It’s 25° C clear
but she’s gone.
The outlines of her shadow, hoping
that they’ll have a chance of putting them into use
in the fashion world.
She wears a black, backless dress
with a plunging front.
The soft contours of her breasts are revealed
through the mirrors on the walls.
On the front page a gazette
her cat walk
rushing down to the battle.
Here, you’re making the neighbours squirm.
Here, you’re making their claymores shriek their hatred.
That’s why your body sags against the bar in fatigue.
You’re trying to remember your voice.
Remember, your phone rings again.
It’s a voice you’ve heard,
that incandescent panic spread through the hall.
They’re marrying her.
They’re scarifying her for their day’s events.
You’ve made me interested in how she’s thinking
& you can’t control this with your beard.
Your gaffe is all there.
You gaze with gratitude.
I'm just an old-fashioned, flannel lumberjack shirt.
My father was some overalls, a farmer of dirt.
I'm a worn out and holey pair of cotton socks,
An unwanted sweater, packed away in a box.
My son's a fancy ascot living in New York City.
He can't be cut from the same cloth, he's too pretty -
A button down shirt, a jacket of fine leather,
A whole different sort of men's wear, altogether.
I'm aged pair of wing-tips, no longer employed,
Split along the sides, by overwork, nearly destroyed,
Living in the shiny black dress shoe memories of
Backless gowns, diamonds, stilettos and satin gloves.
I'm a quiet and unassuming pair of jeans,
A t-shirt with a picture of natural scenes,
A pair of rubber sandals, and a worn out straw hat,
A beachcomber, escaping the race of the rat.
I'm shorts on the way to the laundry in a sack,
An old hat that's traveled around the world and back.
Though I may have a loose thread that needs a snip,
Still, this hat gives life an appreciative tip.
Small stadium built in the late forties,
minor-league once, but has been left behind,
built with girders and backless, wooden seats,
a local relic of an older time.
The players look so young, barely can shave,
the pitching is rough and some balls are dropped,
a few have been drafted by big league names,
one has promise, at ninety-four was clocked.
Young kids run around, and between innings
some do wacky races upon the field,
but have fun even if they’re not ‘winning,’
and the high-fives from the players are real.
So far not a hit has yet cleared the wall,
but six bucks is still good for live baseball.
Queen of the willows, ferns, shadows and moss.
Her miniature dragon perched on her lap with pleasure,
Both together adding to verdant forest a duo treasure.
Unclear to the feral and fey which one is the boss.
Lady green velvet in her almost totally backless gown,
With cobweb tattoos and powerful bracelets of copper,
Curly auburn hair cascading down, a pleasant show stopper.
The most formidable beauty for miles around.
There is a hush in the forest, the woodland creatures pause.
Is it man? Is it human? Is it a slider or a prancer? We all hesitate.
It is a tiny garter snake, who has no idea of his almost fate.
Luckily these two guardians will not injure anyone without cause.
The forest gives them shelter, loving both for their observant skills.
They watch over closely the squirrels, raccoons, opossum and fox,
These two lovely creatures who never honor any clocks.
They tolerate much, but truly do not like any animal that kills.
Put your blue dress on
and let your hair down too-
your hair that is so beautiful
you need no fancy “do.”
That gown a royal blue -
you know the one I mean!
The sequins on its bodice
make you glitter like a queen.
The backless part of it -
a large X made of lace
exquisitely reveals
your shoulders’ white bare grace.
I’ve bought for you a bracelet
of diamonds for your wrist.
Wear it too; it’s fashioned
of bright stars heaven-kissed!
I’ll wait out in the car
while you don your blue chiffon,
afraid I’ll want to take it off
once you have got it on!
Dec. 27, 2019 for Anthony Slausin's Blue Dress Poetry Contest
S-imply wear your holy array,
U-sing your sacred attire;
N-ever get yourself in disorder,
S-o you won't suffer the Father's ire.
H-oly array during worship service
I-s commanded by the Almighty;
N-either backless nor mini skirt
E-ndorses praise and glory.
C-hoose to put on holy array
A-t the solemn occasion;
M-ake your conscience clear,
B-e worthy in words and in action.
O-n January twenty-fourth,
N-o need to buy dress in expensive way;
G-ive thanks and honor to the Lord,
G-lorify God in holy
A-rray.
SEX ON FIRE
She silently retires to his secret chamber.
Knowing he was waiting for her...
The doors were locked
the windows closed.
Her backless bodycon...
abandons her ...
as he removes all her layers...
she reciprocates his actions ...
he grabs a fistful of her hair.
she summons herself to his passion ...
perspiring profusely ...
he leaves his Mark on her...
And the mirror witnessed their SEX on fire ...
Always & forever
Red fiery @2017 copyright
LIKE TAR
backless
second skin dress
plunges
spinelined
scooped out
glittering
sequins of
insanity
inverted arch in
certain light
seems ochre shades
of weakened
tea
discerning
this blemish
has sipped
life’s bitter
scargrappled
gravelstained
plea
slipminded
hurdles into
death’s sticky
saltswimming
sea
.........like tar
© Kim van Breda—22 September2015
Sixteen she became more of a sexist.
With her skin smooth to reek the care
of her mothers touch.
Sixteen in a black backless dress,
a mistress look,yet a woman to every
men passing on the street corners.
Men with no back bone, i call then spineless.
Those that made her every breath heavy,
when life was at ease.
Breath under nudity the scenary behind her.
Sixteen missing periods and window period.
Cometh was a life of prescribtions and mother hood.
A used up beauty at sixteen, nolonger useful to them.
They saw only a usedfool with beauty nolonger in use.
Beautiful to bloodyfool with a child to call every man on the street corner father.
Sixteen on the street corners
She stands there
Her heart all askew…
Backless dress
Russell Sivey
Form Modern Senryu
She stands there
Her heart all askew…
Backless dress
Russell Sivey
THE LAMENT OF A PENNILESS BLOKE
For want of avocation, I became a poet
To bleed my misery on paper calling for an eye,
To see me in my tattered footwear and backless shirt,
But no hear have I got even with my wildest cries.
I sought for love but that eluded me for lack of capacity,
To wine and dine in places only people in purple afford,
Ask me not to write to you as I cannot read later on write,
The tongue twisting speech style I have not learned
Of me they think I have no fashion sense.
How can I when dolce & Gabbana is a name I only see
In chanced movies with people that woo lovers and hunks.
Intelligence have I none; wisdom maybe
But that cannot lure a sensible Tiffany-ier
All I have is me; about me I cannot lie.
Copyright © July 2012. Nsamu Moonga. All right Reserved.
Choices
Should I have the low cut dress?
My décolleté set out ready to impress.
What about the long backless number
It shimmers and shines, no man will slumber.
I could have the short one to show off my legs
But too many out there will get down and beg.
What about the push up bra that he likes to see
Then again I think I have enough about me.
What should I buy on this shopping expedition?
It goes against the grain and every tradition.
I am not used to this I think I’ll do what I do best
I’ll stick on my jeans and my old sleeveless vest.
I do not need anything new to make me feel good
I have a husband for that and he does as he should.
So I won’t go shopping for new things today
Why break the habit of a lifetime I’ll stop in this day
I can’t remember when I last had some new things
But I bet it was before I had my wedding ring.
Oscars
Oscars night is here again,beautiful women and gorgeous men.
Play acting is what they do on the silver screen for me and you.
Some will win some will lose,the film academy will chose
Fasion statements galore with Gucci armani,and Christian dior
Rubies and diamonds shining bright,bringing sparkle to the night
Backless,strapless and shoulder less gowns some worn with a frown
Helen mirren as the queen looking quite pristine
Penelope Cruz in her Jimmy choo's
What a spectacle what a show and when they won wow
White lips curl furiously as warm hands reach for the mouth that speaks so loud.
Swallow—swallow.
Gracious god falling from the sky; there dies my warmth, there dies my youth.
Silently rushing, chasing—gulping. Lips curling kissing the soft, demure land.
From this window I’m perched to picnic and think.
White lips—kissing—such fizzle frazzled as salt spread thinly, plainly across her bare
back...she needs a hand to smooth her lines of fault.
Oh the age she hides!
...the years she’s gone without a crank to lift her bare boned backless face.
Sinking, sinking---SANK.
Green illumination garnished the canvas sky.
A flash, a bulb, another shard of life to wake.
I fog---I fold and yet they curl! they snarl.
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