Best Cufflinks Poems
"Tease for Two"
“Ein bisschen Zucker
mit Ihrer Sahne, Sir?“
German accent
smoky toned
she purred
Periwinkles suavely winked,
then played with his -
cufflinks
“Not now Schvee Tart”
he said holding his attache tight
looking across the room
grinning Lupine Blues
a slight smile on his lips,
bemused,
“Service calls,
her name is
"Q”
Across the dance floor
all eyes turned
Parting tall bus boys, handsome waiters
matrons with their peach blinis, their tart apple martinis
flustered debutantes
all poetic unsure
first time daters
dilettantes
rubbed their -
eyes again, they blinked
made way, made room,
for Q's
sashaying soliloquy
serious multi tasking
sensual stiletto Hell-on-High Heels
slick Scarlet lip-glossed
VaVaVoom
As it should be
entertaining control,
further into the room
across the dazzling polished dance floor
no pastie tasselling girls
on well-oiled silver poles
The Special Agent
slinked
The Old Boys
raised their drinks
He stands
She sits
"Ist das eine Waffe
in deiner Tasche,
Special Agt Schmidt?"
She glances at her
Bulgari Serpenti Incantati
and in English says,
"This better be good,
Now is not the time to quit"
Like a wolf
Periwinkles
grins
"Q," he low growl says,
"I propose a change in destination,
I've taken the liberty to buy you
feathers for your wings -
tickets Q...."
then flirtatiously adds,
"Simply adore your bling"
(LadyLabyrinth/2019)
1. lupine/wolf
2. lupine/lupinus, genus blue flowering plant
3. Libertango
they met, once upon a time-
her silky hand melds with his
for but a moment
an exchanged glance, fleeting
chocolate brown orbs
swimming in pools of milk
ebony hair dancing across her
backless gown as she walks away
walked away…
swirling visions fill his head
dreams of her upon his bed
spinning, thrashing to and fro
stars put on an astral show
future bride on horse so white
sparkling jewels illume the night
speaks his name so sweet and low
eyes that cast a hopeful glow
calling, begging for his love
angels dance a waltz above
off they ride into the sun
forevermore they’ll live as one
‘twas the night they met
her heart stolen-
tapered black tie suit, cufflinks of gold
matching his golden locks
momentarily awestruck, diving into
piercing deep blue eyes
was all it took to set her blood afire
his seductive smile teasing
it’s way into her heart…
late at night when the world is asleep
she’s up thinking about him,
secretly hoping he’s dreaming of her too
when she finally closes her eyes
she drifts off, and in a moment of time
she’s with him, ready to love him
bands of gold glimmer like starlight
her silky gown drops gently to the floor
Andromeda turns her gaze
lost in love’s embrace
they burn like the midnight sun-
forevermore to live as one
she glances his way
her heart smiling, believing-
meeting him was destiny
she walks past his desk
drinking in another fill of him
if only she could tell him…
if only he could tell her...
he catches a glimpse
from his lonely cubicle
the nape of her neck beckons
a tender kiss, well-placed-
before long he's lost in a daydream
An honor to collaborate with July Morning
The blonde went down
with not must resistance
shunning off a stressful afternoon
the scene played of society, high
as I peered at all the pretense
and pretend of an I want to be
better than you and me
old men with young jewelry
cradling arms and new cufflinks
with crosses that will never be blessed
but undressed with tightly shut eyes
Cubans smoked, killing air
drifting from an aging beat
chords crafted with ease
toes tapped on the edge of my seat
the moon peeks and says goodnight
the chair nods off unaccompanied
the grifters scrounge for a dollar
I stand up, it's time to go eat
Chateau Pl
A sleep walk guided by reflections
Although somethings were real
Not the front entry way
Or the stair case
Or the garage for that matter
Scrubbed and alcohol swabbed shoes
Eating off those would've been though
Pee sitting down!
And cologne must not be detectable
From more than an arms length away!
Nobody wore it
I think
The closet could've clothed a small town
And housed an elderly couple with a Pomeranian
A parked Steinway on sleek marble
Or maybe it was a Bentley, whichever,
The keys were misplaced
Handshakes are forbidden!
You may speak, however.
A stolli over ice seemed to be the only thing
Not surreal
Unless you would fancy triple dipping
Beluga caviar with a vacuum in your hand surreal
Or, perhaps, being seduced by homemade egg noodles
Can you describe that atrocius smell?
A Land's End catalog doused in kerosene
Ties & cufflinks & Jackets on fire sale
A whiff of ozone
Darkness
A hazy stare assisted by chirping birds
and a gurgling salt water tank
In an upstairs, 2 bdr. duplex
A peon awakens a prince
"Gutter Hearts"
He’s got a gutter Heart
bleeds words that birth
diamonds sharp on his tongue
They hit her like
bullets from an Uzi gun
Silent, her heart implodes like molten marshmallow
She’s standing in the cafeteria
moving grease with a smile
that cuts his goat’s cheese like sharp steele
He licks his fingers
his tongue stings, he's still burning in Chile
while his mind calculates her
Unknown to him
She moves white white to black calculated,
his cufflinks are mounted with Pearls
She spells him
a long sentence
dripping from her eyes onto
an empty plate of dreams
He writes what comes to his mind
on a paper napkin, a story
smudged with tears and cigarette ash
the words slip out slippery
antiquated, smashed.
“What would you like?”
she takes his order
“A Normal Girl,"
he passed his payment in cash
She smiles
and thinks, he’s the No Go Zone
He’s living in another world.
(LadyLabyrinth/2019)
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
Man with cufflinks
Woman with fine jewels
Rubies resting on booby's,
Sick stories and inverted crosses
Orgies and they all yell more fish!
Secret Societies taking over nations,
Yates conspiracy and religions fantasy
Crossed bones those dark tales,
Corpses: 33rd degrees beneath the earth
I can feel earth's core;
The belly of the beast as it groans
And she roars with might,
Mortals building tombs fir the next wars.
Winds blowing in; destroying ceilings
And they all still yell more fish,
More oysters: those sea creatures
Waves opening revealing sea's treasures,
Diamonds and pearls:
Be mindful of the site of Atlantis view,
Contours outlining seashores
Hitting harbors as Poseidon swims to far-
from the submarines radar resulting in undetected gods
And fire torpedoes,
Lost islands and extinct species...
Scientists going deeper to discover the mysteries:
Deep tales and blue seasons.
I never bought cuff links for my father
never knew him really
I saw him at Christmas and birthdays
for a few years early on
That ended
Father’s day, a strange, empty holiday
Sticks and stones, they break your bones, and words they disembowel. Poetry is a dagger, linguistics a humble cowl. Lab rat hearted heathens pray the plagues consume the town. Iron sharpens iron, Don't let the bastards get you down. By our own devices we fell asleep. As I slumber softly, counting hordes of dead sheep. All was lost amongst the erosion. Why educate when you can occupy? Railroad stitches across this land hold together this monster with rubber bands. When the body rejects the mind the onlookers cower in fear. Political parties fan the flames. Kuru Flawed in feeble brains. Politicians regurgitate and feed. Gluttonous parasites polish cufflinks in a rigorous art of greed. I have foreseen the apocalypse, and it's mediocre.
It is necessary to remember....
to remember the sorrows,
to remember the victories,
to remember the deceased...
In our short walk
through this world,
every single memory
confirms our existence.
They say that
knowledge
is the only thing
that can’t be taken away from us:
rubbish.
I don’t know who they are,
but they are all unimportant:
the bankers, the judges, the royals,
hiding behind walls,
ears pressed against
exquisite wallpapers
pretending desperately not to hear
the footsteps approaching,
full of fears, full of despair
forged into majestic cufflinks.
She will come for you,
she will come for me,
and this knowledge
we ought not to remember.
Our memories
will only be preserved
by our imagination
in the buildings we leave behind;
the necessary windmills,
the parks, the bike paths,
a simple pencil.....
and let’s not forget
to plant a tree.
Our legacy
is all the tangible and material;
not the love we once had,
not even the love in our hearts.
Love is the blessing,
a gift we must possess
to allow us to hold hands,
to walk on the beach,
to watch sunsets,
and not see ourselves
witnessing darkness come,
rehearsing the inevitable,
full of contentment, full of joy, full of life.
They call it a temple of knowledge,
but the walls were never meant for thought—
only the careful curation of power,
where names are chiseled in Latin
and inheritance is mistaken for intelligence.
The gates are high,
not to keep the world safe,
but to keep the chosen ones in—
a factory of fathers’ sons,
daughters of old wealth
repackaged as prodigies,
spitting polished syllables over wine
they never had to earn.
They sell wisdom like a relic,
ancient and gilded,
but it’s just debt wrapped in ivy,
a hundred-thousand-dollar handshake
to certify you belong.
Here, history is optional—
revised at the convenience of kings,
rewritten in marble by men
who inherited their ethics like cufflinks.
Nothing before them was ever great,
nothing beyond them will ever matter.
The professors teach compliance with a flourish,
disguising obedience as philosophy,
praising innovation—
so long as it rhymes with profit.
A degree here is an invitation,
not to brilliance,
but to the table—
where policy is printed
in the blood of the voiceless
and the world is divided
between the invitees and the extras.
They call it education.
They call it prestige.
But the only lesson they’ve ever taught
is how to keep the gates closed—
how to stand behind them,
smiling,
while the world burns.
In 2013 Amélie Ségarra danced on a Grand Piano with knives
taped to the tips of her feet.
The room is empty apart from a single man in a music box
He wears a black an white suit buttoned up to the collars with bronze cufflinks,
To get up she uses an old Woven Rope in brown
You can see her nipples as she looks up, Adam's apple following her gaze
along with everything else.
She starts dancing.
From above the waist her arms jut out, grabbing widely at air and trust
But below it's easy
At times it looks harder to be the piano.
Remember how close she got to the edge.
Rapidly tapping the tips of toes, taped into shoes,
Screwed onto knives.
At times the screech was louder than the music.
Engaging her hips she’d lift up her thigh, bent at the knee
The arch of her foot seeming to just hang there.
Before it drops she makes the sound of a boxer.
Something only rooms with loud figures giving orders to lots of people
doing the same thing in repetition can bring out.
The music has stopped, so now all you hear is knee engaging ankle,
Holding up a foot wrapped in pink ruffled straps.
Smalling down an into
a seemingly endless
Grand Piano.
Wiseguys
when I was a skinny
eight-year-old boy
I knew him as
Willy Shoes
it was Brooklyn
in 1950 and
some men had
strange names
reflections of personality
deed or look
he and his friends
never seemed to have jobs
but gathered on corners
played cards in social clubs
always friendly always polite
Willy Shoes was handsome
with large dark Mediterranean eyes
dressed to the nines
silk shirts pegged pants
gold cufflinks and alligator belts
jet-black hair combed
into a perfectly Brylcreemed
ducktail and pompadour
you could see your reflection
in the high gloss of any pair
of shoes from his infinite
spit shined collection
Wille liked me
hey kiddo he would say
here’s a buck
take this here envelope
and give it to Thomazula
the bootblack
one day when
I was about seventeen
I saw a picture of
Willie Shoes
on the front page of
the New York Post
handcuffed and trying to
hide his face with a
neatly pressed
pin-striped suit jacket
Willie “Shoes” Sansone it said
charged with the murders
of eleven gangland figures
and I remember wondering
if he would let me have
a few pair of his fancy shoes
while he was away...
Daddy!
You had to drive me to school everyday and pick me up.
I was only six and we had noschool buses.
One wintry afternoon, I came out, a blizzard whirled all about.
Wearing no boots or leggings, ah~ but were more than loving.
Dressed in your overcoat, suit, gleaming cufflinks and Borsalino hat,
You came in my direction and carrying an alpaca blanket.
Like Sir Galahad, you scooped me up, and carried me to the car.
You never let me get into a cold car, did you?
The grand car was running and toasty warm.
You carefully set me down on the back seat.
I felt like your little Princess, being covered me with that fur
blanket and your love.
In that car, which was shiny, classy and beautiful.
The girls at school teased me mercilessly after this.
Teasing me, that they were better because they took a bus?
Their Dads worked for others and could not leave!
You had your own business and worked from early morn till night.
These same girls who teased me, did not seem to mind when you
picked each one up for a party of mine!
And never complained when you bought and delivered the classroom
Christmas tree, seven feet tall!
****So for you, Daddy, I want this in writing!****
You were one, class act! And although in heaven your daughter, is mightily proud of you, and that is a loving fact.
MY WISHES, TO A FATHER, ELEGANT AND SO GRAND,
SO LOVING,
BLESSED CHRISTMAS TIDINGS!
From your grateful daughter,
Panagiota
12-5-2020
7am PST
How it burns:
this image of you:
onyx cufflinks, pin striped suit, crisp black shirt
on your way to your funeral, your wedding, your song to sing
How it aches:
this memory of you:
tragedy smile, eyes of drugs, ragged stance
on the eve of every sweet goodbye you ever felt and kept inside
How it breathes:
this voice of yours:
sealing up the broken hearts, ebbing along on the violet wire
on the minds of some, the ears of more, the hearts of all
How it burns:
this fire from you:
slow smoldering, uncontrollable, in your crisp black shirt
on your way to your funeral, your wedding, your song to sing
And it burns, and it burns, and it burns.
(for Johnny Cash)