Best Chintz Poems
Mother would tuck into each dresser drawer,
a bar of soap, to scent the clothes..
The familiar fragrance of English Lavender would fill the air
The small bedroom, a bit cramped..a bit shabby, but comfortably familiar.
The faded chintz curtains and the cover on the four poster, was a primrose yellow...
and the wallpaper striped in blue and white.
There would be marguerite daisies in a jug on the dressing table..
Next to a framed photo of five, smiling young cousins..
all scrubbed, with shining faces, dressed for church, one Easter morning.
Over on the north wall hung a painting of Willowby Pond...
so pleasant to look at, just before falling to sleep.
Here I stand once again, having things so familiar, so much the same
I take a deep breath, recalling the sense of home, the fragrance of lavender
Like slipping into an old pair of slippers,
after spending the day wearing high heeled shoes
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A dusk, a glazed verandah, it's just rained,
a smell of lilac, earthworms and wet earth,
an awkward silence - the confusion chained
my tongue: “What if she’ll laugh at? Is it worth?”
A glass of wine casts the vermilion shade
over a tablecloth, a rocking chair
sways quietly, its oscillations fade
as far as you immerse into the rare
edition of “Les Fleurs du mal”* I brought
for you, a curious nocturnal moth
time and again sits on your polka dot
chintz dress, it’s getting late, a creamy froth
of lilac trees spills out of the garden
through open windows. I lament, I bide
my time. Oh, how the words of love are hard in
such an inclement May…
In June you died.
So many years have passed since then, my love.
Wine’s drunk, lilac is gone, the moth in vain
knocks on the screen, only the shadow of
your chair still sways in my delirious brain.
*(fr.) “The Flowers of Evil” by Charles Baudelaire
12.10.2019
Give Me Your Best New Poem Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Emile Pinet
A misty ocean
touches umber cliffs as chintz
grass tendrils downward
toward tidal foam on summer's
tangerine and teal debut
7/22/17
She wore her skirt short,
her lingerie to be seen.
Such sights aplenty!
Gawking, gawping eyes
lusted at shear nudity.
They burned with hunger.
She proudly stood in
ruffled edges of cheap chintz,
dimmed and stained with wear.
Though worn and weathered,
her shoes had seven-inch heels -
a platform for love.
She was hardworking,
a rough road for seven years,
never a complaint.
She saved her rewards,
wed an investment banker,
retired at 30,
and laughed her way to the bank.
Spring inks
cherry blossoms
in pinks.
Dabs lean
weeping willows
lime green.
And tints
blue waters like
glazed chintz.
(Musette)
4/2/2021
Photo #3
Finding Your Musette 2 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joseph May
Hotel terraces art nouveau ironwork and interiors
Mother of pearl cufflinks painters actors musicians
Scooters racing around an antiquity filled Italian city
Mediterranean charm "How do you like your breakky?"
Feeling faint she lay on the comfortable chintz couch
And began to doze off to sleep...two cherubs red hair
Sea-green eyes turned up frecked nose sniffed air
Clove cigarettes perfume of sandalwood musk rose
Fresh strawberries slithered onto his awaiting lap
Beautifully chiselled shaven jawline elegantly poised
Handsome blue eyes dazzled like secret treasures
on chintz-clad window
frosty trees and ferns await
a melting moment
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It was old fashioned shopping,....floors were warm planks of wood
Where footsteps sounded hallow, and the walls were lined with goods
A “5 and 10” cent heaven, … was the friendly Woolworth's Store
One would always be surprised, what revolved behind that door
How quickly flew the hours of a summer afternoon,
to fritter through the clutter, that lay in waiting there
Time would disappear upon a dime, with a sweeping of the eyes
like the feather dusting of the racks on the shelves of all the years
One could hear the clink of metal that nourished the till
Where children holding a mother’s hand, could be rewarded for keeping still
Little hands, restrained, would tire, leaning over a heart’s desire
While a mother would conspire with the clerk of the day
For there a child would stand in mute dismay,
An indecisive millionaire, a fight of tooth and nail despair
With fifty ways they might disburse two whole nickels in a purse
A bit of this and a bit that, a stack of crayons, a pair of socks,
Some satin ribbons, a new array of small barrettes, to dress the locks
Cases of candy, a licorice whip, eyes embracing one after another…
Laces or vases, sissors or needles, color climbing color
The stacked up bolts of ginghams, worsteds, chintz and serges
Trays of trinkets, and souveniers, ‘Evening in Paris’, the bottle was gorgeous
All of these things, under a dollar, even a collar for all the pooches
To know how it was to sit on a stool, after school
Order a sandwich, and sip sodas, always cool and sublime
This was how Woolworth’s….a store of the past
Would build a memory to last and last…..,
Forever in time, for a nickel or a dime...
....how much more could one girl find, and how much could one child ask?
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Skat's Premiere Contest: #13
~~~~~~~~ Pink Polyester Pants ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I really like to ride my bike, outside your porch, hopin' for a glimpse,
of you sitting, singing dress a clinging in neatly pleated floral chintz.
And that time after school-ly when that bully pinched you on the buttocks,...
Though I decked em, I must respect em for admirin' your tattered denim cut-offs.
And, oh, did you look sweet and sassy when you wore that peasant blouse,...
though maybe not so replete and classy when you trick or treat'd at my house.
Though you are one year older, I sure feel bolder a'climbin' o yer backyard fence.
But I really flipped when I saw you slipped inside those pink polyester pants!
Boy :
deep beneath the veil
behind creaking songs of mouth -
felt fragrance of love
Girl :
nah! torpor dreamer
fret over your own fancies -
stars won't shine the day
Boy :
rain sweeping over
pall of clouds hiding the sun -
still I waits the smile
Girl :
before thunder knocks
lightning burns the tweet of love-
not the right day out
Boy :
burned pile of ashes
blown by the low moaning wind -
shines the fire of love
Girl :
fling of youthful love
swayed faded chintz of my mind -
stony heart melted
Callie
Rocking in a chintz platform rocker,
Wearing a patio dress,
Day after day she hums a song,
“With someone like you.”
Through the window she watches,
He left her far too soon,
Dust and cobwebs around her gather,
She hums and rocks “With someone like you.
I’d like to leave it all behind.”
With a knock upon my dressing room doors
I enter stage right to rapturous applause
And I sit before a white grand piano
So excited to perform
Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue
Such a treat for me to play
It would be a major coup
This masterpiece a challenge
So without further ado
A saxophone is heard
the audience sits without a word
Though excitement makes them burst into applause
Then silence
as I start to play my piano concerto
I am lost within my music
on a journey who knows where to
So please sit back ~ relax ~ and enjoy my first recital
As I venture on this journey concentration it is vital
Now at home sat in the comfort of my cosy chintz armchair
No piano can be seen ~ for there is no piano there
But deep within my mind’s eye I am reigning supreme
I am there upon that stage
I am living the dream
Written 9th October 2019
3RD PLACE
Contest: Living the Dream
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
Contest: Strand Special 12
Sponsor: Brian Strand
3RD PLACE
Dear Shari Todd – written July 29, 2015
While rifling thru outdated writing,
which virtual thumbing
wrought non deadly chancre “FAKE” blister
(long thee envy o' this wordy mister
a reference to mine youngest sister
prior tuff fall lout dynamic
emotional frenzied analogous
rapacious seditious tempestuous twister)
Tis hospitality of yar behalf
to league gal lee
tender our lovely daughter
begat in part by meself,
whose punctured psyche doth chaff
at mine severe prepubescent short comings,
which trajectory of teen years,
a downward line on spiro (Agnew) graph
which deprivations well nigh
finds a civil war raging
against one half of ma being
(Oh Henry), a Harris son,
who these days genuinely
tries his Level best
at lighter side of life to laugh
comedy of errors, boot
haunting visions visit Twelfth Night
figuratively brow beat
like an unseen dis staff.
glad that Shana (thee darling daughter
afflicted with cognitive development
entailing homebased intervention) wince
she blossomed into
a beautiful young lady,
now under Dunning aegis (bonanza) since
emotionally stable, and quiet
on western (Bend,
Oregon) front, rinse
sing with yar incredible credit karma,
her existence Quince
sud dental (juiced teething),
living with papa,
would mount to a travesty,
sham, mockery...if superficial
only perp pull reigning “FAKE” Prince
likely to barrel within
outward bound mince
meted MainLiners along here
built “mini mansion” homes
NOT bedecked with chintz
at 724 west railroad avenue
(previous address of this bummer)
anyway, should ill fate befall
like an overstuffed blintz
if this king Lear Rick Hill
wannabe meets fatal doom,
thy "mother abby" would
get panic stricken (rue...
Oh, Spring my love I feel now your sweet hug,
you send soft breezes to stroke- to entice;
Spring your loving fingers . . . my serene drug,
I longed for you through winters coldest ice.
Putting on my prettiest dress for you,
so we will frolic ~ spin ~ twirling, whirling;
under the sun . . . under the sky bright blue,
even the wildflowers will be swirling.
We will stroll where lovers left their footprints,
oh, they felt hope for their love to flourish;
the lovely girls in flowered cotton chintz,
I love you Spring for my soul- you nourish.
Spring, I listen to you whisper to me;
in the night-time . . . where I exist with thee.
Walking in curiosity's footprints,
I wander through life like a beachcomber.
Placing wit above life's trinkets and chintz,
I seek thinkers and poets like Homer.
Many peg me as a shiftless roamer,
but I am anything but commonplace.
The cosmos gave me a glimpse of God's face,
and my soul knew that there was so much more.
Humanity defines the human race:
godlike, with a predilection for war.
I value my memories more than gold,
flashes of how it felt to be alive.
For recollections can't be bought or sold;
they're private places where emotions thrive;
shifting conscious thoughts into overdrive.
I don't follow fools who would burn witches;
I've more respect for those who dig ditches.
Diogenes searched for an honest man
amongst the schemers, hoarding their riches:
and though he couldn't find one, I'm still a fan.