of living with other souls
in the state of life, i have seen nothing but a
pure white color of no colors, different than our
naked eyes have perceived, it’s an awesome and
beautiful as a sleep, where a moment is not
counted for a day
waking me up talking with St. Peter and listening
the past is remembering the, teaching of the church
the gate keeper of heaven
a pleasure and honor, which is done, where
breathing is passing the past of learning on how
to enter the gate of memories
the gate is beautiful made of blue pearl with a crystal
stone of granite enter locking with diamond tupaz
between each border of threaded coil of gold as the
design, galloping the entire post of two big pillars,
facing the rising ladder of infinity clouds of smoke
just a cold breezing like melted malt seducing my
skin to smell its fragrance passion of perfume in
my nostrils of incensed myrrh of immortal soul
the gate keeper dress with a simple style of
fashionable French red cloth and a slipper made
in the Marikina, standing with a poise asking
each one with a bed like soft voice, of my name
all comes likes a vision in darkness of the night
where no immortal soul have witness the gate
of the gate keeper enter the pedulum he stands,
just wait and you will see the gate keeper in
heaven......in your dream
poem by Antonio Liao
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Christmas Eve
Glitter twinkled at my fingertips.
As if the angles themselves had sent
songbirds. Singing softly.
The Christmas lights became stars
as the sun sunk into sleep.
The smell of cold and gumbo
clung to the air as we huddled on the floor.
Paper was torn as each pair of hands
opened their box of Mystery.
I shed a silent tear
when I tore my silver paper
and undid my blue ribbon
and found an empty box.
I closed it gently. Thanked the donor.
Turned to see a strange child
sitting on the floor
beside me.
Her clear blue eyes stared
at the empty tree.
Emotionless.
I touched her thick fire hair.
She did not blink.
I put my box in her hands.
She smiled at me,
kissed my cheek,
left.
The box safe in her soft palms.
Never to be seen again.
poem by Zoe Guillory
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Future Of Hands
All winter
The trees held up their silent hives
As if they mattered.
But on one main street of bars and lights,
I watched a woman who had begged for days
Throw all the coins back, insulted,
Into the crowd,
And then each cheap stone on her necklace,
As if they were confetti
At a bitter wedding,
And then her stained blouse.
I smiled, then, at her dignity.
But when the night came
With only its usual stars to show,
She was applauded and spat on,
Or those passing stepped around her,
Avoiding her body
As if it had become private, or pure.
When the police arrived,
Sniveling about the cold day she had chosen
To strip,
Her face was a brown jewel,
And I knew the hands
Of the police would have to close now,
On this body abandoned to wind,
Just as her hands closed, finally,
On wind that would have nothing
To do with her,
And never had.
*
I know that wind
Had nothing to do with longing.
I have seen that, even in the eyes
Of girls across a lunch counter--
A desire to be anywhere that wasn't
Texas, and waiting on tables--
Their eyes making a pact
With the standing, staring wheat
About to be turned back into the black soil
That spreads everywhere when no one is watching.
And writing this,
I stare at my hands,
Which are the chroniclers of my death,
Which pull me into this paper
Each night, as onto a bed of silk sheets,
And the woman gone.
After two hours of work,
I do not know if there ever was a woman.
I watch the flies buzz at the sill.
*
Or, if I sleep,
I must choose between two dreams.
In one of them, my hands move calmly
Over a woman's waist, or lift
In speech the way birds rise or settle
Over a marsh, over nesting places.
In the other dream,
There are no nesting places,
The birds are white, and scavenging.
They lift negligently over the town in wind,
Like paper, like the death of paper.
They dip and rise
As if there had never been a heaven.
Beneath them, it is summer.
It is the same town I was born in.
And in its one bar
The man selling illegal human hair from Mexico,
The hair of brides mixed
With the hair of the dead,
Argues all day over the price.
poem by Larry Levis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
House for Sale
I stood in the midst of the empty house,
It was silent, empty, and bare,
gone was the laughter the tears and the life,
and the family that once lived there.
I stood there observing, to try to revive
the memories this house had to share,
the secrets, excitement, unhappiness too,
these feelings so willing to bear.
I heard children playing and lapping up life,
I heard adults talking and scolding,
This house bore it all with its solid repose,
and accepted with wisdom beholding.
I stood in the midst of the empty house,
with a feeling of sadness around,
abandoned and empty, a lonely shell,
for the place never uttered a sound,
it was silent and bare, where the rooms had been stripped
and the furniture taken away,
the paint had been scratched and the floor left unwashed
when the house was abandoned that day.
The ghosts from its past walk through each lonely room,
and I sigh as I button my coat,
I slam the front door with an echoing bang
and a lump seems to lodge in my throat-
for there on the green lawn for all eyes to see
with dark letters outstanding on pale
is a board standing taut in the cold winter sun
with the large, lonely wording- "For Sale"
poem by Margaret Hanning
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Rhapsody In Purple
'Rhapsody in Blue'
cascaded from the stereo speakers
swamped and swooning with sound.
'Cocktail dahling? ' you enquired teasingly
bending to kiss me.
I held on to your every word with baited breath.
I was ecstatically elated.
You divested yourself
of your outside attire
a flame red dress that had seemed on fire
(of which...I had...greatly admired)
but now lay extinguished on the kitchen floor
so that I could see
you wore
not only the purple stockings
of the night before
but purple(crotch less) panties
and a purple push-up bra.
You smiled sweetly
(half knowingly half innocently)
poised.. posed
all cocky...hands on hips...head tilted
slightly to the left.
'I can see...you like...what you see!
but what about the colour?
I mean...is it really me?
You pouted...pirouetted prettily.
'Purple...? '
I pursed my lips and paused:
(as if I even had to consider it) .
'Purple...I adore! '
And proceeded to peel
off each pretty purple pleasntrie
accompanied by your delighted oh OH OH's!
In the morning
a single shaft of sunlight shone upon
a pretty purple pile
of lingerie lingering
across the plush carpeted floor.
I, listen lovingly
to your each and every snore.
poem by Dónall Dempsey
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Another World
I was so low
People almost made me give up trying
Always said no
The I turned around saw someone smiling
I stepped into
I stepped into
Into another
Into another
I stepped into
I stepped into
Into another
Into another world
There was no light
I was going to all the wrong places
Like day from night
Suddenly I saw a thousand faces
I stepped into
I stepped into
Into another
Into another
I stepped into
I stepped into
Into another
Into another world
song performed by by Joe Jackson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
The Ballad Of The Harp-Weaver
"Son," said my mother,
When I was knee-high,
"you've need of clothes to cover you,
and not a rag have I.
"There's nothing in the house
To make a boy breeches,
Nor shears to cut a cloth with,
Nor thread to take stitches.
"There's nothing in the house
But a loaf-end of rye,
And a harp with a woman's head
Nobody will buy,"
And she began to cry.
That was in the early fall.
When came the late fall,
"Son," she said, "the sight of you
Makes your mother's blood crawl,—
"Little skinny shoulder-blades
Sticking through your clothes!
And where you'll get a jacket from
God above knows.
"It's lucky for me, lad,
Your daddy's in the ground,
And can't see the way I let
His son go around!"
And she made a queer sound.
That was in the late fall.
When the winter came,
I'd not a pair of breeches
Nor a shirt to my name.
I couldn't go to school,
Or out of doors to play.
And all the other little boys
Passed our way.
"Son," said my mother,
"Come, climb into my lap,
And I'll chafe your little bones
While you take a nap."
And, oh, but we were silly
For half and hour or more,
Me with my long legs,
Dragging on the floor,
A-rock-rock-rocking
To a mother-goose rhyme!
Oh, but we were happy
For half an hour's time!
But there was I, a great boy,
And what would folks say
To hear my mother singing me
To sleep all day,
In such a daft way?
Men say the winter
Was bad that year;
Fuel was scarce,
And food was dear.
A wind with a wolf's head
Howled about our door,
And we burned up the chairs
And sat upon the floor.
All that was left us
Was a chair we couldn't break,
And the harp with a woman's head
Nobody would take,
For song or pity's sake.
The night before Christmas
I cried with cold,
I cried myself to sleep
Like a two-year old.
And in the deep night
I felt my mother rise,
And stare down upon me
With love in her eyes.
I saw my mother sitting
On the one good chair,
A light falling on her
From I couldn't tell where.
Looking nineteen,
And not a day older,
And the harp with a woman's head
Leaned against her shoulder.
Her thin fingers, moving
In the thin, tall strings,
Were weav-weav-weaving
Wonderful things.
Many bright threads,
From where I couldn't see,
Were running through the harp-strings
Rapidly,
And gold threads whistling
Through my mother's hand.
I saw the web grow,
And the pattern expand.
She wove a child's jacket,
And when it was done
She laid it on the floor
And wove another one.
She wove a red cloak
So regal to see,
"She's made it for a king's son,"
I said, "and not for me."
But I knew it was for me.
She wove a pair of breeches
Quicker than that!
She wove a pair of boots
And a little cocked hat.
She wove a pair of mittens,
Shw wove a little blouse,
She wove all night
In the still, cold house.
She sang as she worked,
And the harp-strings spoke;
Her voice never faltered,
And the thread never broke,
And when I awoke,—
There sat my mother
With the harp against her shoulder,
Looking nineteeen,
And not a day older,
A smile about her lips,
And a light about her head,
And her hands in the harp-strings
Frozen dead.
And piled beside her
And toppling to the skies,
Were the clothes of a king's son,
Just my size.
poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Old Dancing Shoes
You lie there belying your age black and shiny
Patent smooth, untreated soles smoothed
With thrice of a thousand steps,
You never let me down gripped
With candle wax for sure footsteps,
Cracks line your skin we have grown old together.
I’m sure I saw you shuffle softly in answer as I speak.
Remember on a laid floor in front of the steps
Of Sydney’s beautiful Opera House
The quick 1 2 3 of a Straus’s Viennese waltz
Struck up, my wife’s stunning white and mauve flowing gown
Trimmed with soft ostrich feathers glistened in the
Warm Australian sun,
What a magic feeling dancing together as one and
With shoes that fit like a glove
You never let me down.
Your finest hour came, laces ‘an all
My God at that wonderful venue
Canberra’s great hall of Parliament house,
A very nice venue indeed for competition.
The magnificent floor laid from only Australian trees
Except the ebony...Papua New Guinea’s gift
Five lines of twelve sixty in all, in turn
Took to the floor,
Shiny shoe you glided along to a Sinatra foxtrot,
You did your best and stood at the heels
Of the winner on the podium,
Old soft shoes
You never let me down.
poem by Ken e Hall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Her Own Departure
Her own departure is a show.
a big bag hanging on her
shoulders, her left hand
holding a coin purse,
her right crumpling a
white handkerchief wet
with her tears.
she is crying. Her blue
blouse fits her fat and her
black pants are loose
like two shirts.
She wears her white rubber
shoes, sort of telling me
that she will be running
towards the place
that she will be hiding
for days.Or just towards
the airport. Or bus station
or port.
I don't really care.
She takes the ATM
with her, and the credit cards.
She does not tell me
where she is going.
She gives the hint that
it will be far away from
this cold house.
I am staying. I am glued
to this house.
I am silent and peaceful
now. I still have many things
to think and write.
My first poem after she leaves
shall be titled, 'Good riddance! '
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!