Best Cravat Poems
Dancing outside the saloon,
they toss pennies at his feet.
On his harmonica he plays,
a tune, off key, up beat.
On his head of sparse grey hair,
he sports an old top hat.
His tattered coat of tailored tails,
frames a frayed and worn cravat.
On a thin frame the tux does hang,
his pants, held up with twine.
You can't help, but to think,
he is from another time.
Come rain or shine, he is there.
Tip of his hat to all the girls.
He gives a nod of thanks at each sound,
as round his feet, the pennies swirl.
You might see me in the back streets
By the light of the full moon
With my look refined and cunning
I will almost make you swoon
Don't treat me as an enemy
Or fear me as a foe
Don't use evil words against me
I'm a well-bred soul, you know
I'm a smooth, suave, refined old chap
A four-legged paradox
Oblige me for a moment, please
- I'm an urbane urban fox
You've seen me on my rounds
But I'm not heading for your bins
No - you're far too quick to judge me
Though, I confess - I have my sins
One must eat to live, of course
I'll not claim to be benign
But I am a gracious, civil guest
Where're I choose to dine
The hen house holds a great appeal
And I know how to pick the locks
I do that with true style though
I'm an urbane urban fox
My poise and affable demeanour
Give me access to any Mayfair club
I'm a cut above the rural fox
Who seems happy with his "pub"
I'm not one to judge, of course
I'm far too cool for that
But jeans and a checked shirt?
No! I choose a jacket and cravat
No pints for me - it's G & T
Or Martini on the rocks
Oh yes, darling, I really am
An urban urbane fox
I can capture your attention
With my wit and sharp brown eyes
I'm keen to make a business deal
Should my nose smell enterprise
My fur is sleek, groomed and neat
My tail swishes to impress
My paw is keen to shake your hand
When I'm ready to invest
I truly never miss a trick
When opportunity knocks
I'm cordially yours
I'm an urbane urban fox
I enjoy reading high-brow lit
Classical music was written for me
Opera sets my spine a-tingle
So does ballet, naturally
I go shootin' with my country pals
As for skiing - I'd rather not
I find dancing is a pleasure though
I love the Charleston and Fox Trot
But don't class me as a Liberal
I am rather orthodox
Let's steer clear of politics
I'm an urbane urban fox
I'm polished. Well-mannered. Chic.
Rich beyond compare
Elegant and gallant
And oh, so debonair
But yes, I walk the city streets
In the hours before the dawn
There's something about the smell, you see
To which I'm somehow, strangely drawn
Don't judge me for that, please I'm just
A four-legged paradox
I thank you for your time
- With love. Your urban urbane fox
Written 10th April 2016
Stepping Through Time
There on my wall...my painting of his home...
a piece of history from long ago.
I contemplate the image and at once,
as in a foggy dream, he steps outside
into my space, his hand outstretched to mine.
We dance the minuet; he bows to me
with brocade coat and white cravat of lace;
a tall, impressive man in powdered wig
and soft, bright twinkle in his eyes of blue.
I wonder if he knows I live within
this town where his headquarters was back then;
how celebrated was his presence here
and how I so admire and studied him,
who spent his time here in my town as our
First President of the United States.
George Washington twirls me around again...
kisses my hand as I with curtsy smile.
And then, at once, he glides back in his home.
I often think if he came back again
how he'd resolve the chaos of our times,
his spirit having witnessed from above
all the disastrous choices leaders made,
and start from fresh with love-of-country heart...
begin again with 'gifts of hindsight' start.
January 23, 2017
Contest: Who Would You Bring Back In A Heartbeat
Sponsor: Caren Krutsinger
New Zealand's favourite bird is the Tui, also called parson bird for its ruffled white cravat - it is famously noted for various lyrical songs - consisting of
soul tuning notes - intricate melodies or single beats when bereaved of its mate for life, cheeky flaunting flights near heads in joyful play, even the wingbeats are spirit music -
now when gardening i'm subjected to screeches of rubbish trucks - ' eat your silverbeet ' song and this seasons main choice - the electronic car door opener
i mourn the sounds that used to clear my heart - all gardening day long
electronic beeps
bright tui song in mothballs
natures pure revenge
Written 20 June 2018
nb tui = 2 syllables
Galleries of life, ignorant and tough,
Sometimes as sandarac’s incense, usually morose.
I erase bluntness that grew a cravat around my heart,
Abominable inheritance riveted into the soul of farce,
But there is nothing more valued in life than experience,
And there is a bag-full of it in every one of us.
No remorse or isolation, nor any type of solitude can adjust
The solemn desertion that he had to live through.
I am a repeat stranger of sleepless nights,
Lord of rage and hope deposited in a vending machine,
Even during this epistolary hour as a rusty apparatus,
I tick away the time of my life with a slackened pace,
I bore pain, and challenge the horizons where hope seeps
Into the shadows of silence. ---- And it drags its tails,
And it downs the trust that was instilled into the twig since its birth.
The lucent moment of the very first fresh breath ever taken,
During the opulence of love, ---- I beside him.
And he?? He bears the name of a god, in the name and in the spirit,
Dragon-heart-in-a-boy knocking down the stacks of wonder,
In awe one is to marvel his persistence, in awe I remained.
And there is the black sky that roasts my visions,
As the quiet weeping, from the fringes of a moral conduct,
Fastened, with a shawl around the neck that blurs the boundaries,
Of the conflagration as the labyrinth of thought brings to
The verisimilar life-tales, one unintentionally, creates along the way.
And there is the ground-zero widow, the dead bride, an apparition
From a different universe that stands atop a pyramid seemingly vincible
Yet untouchable, yet invisible, yet as vocal as bell in a chevron wave,
When I think to dare, when I am happy, and when I am cross as a bear.
"The Conquistador's Lament"
By Rachel Heffington
"Oh, to have a seniorita
Waiting for me in my casa
As the sun of dear Hispania
Speeds me home-a, fast an' fasta'
And to have the seniorita
say 'twas me her heart was for-a...
I would give all of my galleons
For a girl who I adore-a.
But I'm lone and lorn and wasted
In this colony in Flor'da
With not a single lady
Who would dare to cross the borda'.
I have doubloons by the thousands
And jewels by the score-a,
But I'd throw it in the ocean
For one girl who I'd adore-a.
I would tear my silken waistcoat
And rend my lace cravat-a
And burst my diamond buttons
If I thought 'twould help the matta'
But it's useless-truly useless
For the dreary thing is sure-a:
America has pinned me
And there's no one to adore-a!"
I do not drive a fancy car
Or chew on a Cuban cigar
I do not wear a silk cravat
Or attend the fancy balls
I do not own a designer cat
Or have the funds to gamble
I do not smell of Givenchy
Or even live in the 'burbs
I am nothing so hoidy-toidy
As gentlemen up the street
But I can tell you this, for sure
I'm the nicest guy you'll ever meet.
written June 16, 2021
Trump now loves rhyme, its integral
to his existence as his name
rhymes with so many words so well
and words that qualify his fame,
There’s flump and rump and also plump,
then’s sump and its close cousin, slump
and not forgetting grump and dump
all lumped together form a chump
And contributing to his art
in English Trump describes a fart
Epilogue
When Trump was told his poetry
was subject to some caveats
he thought he’d act on the advice
so based on it bought a cravat.* *
*reference his ? poetry book cover photo !
An Englishman Grinling Gibbons was his name
wood carved a cravat to find fame
Realistic sculptures helped him survive
making them seem organically alive
Man in a suit drives his Rolls Royce,
Kept polished shinning by local boys,
His scarf and cravat are made of silk,
His designer trousers as white as milk.
Knows full well his source of wealth,
Keeps me nourished in prime health,
Well clothed and housed in my room,
Cared for fully by a personal groom.
Many a Cups and prices I have won,
He takes the applause when I am done,
He has amassed gold and diamonds,
My earnings merely grass and almonds!
How long will this love and dove last?
Will he care when I am no longer fast?
Will he remember me, his source of bread?
Or will it all end with a bullet to my head?
~Weighty Problems~
A sweet lady, made a sexy faux
pas,
Sitting at a seaside resort bar!
Alas, being a tad fat,
She eyed a professor with a cravat.
"Madame, you would not even fit in my flat!"
Embarrassesd, she ran and fell on her
large prat.
Panagiota Romios
5/4/2019
7:30pm PST
He is a gentleman, refined and gentile.
A snappy dresser, Lord B.P.C. McBeel.
Look at his brocade suit, custom made of course.
His enormous steed is elegant for a horse.
Lord BPC McBeel did not look like a lizard at all.
He was low to the ground, but he came off tall.
His Dior fashion sense and his orange cravat tie
Showed us all that he was one GQ guy.