Best Doily Poems
BEQUEATHED BONNIE SQUARE
a lacy handkerchief
embroidered with a hummingbird,
a nectar-sweet trellis, to sponge
the waterworks - the trickle
of misty eyes,
the honey-suckled creek
that runs over wrinkled
logs and leafy plum-cheeks.
delicate hands lift
the dapper doily —
pat-a-pat dabbing.
a tattered smile forms
at the base of the cliffs.
6/30/2019
When spring is like the dawning sun
through frosted panes anticipate
the morning after winter's done.
In vernal womb where life's begun
the anxious babes of summer wait
when spring is like the dawning sun.
Another lace of frost is spun,
the doily art, so brief, abates
the morning after winter's done.
So weary of cold winter fun
and melting paths of ski and skate
when spring is like the dawning sun.
Then off to blossom's orchards run
to challenge life while tempting fate!
The morning after winter's done.
We sip rewards, a race now won -
a yellow hug of warmth awaits,
when spring is like the dawning sun
the morning after winter's done.
delicate lace linked by crochet
labyrinthine stitches a doily a day
counted by repetitious candlelight
motherly hands of preponderant foresight
twisting and surrender of silent threads
tucking each one into intricate spreads
lovingly lace reflects persistence of face
a warm cosseted Victorian embrace
from hands that stumbled with wrinkles
forlorn and gnarled knots, catastrophic crinkles
yet the warm, soft hand that comforts her ill
a kin that kindles the fire and spins with skill
she’s mastered the lessons rendered at the knee
of longsuffering love and mother’s humble marquee
She is shadowed by fuzzy cobwebs of a morning without coffee,
while dust motes mingle with the mold of time.
Gazing out to the yard, through dingy glass, and fog,
into a dismal January, she hopes to catch a glimpse of the paper boy.
He travels through rain, sleet or snow, how could he understand,
(this teen-aged Paul Revere), that in this decrepit old house,
she is longing for a sign of youth? It has been a weary night, watching an old woman hang on by threads of life, that had worn thin years ago.
Watching and waiting, while cold winds blew and snow was falling,
and death was hoping to make a house call.
Any diversion, life being lived,... one brief eclipse of life in motion would be a relief.
To observe him toss the news into the sky like a Frisbee... not a care in the world
How would that feel...has she ever known? Has anyone ever been so young?
She thinks she may go mad with death and dying, with weariness, with waiting.
She suddenly shivers from a dreaded draft of frigid air, slithering in,
like a sneaky, uninvited ghost, slinking in around the rim.
nor'easter winds roll top shoe box...
splinter the silence.. -- debutante' caught in amber
a cataract view frozen sepia
Grabbing a handful of a thread-bare doily, she polishes the cold glass,
rubbing vigorously in circles against the grime,
making figure eights, in spite of frozen, stiff, fingers.
Satisfied, that she has a decent view of the blanketed yard,
and can see clearly where the muddy, gravel driveway,
bends gradually, curving to mate with the snow banked road,
at last, she spies the old Jeep coming, and watches with automated eyes,
yet, with some expectation, and strange excitement.
Then, as she might have guessed,
the teenager drives hurriedly by, barely slowing down, tossing the news,
and leaving her gaze and her thoughts, splattered by dark murky water,
while the slinging gravel that has been pitched into the sky, by his screeching tires,
falls like the pieces of the old woman's lonely life upon the pristine snow.
__________________________________________
For Deb's Contest: "Mix It Up"
Three-Legged Table
As I drove through an old neighborhood, I spotted a garage sale sign.
I pulled off to the side of the street. With impatience, I couldn't get out
of the car quick enough. Right in front of the drive sat a vintage,
small drop-leaf, three-legged, brass lion claw Duncan Phyfe red mahogany table.
The price was outrageously cheap. I could not resist in buying this magnificent well-kept antique table. I managed to put it in the trunk and securely tied
a rope to the trunk lash so, it would slightly close and the table wouldn't fall out while I drove home.
high expectation
valuable old treasures
arouse excitement
In my living room, well-polished table sits. An old fashion crochet doily is used as a coaster for a vintage Fenton Hobnail milk glass with ruffle edge vase, filled with fresh cut gardenias, and a pair of matching candleholders.
antique possessions
constructed with great prudence
ages have long passed
Life is all white butterflies and yellow flowers
For the rich and blue eyed you
You want for nothing except perhaps
Teal tribulations
What do you know of amethyst angst
How it reels from your gut
And paralyzed purple souls
Vomiting violet verses of pansy poems
You lack liquid death felt by
The mother of a soft stillborn infant
How could you know peach pain
When your long lashes flash as magic wand
Instantly your wildest wishes are granted
You’ll never know hunger harm or hell
And I desperately despise you for it
Because you lack emerald empathy
You gloss over others loss as “God’s will”
Disenfranchising demise of dandelion dreams
As if death is a green gift to be opened
Your happiness is snorted in white lines up your
Nose leaving psychedelic rainbows in your spirit
An artificial light illuminates your mind
But you feel elaborately enlightened even elevated
Your life is rich your words your food even
Your grief seems scripted by gold and silver pen
The soft satin lavender lies you tell yourself
Are a jaded justification of lack of life’s joy
You dig a grave for the less fortunate in
Your poetic world full of magenta misery
Dressed up as colorful inspiration
You feed off others like a blood thirsty vampire
Never quoting never worrying at all
That AI stole your doily soul
No your rehabilitation is red white and blue
A flag burned by drug paraphernalia and
False imprisonment in cranial concentration camps
False because your mind doesn’t have to be there
You have all the tools you need to bleed
Feel reveal and write truth but
You chose not to
Your verses in ash smell of smoky hell’s dissent
scoops of mid - dawn sun greet my fresh skin
touching laces of buttered stems, infant leaves,
soft-boiled branches threaded doily thin
on herbs of morn's scented face with tender weaves
how intangible this soft fire in my belly’s bonnet
splattering like auburn harvest blown unto air
praised in all shades---the topaz, sapphire, garnet
of paradise graced by bouquets ever fair
good morning cuddles every dreamer and lover
some god feeds humming harps and blushed stones
receding beneath feet's waking slumber
as charms of solemn calm soak daylight tones.
..........
(c)
Your Pick Any Theme/ Max 14 Lines
Brian Strand's Contest
By: nette onclaud
Winter morning light filters through lace curtains,
Reaches down, spills onto the corner kitchen sink,
Through east and south facing windows.
The glass jar, the scrub brush and pad in plastic butter dish,
A down-turned, empty yogurt container,
The pink plastic rinse pan
Keep company around the sink's edges.
The dried-out, yellow dishrag
Straddles the stained white porcelain wall between
Its twin chambers. Home.
The three-track cribbage board,
Deck of blue and white checkered "Boardwalk Casino" cards,
Awaiting friendly competitors,
The gilded "Fiftieth" anniversary photo frame.
Adorned with golden bow, glass-winged butterfly,
Displayed proudly on the fireplace mantel.
The couple with their Papal Blessing,
Sharing in the holding. Home.
Morning light streams through
Aged lace curtains, into the living room,
Over the fireplace, bricks set years ago,
Solid as the blessed couple.
Solid as the Home.
She struggles with the details of conversation,
And asks, as she does each time, "Arrr you mare-eed?"
Trilling the r's, after greeting me
With her Mother's heart, "My Myzeleh Surptizeleh"
In her heavily accented German voice.
"Howv many cheel-drrren you havf?" Home.
The dated, yet functional, lime-colored shag carpet,
Symbolic of their stoic, conservative, old European ways;
The lace doily on the end table, photos of a grandchild,
A son, a daughter; and one of them, too. Home.
The pink plastic Rosary ever present
On the coffee table in front of the well-worn sofa.
Her days spent there,
Sometimes sitting, sometimes lying.
The beads close at hand, atop a book of Prayers.
Crocheted adornments on the walls,
A wooden decorator spoon,
A picture framed pair of swans,
With them all those years. Home.
When Kermit the Frog
Found love at his synagogue
It was unexpected
How instantly they connected
Posing right next to Twiggy
The lovely Miss Piggy
Strategically waved her doily
Batting her eyelashes coyly
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
STILL LIFE - WITH FRUIT, DOILY AND BOTTLE
They spill!
Of her he’d had his fill
He tipped the table
Dumped!
Her oranges, apples, pears
Surprised the tea cup biddies -
Set them on their ears -
Then, with her priceless lacey cloth
Had wiped the floor of fruity froth
Hence he meant to finish the job
Attacked the bottle with a fork
Laughed, then pulled the noisy cork
Every Sunday afternoon I was invited to Auntie's house for tea
outside where the sun shone like a thousand crystal watts
a lovely table set for two, plus two wicker chairs of white
every Sunday, we would sip and slip away the hours happily
The table was adorned with a bouquet of pink peony roses
o'er a lacey cotton doily with soft fit lace edges of beauty
As they bloomed they scented the air around us with grace
sending us coral dreams with their bright pink glow dance
Tiny social tea biscuits placed lovingly on a tray of silver
awaiting a child's excited dunk on a hot summery day
July was my favorite time of the year with its hot spell
it brought forth the memory of iced water and lemon
Auntie wore a floral perfume called Channel No Five
but of course to me it smelled like black licorice
To a young girl passing on thirteen a tea time affair
can be grand, I smiled as she read me, Baudelaire
The old lady down the street has passed
and left no one they could call around;
except her old cat she called Miss Sass
It will take looking before she's found.
Her friend decided on a yard sale.
Mostly junk will be all we will find:
a worn garden spade and battered pail
remnants of flower beds left behind.
A crocheted doily on arms of chair,
placed in front of an ancient TV.
With Bible on table, she took care
as she read, to have a cup of tea.
They found a small trunk just loosely bound
that contained a locket of fine gold.
and a photo that when it was found,
showed three little girls midst bits of mold.
She had three daughters, she had once said,
but they would not visit anymore.
They must not have cared; can't all be dead!
then they found the trunk's wee secret door.
There, a large diamond ring brightly shone
They decided, as they locked the trunk:
Sell, give money to those all alone.
If her girls call, say it was all junk!
March 5, 2023
for Writing Challenge--J Words
by Constance La France
A superpower some claim it to be.
Turning yarn into a cardigan or doily.
Click clack go the needles in a flurry.
Beginners wonder why the hurry.
“Onto the next project!” we say.
Although we started two more the other day.
Knitting and crocheting plenty of squares
Ready for the Yarnbomb, we’ll put it out there
On the nursery gate right by the road.
So much pride in ourselves we might just explode.
Off to craft club - show and tell.
Looks like that one didn’t come out to well.
Christmas is coming, prepare for the fayre!
A table is booked to sell our ware.
Hours of toil until we fill with glee
Hearing the words “Isn’t that lovely!”
Sister Moon in afternoon slumber,
you await your moment of awakening;
I see you reeling in early evening sky and
I am awed by your transcendental splendor.
Time has marred your lovely face but,
you are still the most ravishing doily
on the table of our universe...
I love the stories that you tell.
Liquid beams replenish Gaia;
I place my teabags in water and you brew it;
lovely, tongue-tickling, moon tea enchants my palate.
Brightly glowing orb above me,
I feel your energies pouring
from the universe into my very soul and I am
grateful for the elixir of your intoxicating
essence.
Written 3-4-19
For "Liquid Luna Lace Poetry Contest”
Sponsor: Chantelle Anne Cooke
Perusing the tea, what it brings, vitality, refreshing, or tranquility.
tea’s altruistic -
the elixir gives itself
to succor ailments
I warm leaves up when my hands and feet are icy cold. The boil arouses my expectations. The raucous kettle poured over a roomy sachet.
the tea bag’s floating -
my bobbers are on its craft
as the scent surges
My hands rejoice as they gently wrap around the cup and rebound. When the minuet knells, the unfurled dose is tossed and what remains is to be enjoyed in a calm and comfortable setting, ideally with pretty things and perhaps a nibble of treats.
lift from lace doily -
a sip of essential oils
and crumpet or two
What’s better than to sit across from special friends. The setting of a magnolia tea house or with one’s teddy bears.
little ones practice -
imagination infused
with love’s sugar cubes
Perusing the tea, what it brings, essence to our lives.