Best Brassiere Poems
Like fallen warriors,
we collapse side by side,
glistening in the sweaty afterglow.
Limbs still entangled,
too exhausted to sing the other’s praise,
we stare at the blades of the bedroom fan
slowly circling above.
A lone,
satisfying sigh
escapes in between your deep,
cleansing breathes.
Your smile
reflects in the brass, ball base
of the rotating fan.
I smile in return,
unable to rescue my gaze
from the fan
cooling off our steaming bodies.
Slowly,
your right hand moves;
fingers entangle with those on my left.
I still taste you on my lips.
I silently laugh to myself
upon the realization that I still have one sock on;
the other dangling on the end of a fan blade.
The remainder of our clothes
strewn around the room
as if the hamper had exploded.
Your brassiere
ruined when I removed it
with my teeth.
Beads of sweat roll down my thigh
where our legs remain interlocked –
I love the smooth contrast of your skin
against my sun dried legs.
The ever so slight breeze
created by the fan
is starting to dry our exposed skin
as we slowly regain strength.
The circling blades hypnotize.
The subtle,
rhythmic hum
from the fan motor
mixes with the recent memory
of the rhythmic dance
just concluded.
Your hand,
now lightly brushing against me,
is re-energizing my engine.
Slight,
involuntary movements
near your finger tips
indicate our dance may not yet be over.
I blink
to interrupt my transfixed,
mesmerized relationship
with the ceiling fan,
so I can once again
concentrate on you.
Energy restored –
as if pumped back into our souls
by the bedroom fan –
the warriors re-engage
in battle once again.
A battle in which
each warrior wins.
The rib of Eve is fashion's price
A sadistic trap of six-inch heels
Some masochist's torture device
Or for added bust appeal
To wrap the torso so austere
And lift upon bands of steel
The French grandly name the brassiere
Paris, an exacting Madame
Wielding her whip of sharp cashmere
No slouching, suck in that diaphragm!
A lady glides on blistered feet
Starved to belong, sweet tooth be damned
No sweat allowed in any heat
Only single digit sizes impress
Shunning all those more than petite
Sisters, what happened to progress?
Our feminist freedoms manifold
We deserve to be a mess!
Gray is lovelier than gold...
4/12/19
For Quirky Tercets contest
Sponsor: Nina Parmenter
Jack was sitting poker faced
With bullets backed by bitches.
Neal hunched at the wheel
Puttin everyone in stitches.
He was braggin 'bout
This nurse he'd screwed,
While drivin through Nebraska.
Said that when she came,
She honked the horn,
And Neal just barely
Missed a truck
And then he asked her
If she'd like to cum like that
All the way to CalifornY?
See a redhead in a uniform
Will always make you horny.
With her hair net and her white
Shoes and a name tag and a hat,
She drove like Andy Granatelli
And knew how to fix a flat!
And Jack was at the bottom
Of his second 2020.
Neal was yellin out the window
Tryin to buy some beannies
From a Lincoln, full of Mexicans
Whose left rear tire blew
And the son's of bitches
Prit near ran us off the road!
Well the nurse had
Spilled the Manischewitz
All up and down her dress,
Then she lit the map on fire
And Neal just had to guess.
Should we try to find
A bootleg route
Or a fillin station open?
The nurse was dumping
Out her purse looking for a kiss.
Jack was out of cigarettes,
When we crossed the yellow line.
The gas pumps looked
Like tombstones from then on.
It felt lonelier than a parking lot
When the last car pulls away.
And the moonlight dressed
The double breasted foot hills
In the mirror, weaving out
A negligee and black brassiere.
The mercury was running hot
And we were almost out a gas,
Just then Florence Nightingale
Dropped her draws and stuck
Her fat ass out the window
To a Wilson Picket tune
And she shouted "get a load of this! "
And give the finger to the moon.
Counting one eyed jacks
And whistlin Dixie in the car,
Neal was doin least a hundred
When we saw a shootin star.
Florence wished that Neal
Would hold her 'stead of chewin his cigar.
Jack was noddin out and dreamin
That he was in a bar,
With Charlie Parker on the bandstand
And not a worry in the world,
And a glass of beer in one hand
And his arm around a girl.
And Neal was singin to the nurse
Underneath a Harken moon
And somehow you could tell
We'd be in CalifornY pretty soon.
Sitting having coffee at the classy Brassiere
Everyone is laughing, and they’re speaking niceties
Isn’t it lovely just to sit and chitter chat
Instead of being me in my lonely habitat
Not to be heavy weather, just to be light and gay
Able to flirt with strangers able to chat away
The woman across from me is glorious to see
She chats with everyone, she is so beautiful and free
I bet her life is happy, without much care or strife
She knows what she is after, able to grab at life
Soft spoken and graceful, yet with hunger lush and ripe
Observing her I sit alone, the studious silent type
She smiles softly, and her smile it lights the room
The men are entranced, she attracts like exotic perfume
Oh I wish I could be like her one never alone
I somehow feel out of touch, I’m always on my own
Such happy smiling faces, a young man just glanced at me
I wonder if he’s lonely, he looked but cannot see
The person that is hiding, the secret inner me
Such a lot of giggly laughter, clever chic repartee
The young man seems disconcerted, maybe he’s very shy
Now the woman’s flirting with yet another passer bye
Maybe her head is empty, maybe there’s nothing there
She needs the admiration she needs the men who stare
So maybe I should be thankful for all that’s inside me
She can only see herself, but dear world I see thee.
Homeless, destitute with nothing more then a backpack and cigarettes
down the rabbit hole she went, no linen tablecloths just stricken wood,
in a house of ill repute;.
She could not refuse the hunkering of a horny man who lived by threats
so she counted her bills and tucked them in her brassiere with a tear
She cringed when glass smashed and grinded her teeth when she was cold
it was a bordello made surreal by alcohol mellowed Johns who were so old
A bawdy crib, (bagnio del innocente) bath for the innocent...
a knocking shop that foiled the linen and gave shiners to young girls,
no one cared
in this disorderly place, where the stew was watered down with whiskey float
Then came the raid that brought everything to a halt,
in a gestalt moment she found freedom, perhaps her prayers were answered?
Down to the river she went for a bath and a rest,
it was then that she remembered her first time, it was incest *
The wild caged bird had no other place to hide but in this fortress
she slept for days on the grass beside a great big boulder, ,
all the wild animals in the forest thought she was a Princess.
They let her sleep, and fed her pine nuts from the trees. Until this day,
Gianna never mentioned the brothel to anyone, no even herself.
Feb. 20, 2021
Ode To A Gym Teacher
Amid brassiere and derrière
She strives to put her clothes on.
Her panties there, stockings here
The rest of it, she throws on.
At the mirror, shining bright
She struggles with her powder.
She holds her place with main and might
As others try to crowd her.
How can she dress so nimbly
In but five minutes of an hour?
The question’s answered simply:
She did not take a shower.
Barbara Dickenson
August 1966
With swimming suit season so near,
Ruthie wanted to lose her huge rear.
But she lost what was best -
luscious curves from her chest.
Then she needed a tiny brassiere!
Deja Vu; I believe that's what knowing minds call this anomaly.
Another Baroque tinged ballroom boasting bona fide blue-bloods.
Poorly feigned elan for the singing dilettante causing the cacophony.
The ennui in the room due, I'm sure, to the
artistic Carte Blanche given the chirping dud.
It's time someone demonstrate "avant-garde;" give them an actual reason for the sneers.
So on my way out I'll loose this brassiere and with a toss add some "bulbs" to the chandelier!
01/24/2018
(It's 10 lines on my tablet :D)
Assigned words:
Anomaly, Avant-garde, Baroque, Bona fide, Cacophony, Carte Blanche, Deja Vu, Dilettante, Elan, Ennui
'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the hills
The kinfolk were drinkin' as they tend to their stills
The longjohns were hung by the chimney with care
No stockings were found, just underwear
The children were nestled so high in their bunks
Their quilts made of skins from rabbits and skunks
Granny with her false teeth and gun on her knee
Was waiting for Santa as she sat by the tree
From out of the barn there arose such a noise
We thought it was Grandpa drinkin' with the boys
But what to my wandering eye should appear
It was just cousin Cleatus in mama's brassiere
And then from the rooftop we heard it at last
Like the sound of thunder or a shot gun blast
We have Christmas dinner, it's finally here
Granny kidnapped Santa while we shot his deer
Venison all covered with onions for stew
And even old Santa enjoyed some too
His belly was full when he walked out the door
But he couldn't resist when we offered him more
Well that's the story of our Christmas here
Merry Christmas to all 'til the same time next year
The Lady
Poem
Lionel Derbyshire
The lady walks ..
The lady colours
Me bright
The lady in navy slack
And jacket navy
Her blouse is white
Her see through brassiere
Is satin teal I think
Her blush is pink
I want to wink
The lady swings ..
Her scent is butterfly
In black ash
I inhale the magic
She wing's ..
Sensational .. seductive
She sways to me
Like expresso
I'm hoping for a collide
The lady's eye's
Flutters wide
Her lady eye’s
Ice my craving
I am on high
Bold I shy
The lady smiles
The lady walks
The lady pass me by
Spicy thrill !!
The lady astonishing.
peppy porcelain puppy poops on the floor
wacky winged walrus whizzes on the door
enigmatic eonian elephant espies some bamboo
clever castrated cormorant shrieks yahoo
brassiere-busting bonobo barfs on the table
maniacal mystic monkey freaks on cable
sly sonambulent sloth bear slumbers in his cave
natty naughty nutty newt nests in a wave
dizzy ditzy doormouse dances with a broomstick
tawdry turgid tiger toys with his joystick
rugged recondite raccoon races up rut-marred roads
finicky febrile frog farts on frightened toads
this sonnet celebrates sassiness midst sundry incantations
~ surrenders to insanity and scoffs at punctuation
Note: "How can there have been such strife in a Morlde` filled with beautiful Music; &
how could there have been beautiful Music such in a Morlde` filled with strife?" -Soupy
Sales, 2012.
The 12 Panes Of Christmas:
_____________________________________________________________________________
___
- XMAS' RADOTER -
Yule be Xmas
afore ye know
the pag'an go
for patterned
stamped snowflakes
'bove the
Andy Williams' Shows
DVD Stufftaculate CD,
Away, In A Manger For The Happy Employees,
drivelings (no place like) home
for the Hollydayease
in
a Ford Barricade & SUG Thirsty,
Nay, the new GM Bailout.
Suffer
the little Children
new bornes, infants
what nary see
but a Semi-Claus
ere
semiclaws,
tithes for the celibre-cause craws.
Remembrances
to things past-past, of
natal assemblies
en callow chorale masse
gone
Proustikipped,
to mortitorium's
N'well
& stockings filled
with
the chimney's cold care
yet in hopes
das Geheimnis Viktoria
would
somehow brassiere...
rout despair
the Tree hovers
Cabbage Patch? Nay!,
but the oft'splayed
Perry Como - You Win!,
Get to poke Golgotha pins -
WakeUp, boorros!
Bing-Bing!
WakeUp!, Jokers
to the St. Jack Nihilis...
but ya wanna
bat 'n ball this 'round?
You a'ready donned Santa,
with a semi-
Dear G*d,
(Walsch also asked)
How're You doin' It, &
Your Son?...Tarnished
proof weighdown here, filled
with
vanilla, frozen grins &
Joyburdened smiles...
'neath
pattern-stamped snowflakes &
piney Glade heads
afore the marshed desert
Koyaanisqatsi
Like yearlings'
trotted-out
Saviormusic
whilst the other 333
like
666 -
doubled for toil 'n trouble -
employed
to savaging
One, many, or 'nother...
Christmas partidges'
riffeled feathers family?
pared, unprepaired,
Indeed, vouchsafed
an enemy sans name
on
a horse with no name, save
Internecine
AmeriKa.
For
A kiss 'neath
the mistlesilo
whilst acaroling
of the Bedlamites
(Acts, II: 2-6),
the Psalming 100?,
Screeching
like sleds in pit gravel to
the Silent Night
HeyMen!
There lies
an evergrander Light
at the Dawn, but
Hey!,
who's gonna
tear-away
from
Yawnni,
& the extra-Vaganza
of
Truth?
H.e.m.
12.13.MMviii.
(ST)
(This is a fictional poem)
When we go cruising with your girlfriend, I don't like how you drive.
You always watch her big boobs instead of the road and we're lucky to be alive.
Keep your eyes on the damn road and not on her chest!
The cops keep pulling us over for wreckless driving and putting you under arrest.
You had to pay for a hog you hit last week and now we're going to have to eat a lot
of pork.
At first you refused to pay for the hog and that farmer jabbed you in the nuts with a
pitchfork.
I just learned that you've been risking our lives because of kleenex tissue in a
brassiere.
You just blessed out your girlfriend and she gave you a swift kick in the rear.
To medics, a breast is a purse
Enriching both doctor and nurse
A bra strap tattoo
Is better for you
Than an early ride in an hearse!
Cups of treasure
Held together
Cleavage and lace
Find my embrace