Best Dresser Poems
I espied a large woman called Evie
(She was wearing her husband’s mankini)
Though her skin was quite pale
She looked like a beached whale
It’s a pity his outfit’s so weenie
Of her figure Evie is proud
but Evie is so well endowed
‘Twas a bright a sunny day
with huge boobs on display
This outfit it drew quite a crowd
An onlooker passed her a towel
Saying cover those boobies they’re foul
Please don’t wear a mankini -
Wear a woman’s bikini
Evie blushed red and gave him a scowl
3/28/18
Seen wearing his wife’s silken gown
O’Keef’s soon the talk of the town
In her basque and pink bra
He looked like a p orn star
His wife gave him a dressing down
He admits’ I’m into cross dressing
And this is my way of confessing
You’re the same size as me
I wear your clothes for free -
My desires I’m no longer suppressing!
03/24/20
Grandma's dresser was a testament to time. Elegant in it's curves. Sturdy in it's
construction.
A thick piece of plate glass lay atop, to protect the wood surface. Under that glass,
sealed away, yet there to be seen, were pictures and announcements. Mile stones
important to Grandma.
There was a picture of each one of us grand kids when we lost our two front teeth.
Big, gap toothed grins on our young faces. Taken years a part. Yet placed side by
side, under the glass.
Positioned below them was a poem. Written by my Grandfather while they were first
dating. Lovingly kept to be read each day.
Over on the other side of the dresser top, was placed a short newspaper article. The
obituary of her mothers death. next to it lay the program from her funeral. Grandma's
tears, still evident on the parchment.
Towards the middle, was my brothers Certificate Of Graduation from The School For
The Deaf, at the age of five. There had been a newspaper article done on him by the
local daily paper. That picture of him with mother was next to the certificate. He was
proudly wearing his first hearing aids.
A bit of lace from Grandma's wedding dress.
A napkin from a fancy restaurant Grandpa took her to, once.
A flower drawn on brown paper. Given to her on Mother's Day by my mom at the age
of three.
Other little photos and bits of life kept to be enjoyed and shared...under that plate
glass.
Rubber lover, Zipperella,
is not a brother or a fella.
He has false **** and kitten heels,
not a chest and ankles made of steel
His spiky rubber bag is old,
cleverly patched with a Marigold.
It’s been so long since he wore cotton,
and only zips, never a button
Zippy is a Tube commuter,
six foot tall in his Transmuters.
Lots of people stop and stare,
even more when he had pink hair.
Being a girl was such hard work,
every day another jerk!
Better to dye it back to brown,
play his fetish lifestyle down.
A little less attention is better,
when all he wants is bread n butter
Down to his local corner shop,
in skin tight leggings and a belly top.
He could blend if he wore a sweater,
or maybe brown corduroys would be better.
That’s what a woman would ask,
it had happened in ZIppy's past.
He’d had a wife who he'd loved dearly,
but she couldn't understand him...clearly.
Take off that dress, put on some trousers!
What about mother, think of the neighbors!
It went on like that for years,
lots of heartache, floods of tears.
Even though she was his lover,
he felt like they didn't know each other.
Then on a bight and sunny morning,
came the last, the ultimate warning,
‘Zippy, I want you as a man;
you’re turning me into a lesbian!’
He was forced to wisely choose,
the rubber-wear would surly loose.
He had made his vowels for life,
how could he just leave his (darling) wife?
The only decent thing to do,
was to be loyal, to be true.
But then depression set right in,
when all his beloved rubber was thrown in the bin!
Time stood still for a couple of years,
lots more heart ache, stress and fears.
For he missed rubber in his (now) sad life,
more than he would miss his nagging (dear) wife.
This could not go on forever,
he needed a friend not a jealous lover.
Maybe she didn't’t like his feminine side,
but Zippy loved dear Zipperella with pride.
So one sad day they said goodbye,
with no questioning or reasoning why.
It was how it was meant to be,
she was free, and so was SHE!
Alone again but not as much,
much more honest, much more in trust.
For Zipperella loves all things feminine,
now the woman he holds dearest lives within…him.
(Author Notes
fella: man
Marigold: washing up gloves
Tube: london underground
Transmuters: a brand of boots with frankenstein style heels with big studs)
It was the dresser few could have visualized
I spotted it in the flea market as fantasized
Patterns most would have been able to think up or paint
Created by an artesian whose designs are never faint
This dresser had a signature, not any kind of surprise
So marvelously orchestrated it nearly hurt my eyes
It was a gorgeous dresser, which would look great by my bed.
I only paint one of a kind things, the artist apologetically said.
Looking back
curiously acquiescent
in 4th floor chaos
Looking through these
dresser drawers of
sleepy underclothing
Retrospective shirts
and tiresome socks,
these sheaths of self
more coincidental
than designed
Everything ajar,
windows, doors
my dresser drawers
Clues left coyly
in my path
by boorish poltergeists
Half absent,
I impassively apprise their
surreptitious ways,
their secret jokes
on my reclusion
which words
makes him stumble
those he wishes to hear
or those he longs to hear
which words do she want to hear
those that causes togetherness
or those that divides loneliness
might the two be the same?
She’s shabby chic, a bedroom chair said at the recycled furniture fair.
They were speaking of Violet, and it hurt her feelings.
“You mean shabby all over!” a mirror said to a chandelier.
The tent shook with all of their laughter; Violet felt ashamed.
Someone purchased her and stripped her paints off.
She felt naked and vulnerable; even though she was alone.
Don’t worry, the designer told her. You are going to be beautiful.
She trusted Crystin, the designer; she was talkative and fun.
Crystin worked on Violet for over eight months.
At the end, she was incredibly beautiful; outstandingly gorgeous.
Violet could not look in the mirror; she felt it was too vain.
Because she kept saying “you’re gorgeous!” every time.
At the next fair, Violet was sold to another designer for two thousand.
The mirror and the chandelier were irritated; they had not been sold.
Violet decided to not make fun of them or hurt their feelings though.
Because she was too beautiful to be shabby in any way.
I have a fabulous dresser, an antique
made out of gorgeous wood of teak
It is totally Victorian, and yet somehow sleek
Found a long time ago at a home beside a creek
Its interior drawers are shabby, quite bleak.
Yet the outside has an incredibly well-built physique.
She is pretty when refurbished, totally chic.
Her clothes drawers sometimes have an ominous squeak.
She once had a small gray inhabitant who gave out a shriek.
His mousey noises were to us humans little understood Greek.
Once in a while I still hear a ghostlike tiny small eek.
You can ask my cousin about it too. His name is Zeke.
On my dark dresser
I have some fun for season
I have lit pumpkins
Some evil looking pumpkins
Great Jack-O-Lanterns tonight
Russell Sivey
Is your ceiling rolling?
I sigh.
She is eighty-eight.
On pain pills.
Maybe hallucinating.
No Mom.
Yes, it is, she insists.
Okay, Mom.
Is that man coming today?
What man?
The one I saw yesterday.
I sigh.
Is it the pills
Or something worse?
Oh, boy! She yells.
She is staring at the dresser.
Let him out! She commands me.
I walk over to the dresser.
This one? I ask, hovering my hand over a drawer.
I have to purge lions out of this drawer twice yesterday.
Almost twenty-two years ago the brown eye girl was given advice. So far she had lived by it. She had found herself trying to live up to the person who told her the advice. But how can she keep up with that after all this time? Shouldn't she live up to her own standards instead of theirs? The perfect best friend was right to give her that advice way back then after her father passed away; but now it seems it might not be right for her anymore. Now the perfect best friend is gone now too and she is right back to who she was way back when. The brown eye girl finds herself back to kicking that damn dresser as if she was still that angry little eight year old girl.
I have created a dresser you might like
This was stated to my Uncle Ike
Who had been an artist at one time
But was now a salesman at a five and dime
The dresser was stunning, amazing, a feat
Psychedelic mushrooms made it complete
Ike felt sad he had not gone on to pursue his art
Living his soul dream would have been smart
Artist was proud to show him what she had done
She remembered he had an amazing sense of fun
We nieces and nephews actually never knew
Our uncle had this kind of artistic talent too
I live in a magical house with my cats, He and She.
They love me to pieces and give me some glee.
Yesterday at a quarter before ten until three
My dresser gave a bow and served me some tea.
The windows of the house are crisp, clean, and free.
Of cobwebs and dust, they truly do not reflect me.
I am grimy and dirty, said my pal, Sally Anne Lee.
But delighted of course that my dresser served me.
Tucked away in an old worn wooden dresser drawer, lays notes, cards once were friends who crossed my path.,
Time when we had something in common, a Catholic retreat, when life was simpler, when we lived our life like a candle in the wind.
As my hands run across the old worn envelope, the date not so important, memories come flooding back, where has life taken you now? Do you ever think of me…
Relics, kinda like this old fashioned dresser drawer, it’s worn with scratches in the wood, its contents covered with dust.. I guess we all must go our separate ways in this road called Life..
As I close the drawer I can’t help but wonder, am I too becoming an old card tattered, worn, tucked away waiting for someone to read me..