Best Chenille Poems
"The softness of the summer day like an ermine paw."- Anais Nin
Soft is a tissue or a cotton ball.
Soft was my old teddy bear I recall.
Soft are some foods like oatmeal and rice.
But soft crème brûlée could be twice as nice.
Soft is the butter spread on soft bread,
and soft is the pillow where I lay my head.
Soft are those fabrics so nice on my skin
like the blue velvet gown I like to dress in.
Soft is chinchilla, chenille, and mink.
Soft are the wool clothes I hope not to shrink.
Soft is my favorite pair of silk panties
and soft are those pink and blue cotton candies.
Soft are the lotions smoothed onto my face
and blankets which on winter nights I embrace.
Soft on my tongue are flakes of new snow,
and soft are spring's breezes that most gently blow.
Soft are the petals of flowers so pretty.
Soft is the fur of my precious small kitty.
Soft is a baby's cute pudgy cheeks,
and soft are the words that a kind person speaks.
Soft are the feathers of a white dove.
Soft is the smile of the one that I love.
Soft is his hair and his dark eyes so sweet
and soft are his kisses whenever we meet.
GOOD MORNING, GRATITUDE
Just think foe a brief second,
You were given a soul and allowed to be born!
Wrapped in a soft blanket,
And with love and not a drop of scorn.
Can you recall being in your crib?
I really can!
Calling for my Mommy, and she standing there.
Smiling, with a chenille robe and long, dark hair.
All the times you skinned elbows or knees...
And you called out, "Mommy, please?"
Daddy always there to help you with math.
Mommy wrapped you in warm towels, after a bath.
Ah, such sweet meanderings we long forgot.
That we poets were once such tiny tots.
These velvety thoughts so nice to recall.
In the midst of this wondrous fall!
October 26, 2019
Here the sun shines soft and warm—
Caressing all in vales and on hill—
It gives a glow to every inherent form—
And reveals for every eye a thrill.
Of here they never get their fill—
For this is Bliss, an endless treasure—
Where our dream is the Lord’s will—
And God rules by His divine pleasure.
The garden is a lush, green platform—
Big blooms with the fluffiness of chenille—
Songbirds’ music raise a storm—
Their feathered robes fill the bill.
Wings spread they fly away at freewill—
Along the curvy course of the river—
They seek the Lord’s grace with skill—
And God rules by His divine pleasure.
The dream cottage, fancy for the norm—
With a stone paved path to the doorsill—
A neat little shelter from the storm—
Has a spice garden for basil and dill.
And there’s a gazebo for time to kill--
For when gardenwork calls for leisure—
Or even for the blessing of a drizzle—
And God rules by His divine pleasure.
To some this vision may instill—
A yearning for the bliss in nature—
But the Lord is sovereign still—
And God rules by His divine pleasure.
~
here, within the heart’s dreams,
passion gently tugs the strings
between heaven and earth
destined quivers collect
at the corners of reality
when flesh is kissed lightly
and moonbeams through parted sheers
illumine azure eyes pleading
day becomes night
as promises wished for
satisfy in the grasp of your hand
softly caressing senses,
wallowing in the seductive scent
where warmth on a cold autumn eve
neath woolen sheets
and down feather whispers
melts upon longing lips
as wandering fingertips trace
moistened folds, chenille glistened curves,
silhouettes of desire
amidst silken sighs echoing
and eternity is more than
measured time,
but ingrained in the moments
spent as one
in the arms of love
~
Acrid smoke in the scientist’s bell jar
Blankets of chenille-covered snow
Crystalline carbon diamond star
Drips forming stalactites grow
Effervescent waterfalls’ dreams
Frothy-topped cappuccinos
Gelid surfaces of lakes and streams
Halos of angels in holy repose
Icebergs splitting from their source
Jasmine-covered pergolas in Spring
Knuckles clenched in fear or remorse
Love’s purest form sobering
Mandala patterns on frosted window
Newly-born flamboyant flamingos
Opalescent lustre of pearls on show
Pineapple-licious snow cones
Quills of the porcupines’ defense
Ringlets of great-grandparents’ hair
Steamy hot springs vapor intense
Trailing wisps of London fog air
Undulating winter foothill maze
Veils of fine tatted lace purity
Wieliczka Salt Mine passageways
Xilinous spider webs artistry
Yahrzeit candle flame in memoriam
Zephyrus ballooning sails on a whim
The first king size bed was fashioned nearly two thousand years ago,
Not by Thomasville, Broyhill or Bassett, manufacturers we all know.
There was no pillow-top mattress made by Sealy or Simmons for the bed,
Nor a chenille bedspread or foam pillows upon which to rest His head.
The bed was not located in a cozy Hampton Inn or Embassy Suites,
But in a lowly stable with a bed of straw sans snowy-white sheets.
The first King size bed was a simple manger for a royal destined to rule!
A King of Kings was born whose birthday we celebrate this joyous Yule!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
it was the week after Christmas,
the one when fate had granted me my fondest wish,.....
(a lustrous, ruby-red, Schwinn bicycle that sported a basket in the front, and a bell to ring.)
On that cold, late December night, I'll always remember how suddenly the sky was stained by the color of alarm
My young mother leaving her warm bed at three in the morning
without tying her robe, rousing us all with calm haste
Deep red reflections seeped through mud-splashed window screens
as she shooed us like sheep, down raw-grained stairs.
She pushed us from behind with her two hands,
out the door, and onto a frost-slick back porch,
into the wee hours of early light.
By then, wide-eyed, we stood and watched the fire from a safe distance,
as it consumed our garage. And, my bike.
From the frame of the doorway, and the top step's narrow slat
she enveloped me in her folds of chenille to keep me from shivering.
The cool of her hand on my shoulders,
watching my dad in his attempt with a hose,
to douse the inferno,
all the while, in a faltering voice, warning him to keep safe.
Sounds of sirens wailed in the distance
When I looked up into her face, with anxious eyes
I remember her soft, reassuring voice
"Hush now, don't cry"
"Everything will be alright."
I don't remember much after that,
except looking down, at her bare feet
turning blue in the cold
_____________________________________________________________
From a derelict house, near the interstate pass,
with her cuff of chenille, she rubs a small circle
to clear away grime from the cold window glass
Better to see now, beyond wooden rails, that have worn disrepair
for thirty odd years
and have fenced in, long hours of loneliness
There's an old pepper tree, that tosses it's head in an alien wind,
in a sea of dead grass, where a garden had been
There's a face, weathered thin, from neglect and despair
she turns for a moment, to glance, here and there,
a room she has known, filled with colors long dimmed,
where the silence shouts loud, not a question to ask....
but...wishing for something..., a chore, or a task
if only the phone might ring.....
Near the rail of the fence are two Rhode Island Reds
grazing around in the tall weedy grass
There's a cock on a post, in the shade of the tree
keeping watch on his kin, keeping her company,
keeping tabs of a life that has come to an end
She will gaze in a lapse, dust motes fall to the floor,
in the still of the gloom she will turn once again
in the grim of the room...
There is still a dial tone, ....maybe the phone will ring....
For a mere month or more, a feral cat came her door
then had wandered the floors, neither friend or a foe
But he soon disappeared, on the eve of the storm
She will call just the same.......just in case he can hear
"Here, kitty kitty"....."Here, kitty kitty", but she calls him in vain
While the wind plays the same dirty game...
Tumble weeds roll and bend, her eyes search through the wind
...as she waits for a friend
a friend never there....always due to arrive
so she stands by the side, of the black telephone
In the old parlor room, in the gloom of a long afternoon
Maybe the phone will ring....
________________________________________________________
He gifted his girl with a doll
he brought home from every trip.
Oh, how the beauty would enthrall!
Always her heart would flop and flip.
A doll so rigid stiff and straight,
she had to have a pedestal
just to support he couture’s weight!
Her fashions were incredible.
Her essence was molded plastic.
Her hair and eye color unique.
Her formal wear was fantastic,
fairly fashioned of worthy pique.
Each doll distinct in color and dress.
A favorite, a darked-haired beauty.
Her frock of emerald finesse,
not just another frail cutie!
A collection long lost to time
as is each chenille pipe cleaner.
I cherish moments of their prime,
and their glamorous demeanor.
close cut green chenille
steep peaks standing side by side
on shifting terrain
© 2012 (Jim Sularz)
A stitch, a knot, a sudden tear,
some missing counts along the folds.
Her cloth was sewn in Life's fine linen,
and bordered, in marygolds.
Still monogrammed, but mostly worn,
in bold initials, RHS.
With mauve tear-dropped appliqués,
in the center, two silhouettes.
For naked she came and naked she left,
her embroidered life was sewn untold.
In pink chenille and diamond eyelets,
with resplendent marygolds!
.......
robe of chenille
soft crooning comfort at her breast
robe of chenille
calmed the nightmare, softened chills
when childhood fever reached a crest
soon drifting back to midnight rest
robe of chenille
.....
In honor of Nette Onclaud's Contest: "Weave a Rondelet"
By Carrie Richards 9/13/11
Awakening near the new dawn full of joy,
[this inexplicable sense of happiness]
feeling that all is well within my soul when
gladness, like soothing water, rolls over me,
bathing me in the fresh glow of renewal.
My rituals are interrupted by song,
singing praises, for no apparent reason--
save dusty rays of golden sunlight angling
through a partially opened chenille curtain
and entering into my receptive heart.
This is not the anticipated start of
a new day, most days, I must hasten to say.
I skeptically fear the unexpected,
while hoping this sweet joy will linger with me,
coloring each aspect of my waiting day.
You had to know Lucille
Every morning nothing but oatmeal
She never skipped a meal
Her favourite colour was teal
And loved to wear soft chenille
Her pet was a beautiful cockatiel
And every night drank chamomile
Out of crystal cut pinwheel
She believed life had handed her a misdeal
And stopped pretending to feel
Lucille liked things to be even keel
How things changed when she met charming Neil
Propelling his sporty automobile
Until all four tires would squeal
Somehow it was instant undeniable appeal
They were an item and a big deal
And soon became ‘Neil and Lucille’
They got to know each other piecemeal
Both actively fought to save the endangered seal
(But both love to eat fish, chicken and veal)
Both had been through their own ordeal
But that now seemed somewhat unreal
And much preferred to dawdle in the surreal
With their hearts doing somersaults and cartwheels
AP: Honorable Mention 2020