Best Dressers Poems
This silhouette against evening sky
Etched into my longing eye
That trailing gown
Coloured setting sun in shimmery
Little waves of water, and melancholy
My feelings drown
In suffocating thoughts of loss
Such fragrant perfume, lip-gloss
In softly brown
longing, framed past loves we live
Hanging above dressers, that give
A sepia crown
Or a halo vague, as my memory
Failed one more time, my enemy
In this lost town.
***
April 11, 2017
Copyright © Darren White
Books to the library
photos to family.
Paint cans and lumber
from renovations years ago.
Most of the furniture
including the piano.
Fastest way to do this
is rent a dumpster.
On the internet
nothing’s permanent,
nothing's gonna happen.
Photosynthesis, evaporation
as if your spirit disappears
when the sun appears.
It’s a burden lifted
not to have to persevere.
Edits
for clarity
and brevity.
One owes the reader
a respite from
the tonnage of
fructifying English.
To drown one’s book is devoutly to be wished.
Coupla trumpets,
big comfy couch,
four beds and dressers
and the contents of closets.
Tools we don’t use,
surge protectors and chargers,
lawn and patio accoutrements,
table settings for ten.
Lamplit underground,
the stray branch,
synchronized chaos,
a red fez.
One canary,
map of Antarctica,
three deaf little otoliths,
six or seven sybils.
Extra salt and pepper shakers,
sharpies and crayons,
a printer and a scanner,
the Bible and Koran.
Kaput calculators and computers,
subscriptions and prescriptions,
a host of vitamins
and the ghosts of ancestors.
Time itself
but not nature.
Wealth
and most of culture
but not my health.
That I’ll keep,
and sleep—practice
for perfect rest.
Nurse Narcolept’
Give "poetry" a go She said
She said, you won’t never look back
take a lie down on my couch She said
She said, give my poetry a go
she pulled me in deep
the agony was infernally slow
Nurse Narcolept’
and her whip
traced my outline
in a steady stream
of purrfectly pert poems
such an odd sensation
my hands and tongue tied
poetically biting the bit
there was no turning
which way or that
white square or black
right or left
what’s left of right
let alone finding
the most decent
indecent way back
from the craziness of It
the mind caressing the
anima animus id
the cool cats all watching
whisper under
their hormonal horror whiskers
run Dick Run
for those cross-dressers
voyeuristically entangled
run Jane Run
oh what fun
doesn’t walk like a duck
absolutely no quack
lethally tap dancing
gang'star across keys rat-a-tat-tat
no need for a gun
Candide Diderot. ‘24
News for Andy/Iggy Pop
Mothman ate your clothes?
No way; too big for dressers
—mus’be his baby cuz!
After chewing shoe leather they called steak,
in the Pencey cafeteria,
Mal, Ackley, and I enjoyed a winter afternoon on campus,
on the bus, and in a restaurant.
We walked across a puffy white quilt
as students conversed, laughed, and threw snowballs.
I held my snowball until the bus driver told me to leave it outside.
We had intended to see a comedy with Cary Grant,
but Mal and Ackley had already seen it.
We hung out in the restaurant played pinball and ate burgers.
Arriving back at our dorms at a quarter to nine,
Mel left for a bridge game
and Ackley shoved his acne ridden face into my pillow
until I told him I had a paper to write.
I couldn’t write what Stradlater wanted.
I couldn’t describe any rooms without elaborate furniture.
I couldn’t describe sporty rooms
with trophies on dressers and pennants on walls.
My brother Allie played baseball.
He wrote poetry on his catcher’s mitt with a green pen.
He stood in right field and recited verse from his imagination,
in his mind.
He died from leukemia very young.
I fell into a depression,
a garage,
a gym with windows to punch out.
I broke my hands against our station wagon’s windows.
I cannot make a tight fist.
I curl my fingers enough to type excerpts of Allie’s poetry
for a paper that will never be appreciated.
My red headed brother Allie,
such a good natured kid,
he had a good combination of extrovert and introvert,
avoiding anger.
Sitting on his bike fifty yards away
with his hair shining in the sun
as I teed off,
hoping to make a distant green and shoot under par.
Mom had scored a hole in one with him.
I still try to overcome unidentified handicaps
on a hazardous course.
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What to Buy?
Avoiding clothes again this year
You have strange taste; so wipe that sneer
The tie that you said “blew”
And your hissy fits too
The men’s department? I’ll stay clear!
For some a gift card would be nice
But you whine over every price
No hobbies have you, dear
You even find sports *****
So what do I buy you? Think twice!
Please drop the act; I’m not buying
Cross-dressers are known for lying
Victoria’s Secret
Silk panties, your pocket?
For my high heels we’ll be vying
Rip the ropes to pieces,
Tear the bible to shreds?
Leave alone, dusty and unread
And soon the grip releases.
But his love never ceases.
And is held in my chest by threads.
As the numbers of evil increases,
I bleed many colors of reds.
All the loosened binding chains releases?
The hatred that spreads
With the evil things that are said.
When the line between heaven and hell creases...
The good in the world decreases.
In my house as if I’m an alien
Ladies chamber form its den
The mirror of the dressers table
Stays busy as a beautician cable
Dawn to dusk as if it’s a parlor
Except me, it’s in house wife’s care
O Mirror who you are factually
Where you are from genetically
I know you are not Aphrodite
But you can show the reality
Of true reflection you have the power
By which we can cover the outside layer
I know myself by the true knowledge and prudent wisdom
O Mirror you can teach how to represent the self-rhythm
Your acceptance to all as a pioneer of embodiment guide
As like the true wise you can reveal the un-foreseeing side
With your kind escort, we can make up our whimsical sights
O Mirror, live long to reflect the insightful clear
No disguise, for my lady form me in your nature
February 26, 2023
Write an Ode Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Jeff Kyser
THE UNPLANNED JOURNEY
by
JOHN M. ARRIBAS
I had a great breakfast gave a nice tip to the girl
I was late, had to swerve to avoid hitting a squirrel
I was really lucky when I crossed the yellow line
A semi was coming, head on, I made it back in time
But I over reacted and landed in the swale
Rolled over twice, but I’m here to tell the tale
Lacking any warning, I didn’t pack for this trip
I scanned the bow, looking for the name of the ship
The gangway was well worn, the ship an ugly gray
Officers at the first deck, had a few words to say
You’re our passenger, see the list with your name
Transporting you to the destination is our only aim
I was given a cabin number: the location of my room
I passed by a group of musicians on a break, I assume
I had an outside cabin, yet no windows to be seen
No dressers, closets or mirrors, a really weird scene
An eerie quiet was broken, by a noise outside my door
I spotted an envelope with my name lying on the floor
A gala event this evening, held on deck number three
Casual dress, music, gourmet foods, drinks, totally free
A magnificent ballroom, a stage illuminated bright
All the men attending were all suited in white
Men were dancing stag; and the women, solo as well
Band seemed to be playing, yet only silence befell
Ladies clad in white gowns, a red rose in their hair
Most passengers were elderly, but nary a pair
The food looked great, in dozens of colorful arrays
But as I grew closer, I saw they were all papier- maches
No food, no music, my suspicions were instantly imparted
I realized, all of us here are the recently departed
Uncle Russ, never made much a fuss,
he was just kinda sorta rambunctious.
The whole whetsell bunch, when in a crunch
bent the rules without much compunction.
The cops, unamused, and very short-fused,
in Detroit they did ruff up my dad.
But that’s not so bad, when Russ they did grab
in Chicago and pounded him dead.
Now, none of this mess, you ever would guess,
had to do with those two I detailed.
But was my uncle Melf, a felon himself
so illusive, he never was jailed.
Snappy dressers, but never confessors,
dad and Russ remained so tight-lipped
Melf split so fast, the cops were aghast.
that they never knew when he skipped.
FBI with binocs, surrounded the block
at granny’s memorial service,
hoping that Melf, might show up himself
to pay some respects, although nervous.
Melf vaporized, the cops realized,
and they stopped accosting the clan.
Too late for Russ, since all of this fuss
cost him literally all that he had.
Deep within impermanence and continuity of change
Seeds lie shielded waiting and protected for the moment
They trust that the cupid cupule holds the bow and arrows
Firmly based in the grasp of nature and uncharted destiny
Sheltered for the generation of life's resilient circulation
Encased in a rough nutshell of inevitable wheels of life
Resides with un-shattered purpose a simple magic miracle
A gem more powerful than the chronicle of human nature
One day she says I'll be a forest in the budding aspiration
Of hope and kindness that spread with wind and fortune
The elements will nurture me until I'm ready to stand tall
For now I must be grateful for my budding tender youth
I don't grow fast but when my roots grip fertile undergrowth
My canopy gives wings to dreams and certitude of aspirations
Love is the meaning of the fertile soil gracing my surroundings
Founded in heaven I grant my strength to future generations
Equipped with a kernel of truth and change along the lineage
Core and essence transform vile lies from the sediment of time
Sometimes you close your eyes and trample on my saplings
But I'm a survivor and take care knowing that I'm truly loved
Surely you can cut the branches and try to break my promise
Craft treasure chests or dressers from my hardened resolve
Put another log on the fire and watch me rising from hot ashes
Build turrets for your fortresses of power and castles onto sand
Sometimes I drift in raging waters unable to steer my voyage
Float in the ocean and yet when spring resumes I'm here again
Smoothed and ground in the knowledge that my acorns live
Whatever weather may embrace my nascent children's fate
I can't complain for when I hand over the torch and novelty
When I'm old and felled down to size by turbulence and storms
I can rest assured that fires and drought did not snuff my passion
And that my final passage opens opportunities from start to end
13th April 2020
At a church wedding
All the guest arrive
The pew's are all filled
With the families
Everyone anxious
Waiting- for the bride
Flower girls dresses
Are white an purple
Now the music starts
Bride maid's dressers purple
They walk down the aisle
One bride maid teary eye
her tears are flowing
Losing control she sobs
A few tears are shed
Only she knows why
Everyone knows her
She is known to cry
She is so well known
For her emotions
She has a nick name
It Is The Emotional Bride's Maid
The trees lining the streets are filled with cherry blossoms
Mother Nature is letting us know that spring arrival is going to be awesome
Enjoying a walk along the breakwater bustling with people enjoying the new day's sun
After a long winter, it is wonderful to be able to get out and have some fun
Flowers will soon bring a wide variety of colours as they spring up from the ground
A tour of our dressers for shorts and tee shirts that need to be found
Lawnmowers are about to rise from their winter hibernation
Hair cuts for our lawns are soon to be our new form of recreation
Even our timepieces will be busy springing ahead
Let's get off our social devices and spend more of our day outdoors instead
Gather up the family and go enjoy some ice cream
Bid farewell to winter and go blow off some steam
Our sense of style (or lack of it)
Evolves but gets its start
When we are of a tender age
(Not merely young at heart).
For many children know if they
Like shining in a crowd
And therefore will prefer their clothes
Bright, sparkly or loud.
While others like to blend and fade;
(Unnoticed would be best).
In basic clothing, unadorned,
Is how they will be dressed.
Our preferences may change a bit,
But probably not much.
The snazzy dressers and the plain
Will likely stay as such.
how clever a peck on the cheek, a kiss on the head
a hug with a boa constriction for the parents i love.
how cruel this fate of social isolation, to stunt the breath
of this illusion, that i might have them more and more times.
the kiss off of a mother’s day and all things pretty and wrinkled.
a jolly show of faces — did i once think the actors could slink
through a small or large screen. we haggle with time, dressing
up in effects, wrapping backgrounds, like furs, around caricatures
of ourselves — astronauts, cross-dressers, punk. my mom
holds a very dry martini — six olives on a skewer in empty glass.
we kin do amuse one another and the claustrophobic togetherness
where a normal situation would have us wandering, appetizering,
sidewinder-chitchatting, fobbing the keys of a remote control,
checking seconds and minutes for appropriateness of slipping
out the door — that of course, for bored spouses, who love
the in and out of screen time and beg to screen all holidays this way
while a bored housewife wants for the drive that spurs one on
toward childhood — a link between life and death, playful
joy of trinkets and melodious voices soothed by the setting years;
the wrinkle of time sells all anger, judgment, unkindness —
the baggage that weighs down elephants, the infantile crawl
of bondage. Now the rocking of Brumbies, snail’s pace of sunset
grace of a gray nest, cascading shoulders, ears out of tune
but pure-gold’s love — the plinking strings of a plentitude heart.
Mom and Dad cheer with glistening glasses, their merry martinis
marvel at their wealth — one olive, three olivettes grin at them.
5/11/2020
Non-rhyming couplets