Best Coquettish Poems
PORTRAIT OF SUSAN C.
If you glance at Susan
Three days in a row
same pose
same tilt of head
same diverted eyes
brows raised
firm round lips
She says something different
Each ardent flip
I suppose it’s the passionate red dress –
how it hangs in perfect V
only a suggestion of feminine property
how it further urges her tinted ivory skin
Oh! And the long sleeves –
how they paint those meaningful
finger slims
Yes!
The dress –
It quite overcomes
Well Susan is blond
Really blond –
long-hair-hanging blond –
It sweeps round her ears
To frame a coquettish-near smile
She’s fair enough for movie fame
Yet?
Take the expression away
And…well…
It’s back to the dress for a while
Oh there’s so much movement
In those hanging folds –
none the same –
So much suggestion
Even softness
satin flame
Ummm humm… hmmmm
To end though
The whole is T-Susan
The ever notorious tease –
the come-on
slight show of flesh
those white clear eyes
of kidney pool blue
Damn! lady!
Pity the poor sap
Runs into you
Dave Austin
"Strawberry Kisses"
temptation
covert operatives
brush contact 99
coquettish Smart near misses
flirtatious crispness
in the velvet time sliding
softly persuasive
dead dropping
hungry ghosting gumshoes hubristic
dangling dripping words delicious
on tongue twisters
birdwatching the blowback
poiesis ripe
for swallows and ravens
chasing bell ringing
black buried au courant bluebirds out
better than late
Merry Christmas
lips for speaking
freshly plucked
smiles
succulent kisses
cool spooning
for the slightly touched
(LadyLabyrinth / 2021)
> Exotically pirouetting in the scented summer breeze
Daintily coquettish resting in leafy green trees
On translucent wings floats flower to flower
Delicately shivering in a cool midday shower ,
In the glow of the evening fades quietly away
Hopefully to return some other sunny day <
What cherubim or spirits shall entreat
To preach the litany of thy beauty?
If rhyme and meter be the judge,
Then let my odes of bygone years
Fill dunes of sweet romanticism
With the stink of pusillanimity and nonsense.
Shall the minstrel regale thee in coquettish glee,
When springtime comes? What are his lyrics and songs
To describe the rapture of the gentle looks
That I long to hear alone.
Will spiteful maidens sob in the arms of their lovers
As you busily pass on the corner road?
What to speak of such frivolous indiscretion?
Only beauty without appellation will know.
I forgive you dear Emily,
For you are more than fair;
Your flirty eyes give promise,
Your pouty lips don't care.
From the tilt of your head,
My heart it could break;
Your silken cheek with blush,
Where pretty dimples wake.
The mayhem in your eyes,
That will not look at me;
There the damage lies,
There for all to see.
You wink coquettish lash,
To entice me in the night;
Would the knowing of your heart,
Make everything alright?
What your callous lips may say,
Your naughty eyes deny;
What a tease dear Emily,
Enough to make me cry.
this poet’s page suddenly turns black
stars appear
am i standing on the earth?
the sky like the palladium
of the phantom of the opera
a masquerade of candleshine
i wouldn’t be surprised to see angels
descending
each holding a solitary beacon
they say stars sing —
i applaud thee soprano-coloratura
star-soubrette whimsically winks
then spurs across theater stage
i say a prayer
3/16/2020
A Star's Heartbeat Poetry Contest
Sponsor - Chantelle Anne Cooke
From: https://www.theopera101.com/operaabc/voices/
*The coloratura soprano is capable of seemingly superhuman feats.
**A soubrette soprano refers as much to an archetype of character as a voice type. These are cheeky, coquettish parts, sung by singers with sweet, bright voices. The tessitura of these parts can sometimes be pretty high but without an excess of coloratura.
Midnight envelops the pillow
where her head rests sleeping
as each shaft of moon light glows,
umber and ocher traces,
through the satin nimbus of her hair,
gently caressing her soft cheek.
The billowing gossamer of sheer veils,
like phantasms, take flight
with morning's sigh
through the open window,
while the shadows dance playfully
through each beam of light.
She stirs but a moment when the cool murmur
tickles the lashes that smile across her eyes.
Smiles of the wonder of life once lived
of friends once known,
now, mere dreams that taunt her
in early morning slumber.
She, once the consummate ingénue,
naive of life's sorrows,
innocent of the pain of affairs
lived and loved and broken,
lies like a babe in mother's arms
cradled in the bosom of her warm haven.
As the sun scales the scaffold of early dawn,
its light scalds her eyes
and harsh reality again awakens her.
With painted face and perfumed breast
she is no longer the innocent,
for life demands tribute and she pays her debt.
Act II, playing the part comes easy now,
the soubrette, her new role,
her transformation complete in the light of morning.
Hiding her doubts behind coquettish trifles
She makes it through another day,
only to await her midnight dreams.
11/18/2018
My love's reposed neath the military lawns of rows
of marble lit in moonlight's tender care.
July, the month of dreams of him-
watching bluebirds feed their fledglings under
Carolina blue skies so vast.
Maples and oaks sway in their full foliage in
a coquettish way with the courting breeze.
Strawberry water, cold to my receiving lips
and throat.
The comforting summer serenade of daytime
into twilight's cricket chorus so soothing.
I recall when we were young parents,
the newness of every morning,
our baby daughter of angelic beauty,
the leisure of the weekends with coffee
and the Sunday paper.
How she grew so swiftly, and we began to
become gray.
Our baby is forty-two, love,
and we miss your fatherly and
granddad's presence.
Strawberry water and reminiscing,
sweeter than watermelon,
on this summery eve. ~
I whewed unto myself
I whewed unto who cares to listen
I screeched unto them
I warbled unto all
She is a beauty to behold
But beyond beauty
My dear country is suffering
She is suffering from . . . megalomania
My expected willing whee
Became my unexpected unwilling wheel
To which I wee unwillingly
At the sight of the whittle
Whence forth is my whet to Whelm
My willingness to willingly will my will
To my beauty beholding beyond beauty
My dear country is
She is . . . stealthy coquettish.
Alayande Stephen .T
26th September, 2005
2.45pm
NB-Conceptualised for Nigeria's 45 years
Independence Anniversary.
...from the movie, 'American Beauty'
A plastic bag, a windy day,
darting, dancing high and low,
coquettish in her flight of fancy,
all in all, a one-bag show;
a street performer with a twist,
I wish you could have seen her,
a holder meant for groceries,
an no-name ballerina.
Erratic, yes, but orchestrated,
it's as if a puppeteer
controlled the choreography,
a protege without a peer;
she soared and swooped, this virtuoso,
then the errant wind was gone,
no pirouettes to look upon,
and I was left to ruminate,
an audience of one.
Life can turn on simple decisions;
I, myself, am proof that life can even be given a start based on the same.
My father rode into Germany at the end of World War II,
His mission: to help clean up the mess that war can leave behind.
His kismet came in the form of Germanic blue eyes
accompanied by a coquettish smile
atop a feminine form with an intelligent mind.
Paperwork was his excuse not to join his platoon on a trip to the outskirts of town;
The real reason was to chase a skirt he was mesmerized with in town;
What his fellow soldiers saw in the first discovery of a German Concentration Camp, scarred them for life;
My father was spared that horror and that trauma to his soul that may have made it impossible for him to fall in love with my mother that afternoon.
Were it not for his lame excuse;
Were it not for the chance to try out his newly learned German on a beautiful girl in a beaten down city in a defeated country;
I would not be typing these words in the autumn of my blessed life.
There would be no author to pen this tale,
No tale to tell,
Had that young soldier performed his duty that day
instead of drinking coffee in the cafés of Berlin.
Written and posted on 1/12/2016 for the "Last Line Prompt" contest.
Mr. Spider is an ugly looking creature. He has a hairy face and arms. However, the hairs on the top of his head are somewhat thinner than those on his face, and scattered all over here and there. His hairs looked dark, rough, and stiff, but those hairs in his beard, which covered on his broad and flat face, were grayish white. Mr. Spider has a pair of sharply pointed claws on the end of his thin clumsy-looking finger. Moreover, he has hiding his sharp and crooked teeth behind his bushy beard. His two big, dark, and atrocious eyes never blink or move but fixed on one spot from behind the shadow where he was squatting down.
Ms Butterfly is an elegant high socialite. She always wears the colorful robe. She glides and dances in the air as if she were a piece of gorgeous floating corolla. She didn’t eat any solid food. She flies in the air and stops on one flower bloom to the other for delicacy of sweet nectar. She enjoys it, for it keeps her in good shape and enables her to maintain her coquettish figure forever. Ms Butterfly, however,
is an arrogant and selfish lady. She never considers the feeling of the others. She acted only for her own good, yet she was a just simple lady.
It was a sunny afternoon in early spring when Mr. Spider caught Ms Butterfly in his cobweb. When Mr. Spider saw her in his cobweb, he didn’t wait a moment. He dashed toward his prisoner. However, when he came close enough to grab her with his hands, he refrained from catching her, because he saw her helpless slender body trembling in the gorgeous robe, and her beautiful but fearful eyes, asking him
for mercy.
Since then, Mr. Spider has never left his cobweb. With his fascinating eyes, he has followed and stared at elegant Ms Butterfly from a distance, while comparing his ugliness with a gargoyle and thinking of his cursed life, as if he were Quasimodo on the bell tower of Notre-Dam, watching and admiring tenderhearted, naïve, and lonely Esmeralda.
[Although Ms Butterfly was not deserve for Mr. Spider’s pure and wholehearted admiration because of her frivolous, flighty, and insincere personality.]
a flick of the hair head tilt-
a little coquetish smile a teasing question
all part of the flirting game
tickling winking flattery giggling
speaking those sweet nothings
chatting up
flattering comments
long silly conversations
flirting can be just for fun or be more
friends co-workers total strangers
people flirt
its all in the body language the vocal tone
volume
intonation
feigned interest
the flirter sends out signals a touch a look
perhaps just playful or may be dangerous
a flick of the hair head tilt-
a little coquettish smile a teasing question
all part of the teasing game
can be flattering can be uncomfortable
or can be harmless fun or have more intent
blowing a kiss footsies under the table
raise an eyebrow a little hand touch perhaps
send a secret note
write a love poem
stage an encounter
flirters can be devious and relentless
the batting of the eyelashes old tactic
but it still works
next thing you know your
exchanging personal numbers
careful-
_______________________________
July 13, 2015
Free Verse
For the contest, Flirt, sponsor, Casarah Nance
First Place
...from the movie, 'American Beauty'
A plastic bag, a windy day,
darting, dancing high and low,
coquettish in her flight of fancy,
all in all, a one-bag show;
a street performer with a twist,
I wish you could have seen her,
a holder meant for groceries,
an no-name ballerina.
Erratic, yes, but orchestrated,
it's as if a puppeteer
controlled the choreography,
a protege without a peer;
she soared and swooped, this virtuoso,
then the errant wind was gone,
and I was left to ruminate,
an audience of one.
A plastic bag, a windy day,
she's darting, dancing high and low,
coquettish in her flight of fancy,
all in all, a one-bag show;
a street performer with a twist,
I wish you could have seen her,
a holder meant for groceries,
a no-name ballerina.
Erratic, yes, but orchestrated,
it's as if a puppeteer
controlled the choreography,
a protege without a peer.
She soared and swooped, this virtuoso,
then the errant wind was gone,
and I was left to ruminate,
an audience of one.
********
...inspired by 'that scene' in the movie, 'American Beauty,'
once seen never forgotten and alone worth the price of admission!