Best Buttoned Poems
Life is never a planned ride
on a magical carpet,
that awakens jasmine
dreams lost in the brisk air.
We weave our own
zest of zephyr,
to tailor-stitch a tapestry;
buttoned with zeal,
cuff-linked with faith,
designed in silence~
fragranced with forgiveness...
We forget to appreciate
dusky clouds carrying
crooning rainbows,
when mists of memories,
shroud the lemongrass lace
of velvety eventides~
As twisted thoughts wade
through a lachrymose
web of thistles~
skies drizzle
tear-stained diamonds.
There was a time
when my consciousness
refused to seek
mulberry streaks
of halcyon light,
flickering beyond
cluttered chaos
carved in confusion,
for I've long waltzed
through drowsy darkness~
that circles around
the kundalini spirits,
stealing sacred energy
like vicious vultures
intoxicated by the
fickle flavors of
fleeting seasons.
I ponder, would I have
found clarity, if I had
abandoned the
bleeding dreariness
that dragged me
towards an abyss of angst?
Perhaps, I shall find the
sunsets that slumber
behind wintry eyes,
to heal this ebony skin
that hides bruised veins.
So tonight as I listen
to the rain serenade
the silence that swirls
between my
aching heartbeats,
I find serenity cascade
like whistling waterfalls,
calming inner-fears,
as I let go of the shadows
lurking behind the
angels that guard
enticing temptations,
tethered by false narratives.
Here in the rising glows
of ineffable moonlight,
I've seen the seven-stars
sparkling around auroras,
dancing to the symphonies
of truth interwoven with
rouge reveries of
today's twilight,
wiping away whiffs of
yesterday's blurred visions,
and unseen truth of tomorrows,
as the choir of mindfulness
orchestrates a
magnolia melody,
where every infinite rhythm
reflects the virtuous sound
of butterfly bliss
fluttering~
along mirthful chambers,
within the sobriety of my heart.
A is for Aprons, like Moms used to wear.
B is for Barrettes that adorn young girls’ hair.
C is for Coats, many colors and styles.
D is for Diamonds, best friends that brings smiles.
E is for Elbow pads skateboarders use.
F is for Flippers folks might wear on a cruise.
G is for Gowns, to wear out . . . or to bed!
H is for Helmets - Hard Hats for one’s Head.
I is for Indian saris so bright.
J is for Jewelry that dazzles at night.
K is for Kilts used by Scotts, do you know?
L is for Lingerie, a woman’ peep show!
M is for Masks to look scary or funny.
N is for Necklaces from your sweet honey.
O is for Overalls, comfy for big men.
P is for Pajamas, so easy to fit in.
Q is for a Quilted skirts and jackets too.
R is for Rags - what our worn clothes turn into!
S is for Shorts, for a day warm and glad.
T is for Ties that we all give to Dad.
U is for Underwear. I can see France!
V is for Vest. It enhances your pants.
W is for Wig, great when hair has been shorn.
X is for Xmas clothes too rarely worn.
Y is for Yamaka - only for Jews.
Z is for Zippered, the clothes over buttoned ones that I would choose!
Oh, the things we’ve been wearing since Adam and Eve
first started it off by just wearing their leaves!
For the ABC Contest of CYNDI MACMILLAN
Written by Andrea Dietrich, a big fan of poetry and PoetrySoup.
She was looking my way, I had nothing to say,
Though I'd dreamed that this day would transpire;
With her beaux all around, why would she look at me
With such interest and playful desire?
She was heading my way, what on earth would I say
To the prettiest girl in the town?
And how could I bear all her sunshiny hair
Or her eyes, speckled golden and brown?
I thought, "This is the one! Mercy, here comes the sun!
If I stare, I shall surely be blind:
Though I be somewhat plain, if she choose to remain
I'd be last in the county to mind."
Then my eyes turned away as she sweetly did say
Pretty phrases I cannot recall;
And I mumbled replies, though they might have been lies,
Since I cannot remember at all.
Of that bright day in May but one thing I can say,
She was dressed in a soft yellow gown;
'Twas a lemony hue that was buttery too,
And with eight shiny pearls buttoned down.
Then I asked if she'd dance at the Cunningham's manse,
At the ball on the fourteenth of June;
She replied, "Oh, how good! Yes, I certainly would;
And I hope I shall talk to you soon."
What a wonderful day! Still with nothing to say
I just whistled an old happy tune;
Having primrosy dreams of sweet peaches and cream
As I counted the hours of June.
(Written February 12, 2014)
My fantasies are lost;
Into the wild I could not chase.
Closing my eyes, I desired for your touch.
I felt your fingers running through my hair.
I shivered to your soft lips touching my skin.
I longed for your kisses.
Drawing me closer and closer,
A vision of flaming red sheets in the air -
I followed your scent.
In your black, rolled up, half buttoned shirt and jeans,
You light the burning fire in me.
And into your blue eyes, I fully submit.
You pulled and pushed me; walls against my back.
Sending chills once more, your face touched my cheek;
I heard your silent whispers of want.
You grabbed my hair and our hearts raced.
Without a beat skipped, I drowned.
To your vigorous, passionate kiss; I responded.
To your soft, powerful touch; I melted.
To your breaths, I surrendered.
The lamp outside my lodgings cut through fog of dirty grey,
I donned my coat and hat ready to start another day.
The sound of hooves on cobbles meant my transport was at hand
I stepped onto the pavement as it pulled up at the stand.
Quick turn of the brass handle, creaky door swung open wide,
a short leap to the footplate and I clambered up inside.
The bench seat buttoned velour, colours fading, rather frayed,
long scratches on the rosewood round the Marquetry inlaid.
We bounced and swung on straps and springs and galloped through the streets,
Side window broken in one corner, letting out the heat.
Outside the Quad I paid my fare and stepped into the cold,
and thought 'how many other Derby cabs are quite that old?'
Inspired by an article in today's local paper regarding the age
and appalling state of some of our local Taxi cabs.
Blue Jays and Black birds and half a dozen squirrels.
Sprinkled with Sparrow's, it's become quite a world.
Occasional Cardinal to add a little spice.
They seem to all be getting along fairly nice.
The neighbor, he feeds them plenty of food.
It seems it is working, they've become quite a brood.
As long as the house is buttoned up tight.
They're not a problem, I sleep fine at night.
Out in the front, a chipmunk does play.
Scurrying around and having it's way.
A Robin or two might ruffle their feathers.
I wouldn't change a thing if I had my druthers.
It feels like I'm blessed to have such a mess.
Nothing to do but enjoy it, I guess.
God certainly does have mysterious ways.
How he shows us his love in these warm summer days.
The colors she wore clashed in confusion.
One sock grey, one sock blue
as her mind wandered ... where?
She never knew her name
called out of the fog.
The blouse buttoned wrong
with sleeves too long
and she didn't belong ... anywhere.
When the fog settled in,
she stared out, turned around
full circle to a stop.
Very foggy now walking into a room
not knowing what to do there.
So, she sat in her coat and hat going ... nowhere.
Later from a hand come into view,
she is led to a closet to take things off.
Faces came and went, strangers all
even those who called out "Mom!".
She couldn't say who she was talking to
and that voice ... was that Her voice?
Who was Her?
Better not to speak at all,
let silence take her ... (everywhere).
Let the fog drape around her soul.
Perhaps tomorrow,
the curtains would close
and she would know
what was waiting in the wings.
school broke up and summers here
shipped off, a long bus ride
every holiday off I'd go
to my aunts house by the sea side
she opened the door, gave a monster hug
this lady seemed immense
the first thing to hit me was the smell
musty lavender, quite intense
she eyed me up and down a while
a look of pure distaste
now come child go unpack your bag
ran up the stairs with haste
the room I had was idyllic
clean bedding a lamp and a flower
looked outside to see the view
the bright light on Blackpool tower
aunty Millie gave me a shout
come down and help me cook
side by side we peeled the veg
in her eyes I dare not look
white collar buttoned to her chin
black skirt did sway below
grey hair tied in the tightest bun
not a strand allowed to flow
we sat around a table to eat
such a thing I'd never known
she asked of school and other things
her interest always shown
a home, a real life living home
for this childhood I would yearn
a small girl I was allowed to be
secure, friendly, but stern
three meals a day, every one home cooked
never afraid, no hand was raised
and best of all, when I was good
I was hugged and I was praised
my aunty Millie I loved her so
never wanted to go home
we said goodbye and off I'd go
once again withdrawn and alone
Buttoned-up sunshine silhouette
draped in early evening fantasy
captured in aromatic ecstasy
let me
d e
o a
w s
n y
let me
wander
in your
b r
e e
z e
Drips of cinnamon touch
the true taste of innocence
and her lips melt atop
burning gasoline jet streams
b
l
o
w
n
across the sheets of time
with the corners holding me still
sunsets wink good night
Is dance a metaphor for sex?
You’d think so if you knew my ex
(at least the barflies all believe
she’s hoarding something up her sleeve).
But what makes people want to dance?
An aural frenzy? True romance?
Would Hamlet, Shylock or Macbeth
ever dance themselves to death?
Strasbourg is the kind of town
that’s unassuming, buttoned down.
These people don’t let down their hair:
rarely reckless, somewhat square.
The year before a reign began
(that’s Charles the Fifth – the Habsburg man):
to celebrate Saint Vitus’ Day
a Strasbourg woman’s new ballet
was launched in Rue des Hallebardes
(a strange event in all regards).
Right outside her Strasbourg home,
a stone’s throw from Strassburgerdom,
one Frau Follea hit the street
(and man, that chick could move her feet!)
We don’t know what her motive was:
perhaps she did it ‘just because’.
Did she deserve the looney bin?
No - other folks were joining in!
With twisting torsos, poor and posh,
the city streets were soon awash.
Without the need for record player,
the followers of Frau Follea
bopped and boogied through the night,
as hot as Rhineland anthracite.
Did scruples sting at morning mist?
Did conscience prick them to desist?
Did people halt their hellish dance?
Not one mosher! Not a chance!
On they conga’d, rocked and rolled,
oblivious to heat or cold.
More Alsace dusks, forever amber,
reverberated to their samba.
The local grapes are full and juicy:
the people step a mean watusi.
There’s such a thing as civic pride,
but this lot cha-cha’d till they died!
Housewife, beggar, baker, barber
were parties to the danse macabre.
Was their motive pleasure? Fear?
Penance? Sydenham’s Chorea?
The reason for the quick-quick-slow
I don’t suppose we’ll ever know.
We stitched our ribbons through your heart
From end to end we threaded
We sewed right to your fingertips
– And every stitch you dreaded
We tramped along your shoulders broad
To weave our little lines –
How nimble were our fingers then
How clever our design!
We jabbed and pierced and buttoned you
We pulled the stitches tight –
For us an act of liberty
For you an act of night
We gaze now on our handiwork
As on a work of art
A wilderness of emerald
Mapped out upon a chart
But, ‘lest we think we’ve mastered you
Once every little while
You raise yourself and startle us
With lightning in your smile!
I walk in a busy street, happy faces everywhere
Coats buttoned tight against the cold,
Stomachs full, warm shoes on their feet.
They don't know.
My grandparents limped through the streets
Cold, starving, wearing tattered coats.
Barefoot in Germany in winter, for a crime of birth
Convicted by fear, jealousy and hate.
It is autumn, and all around me the colors explode
As if a giant splattered paint from his brush
On the landscape, his canvass, until sated.
He didn't know.
My family endured colorless years
The only hue the yellow stars they were forced to wear
To mark each as something less than a person,
Exempt from even the most basic human rights.
There's a chill in the air this time of year
Smoke billows from the chimneys of dozens of homes
And bonfires litter the neighborhood like cinders
They don't know
My mother can't see a chimney without crying
Reminders of the chimneys at the camp
Where her friends, relatives and nameless Jews
Were released as grey smoke to hover and signal release.
Everyday I see people covered in tattoos.
Tattoo shops pop up offering expensive artwork
Anywhere on the body, some covering every inch.
They don't know.
My mother had a tattoo way before they were popular.
She did not choose it -- it was forced upon her by her jailers.
A number tattooed in black on the inside of her arm
Her only hope of being identified if she survived.
The children born today have choices,
And must never allow a "Holocaust" again;
Choices to wear, eat, watch, think, and love what and who they want.
Make sure they know.
A Winston churchill’s declaration
to a tiny nation situated in the dark continent
due to its magnificence and sight capturing habitat
only matched by the electrifying effect of its hospitality.
A country where wealth has long made a short call
and yet to return to where it is needed.
Starvation on Boda-bodas, perambulating across its communities
as a longing for good life is never satisfied.
Yet happiness supersedes lack
on a nation which is tree loving;
a global competitor in Bananas, pineapples and Avocados
and a home to extinction-kissing Gorillas.
Satisfaction from pan fried grasshoppers
equates the appetizing feel of Italian pizzas and Turkish Donas.
Gender division of labour quite one-sided
where men are roof installers and women, the actual builders.
No wonder, female engineers and contractors
have long attracted the norm in a society
which is in love with Bicycles
and buttoned by a twin dry seasons.
Bwindi and Mhahinga are major game reserves
but its stand out feature so unique
is the simple fact it’s the youngest country in the globe
with one in every two, fourteen or below.
Tickets are not easy to get at the Royal Circle.
A lady does not wish to get a seat by currying favor;
the flavor will eventually turn rancid and ruin her day.
The scent of expensive perfume pervades the warm air.
A packed house of coiffed women in evening frown
and men who wear success like a badge; she is here alone
in full regalia: pinned-up auburn hair, porcelain skin
in a buttoned-up dress. White opera gloves, her nod to
convention. Several eyebrows raise when she comes
unescorted. There is not much legroom and it cramps her style,
yet, she bears the discomfort one hundred feet above the ground.
She doesn’t get to see clearly the emotions on the actor’s face.
The rest of humanity looks like buzzing bees and butterflies
hiding gossiping lips on pale faces behind colorful fluttering fans.
She assumes the look; men have no monopoly on the stoic face.
An evening out unescorted teaches her the world will always
judge not just the melodrama she is watching onstage.
There is more to life than The Salon; a woman has a choice.
After: Theater by Mary Cassatte 1879
For Debbie Guzzi's Ten Pictures, Ten Poems, Ten Days - Painting 6
Kim Patrice Nunez
13 January 2016
* Published by Ekphrastic: Writing and Art on Art and Writing
The icy snow sparkles in the midday sun
as we glide down on cardboard toboggans.
Scarves wrapped thrice around our necks,
overcoats buttoned to the top.
We feel no pain as we tumble off,
just laugh, and run for another go.
In the distance other children are skiing,
planks tied to their feet, sticks in hands.
Younger children have built a snowman,
coal taken from parents' bunkers for eyes.
A by-pass now runs through our playground,
this vast green used for childhood games.
Traffic cones line our slalom run.
Cars skid where we used to slide.
Lorries drive between our goalposts.
where a fantastic goal was scored.
And where a superb six was hit,
road markings show us the boundary.
Progress has left us with childhood memories
the new generation will never see.