Best Dressing Gown Poems
“The Queen-Sized Bed”.
A queen-size bed was coming slowly,
down the rough dirt track.
As it drew closer,
The wheels clumsily mounted on the base of each leg,
rattled like a hospital gurney on the stones.
The bed was being pushed slowly,
ever so, carefully.
By a weary old man in tattered clothes and worn-out shoes.
as he drew closer, and closer,
I saw that he was pushing his dying wife who was,
lying in a dressing gown under the covers,
in the Queen-Sized Bed.
He pushed carefully trying not to shake the bed,
excessively.
His wife's head was supported by four pillows,
she had wispy strings of silver white hair.
She was dying.
Several I.V. Bottles dangled off a hook,
And dripped painkillers into her arm.
She was awake but barely conscious,
I wondered where they were going,
but in my heart, I knew...
privacy for an hour,
I came back as the sun was setting.
I found them together sitting on the bed,
Looking over the ocean.
The old man was holding his dying wife,
in his arms… stroking her silver hair under the sparkling,
southern cross.
They were sharing her last sunset as,
the dying embers of a fiery sun faded into the ocean.
Night fell and I walked home alone,
I had witnessed love real love,
something I had never experienced,
something I had never known.
If you’re near Cowell and you look hard enough,
You may just find the queen-size bed,
with a tattered mattress and exposed springs,
quietly rusting away outside a decrepit ruin of a barn.
Take a closer look at the legs and you will find four rusting,
gurney wheels.
and if you approach quietly on a moonlit night,
you will hear soft sobbing in the whistling wind,
as it dreams of that dying sunset,
under the southern cross...
and the milky way lights up the sky,
soaring into the heavens
as the angels sing.
I wrote this non fiction poem
For Debra Jean..
(C)London F. BuSS. 2022
This scribble has nothing to do with the famous song of Simon and Garfunkel. It's just a story I invented.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I bought a cottage in the middle of nowhere,
Right at the edge of the countryside,
Any curious men rarely visited it,
So I stocked it well with food
And worked all alone on my laptop
Electric poles provided current.
So I could enjoy the peace
Within the sound of silence.
I had left the cities full of noise,
Only songbirds broke the silence of the site,
But that I could bear well enough.
Within the sound of silence.
Winter came and soon I was snowbound.
That’s when a knock sounded on my door.
Reluctantly I opened up my place.
There, on the threshold stood a woman
All drenched up and with flimsy clothes.
Her beauty stunned me. I let her in.
My car has stopped, she stammered.
So I sent her up to have a hot bath,
Gave her my dressing gown and invited her
To partake in a hot chicken broth
and some ill-prepared food.
And all this was done as I stood
Mute but mesmerised by her allure
For it was the time for silence.
Bad weather kept her imprisoned in my home,
Few words were exchanged
But she felt the power of silence.
A week later, the countryside was clear of snow.
She phoned a garage to pick up her car.
Then I decided to take her on the river,
How beautiful she looked in her proper clothes.
We got in a boat and paddled away to an islet.
We disembarked and partook of a picnic she had prepared
We spoke little but we came close.
She smiled and timidly I kissed her for the first time.
I felt my heart throbbing but all was quiet
Within the sound of silence.
We married a year later and eventually
The cottage was soon filled
With the crying of a newborn sound.
We were elated and made such a fuss.
Gone was the sound of silence.
On some bleak airfield on some Cambridge fen
(that awful winter – 'forty-seven, I think)
my mother, novice servicewoman then,
crossed parade-ground like a skating rink
to see the Christmas concert on the camp.
Inside, the nissen hut was black as ink
till airmen lit a feeble spirit lamp.
The snow was driving against one outer wall:
she calls to mind a smell of tents and damp
and stinging fingers, fresh from snowballs,
and gouts of steam, blown out in cloudy spurts
as people laughed. Then lights dimmed in the hall.
She now recalls a curious stab of hurt
to see the Italian janitor of the base
revealed onstage in P.O.W. shirt
when curtains opened. What had been a place
of uproar, now – faced by this threadbare clown –
had undergone some dreadful loss of face.
In dubbin make-up, N.A.A.F.I. dressing-gown,
as solemn as a high priest at the altar,
this patched-up Pagliacci, ear-flaps down,
sang ludicrously well. The keyboard faltered,
and stopped. The singer, weeping now, kept on,
quite heedless, as his clown's nose dripped tear-water.
There's something sacred in the humblest song
(with wretchedness wrought into lasting good
through alchemy of art) and, all along,
the watchers, to their horror, understood.
He sang so gorgeously of going home
because he knew full well he never would.
She stood in the doorway of the house
Her vibrant cerise pink dressing gown bulging at the seams -
Like a sack of dough tied up in the middle
Life has been hard for her and it shows in her face
Which was lined like the bark of a gnarled oak tree
Clouds of smoke billow from the cigarette
that hangs like an icicle from the corner of her mouth
I smile and say hello
Embarrassed at being seen she lets the cigarette fall
Retreating rapidly through the clearing fog back indoors
I observed this scene when I was out walking yesterday
3rd April 2015
Late night summons madmen,
madams, bold streetwalkers,
picking pennies from the gutters
as the merchants close their shutters
and the homeless crouch in doorways
in their rags, against the cold.
Black or white, no compromise,
no colours clothe the empty streets,
as Bobbies tread their lonely beats,
the watchmen rub their crusted eyes
and settle into vigilance,
no accident, just circumstance.
Midnight passes.
Leila in her bursting bodice
lingers, guesses who I am
and flaunts her body, all the same
to her, a customer who'll pay
for twenty minutes' satisfaction.
Dressed in taffeta and lace
she'll never even see my face,
night's sweet anonymity,
the very definition of her name.
Later, as the moonbeams shift,
and cloudlines disappear and drift,
come images in stark relief
of twisted metals magnified
that catch the eye, suspend belief.
Abandoned building, hollow-eyed
and squinting in a death mask grip,
skeletal, once filled with pride,
now empty, and for ever tongue-tied,
cadavered, and condemned to drip.
Still later, the street-lamps spot
the cats a'creeping worldly-wise,
and rats along the quayside waiting,
ready for the avalanche
of waste into the yawning dumpsters.
I have seen the children sneaking out
before the dawn comes crawling,
dirty little ragamuffins forced
into leftover clothes,
weepy-eyed and snotty-nosed,
playing with a rotting carcass
or a broken bicycle.
Pre-dawn, and the street-lamp sputters,
merchants come to raise their shutters,
regard the fading moon, and mutter,
'yet another day.'
Begone, O Bride of Midnight!
favour us with not another glance,
put your spells away,
you'll not lead us in our daily dance.
Behold a wrinkled substitute,
a crone who likes to think that she's a queen;
with as much grace as she can muster,
she flusters, fidgets, lonely in her room,
feathered and be-furbelowed
and plays with her decolletage,
she's mutton dressed as lamb.
The smell of stale tobacco
and a whiff of old perfume,
no longer with her entourage
she dances out of rhythm to the tango,
rusty and unconstituted,
wraith-like, a phantom in her tomb.
At twenty past I'm home at last,
the brass plate spells my name;
come inside!
familiar and gratifying,
slippers by my bed still lying,
dressing gown and cap are crying,
here abide!
The sheets are turned and ready.
I leave the night and take a final bow,
grateful for the here and now.
I attempt to make other people smile
Melancholy days - forget them for a while!
A real belly laugh is good for your soul
Keep on writing humour is my goal
Even on days when I’m feeling down
Find me in my sexy dressing gown
Often I'm writing late into the night
Limericks can create such delight
Knowing my words may make folk cry
Leaving tears of laughter in their eye
A giggle day keeps depression at bay
Using my wit keeps the blues away
Given some time I’ll write a line or two
Hope my poems stop you from feeling blue
Word play poetry contest
Sponsored by Bobby May
1/29/19
Dear Santa, it’s Looby Loo, I’m still here
It’s a miracle, have been ill all year
I don’t want you to forget to stop by
As this old gal would then break down and cry.
I need decent bloomers, mine are in holes
And us oldies truly do feel the cold
A box of curlers, the soft spongy type
As the old un’s wake me up in the night.
I’d like a dressing gown, size twenty four
I can’t do mine up, it don’t fit no more
Some new fluffy slippers to match it too
Mine are worn out, so I need them it’s true.
I may be old, but I like to look nice
Lipstick and face powder would see me right
Oh, some perfume too as mine has run dry
I wish to smell sweet when passing folk by.
Walking isn’t easy for me these days
A four wheeled walker would make me feel brave
I’d be most grateful if all this I get
I’m sure I will, as you are the best yet.
Try not to wake me as I needs my sleep
I’ll leave you some wine and mince pies to eat
Slam the door shut when you leave Santa please
I don’t want my presents stolen by thieves.
Bless you dear Santa for all that you do
Merry Christmas and may the Lord bless you
Looby Loo.
Noise, Noise, Noise
That’s all I ever hear
It’s getting so loud and intrusive, that I begin to fear
How much more noise can my ears take
As I live in fear for my mental state
What happened to the bird song that I used to hear each day
The sound of waves upon the beach as excited children play
The chuff, chuff, chuff of steam trains, from a bygone time I loved
The cows a mooing
The sheep a bleating
And the cooing of a dove
I love to hear my blackbird as it sings both day & night
And even screeching seagulls surpass the din of a building site
With noise that comes from traffic as it trundles through the town
I stay at home my windows shut clothed in my dressing gown
At times when I can hardly hear the sound of my own voice
I have to shout
I have to shriek
I really have no other choice
The noises and vibrations are the sounds of daily living
They make me stressed
I feel so bad
They are so unforgiving
I fear with all this noise pollution
There is no cure, there’s no solution
So to deafen the din drink a bottle of gin
And to stop my decline drink a bottle of wine
And by then everything will sound fine…
Written April 9 2018
Contest Strand no 700
Sponsor Brian Strand
1st PLACE
if i had another wish
i would want back my pet fish
for my uncle came to town
and in mothers dressing gown
served him on her fav'rite dish.
tiny goblins running round
some in mothers dressing gown
witch cackle delight
was there such a night
in this hallowed little town.
Oh so nice to see you at this hour
Going bed? No, a dressing gown
is my evening attire.
what's mine is yours to share
Of course it's not too much.
How much was your taxi fare?
I may be a pensioner little money to spend
But what's a missed month’s rent
to help a friend?
I won't be offended if you have to leave
I'm sure you have other friends
that you must see
They will be delighted to see you at this hour
Even if they are dressed
in their evening attire
Each night a brown orb spider,
a piece of night from under the eaves
spins a sticky intricate web
against the silhouette of leaves
Kangaroos the color of bark and stones
begin a dawn retreat to a rose lit tree line
I peep from the window- stretch and yawn
as grey mist fades into spreading sunshine
myriads of birdsong in filtered zones
as dew reveals gossamer webs on the lawn.
Tiny finches are flitting down,
from twig to twig to a birdbath of stone
They dip and splash and re -alight,
as I sit and watch in my dressing gown.
not moving in case I give them a fright
absorbed in them I am least alone
Their colors are grey, bright green, and brown
Rain scents of earth and eucalypts
a bush path strewn with bark and puddles
under swaying strands of weeping leaves
in shadowy niches of scented idyls
aware of the tapestry nature weaves
HUMAN NATURE - 4 STANZA, 7 LINE
Contest Judged: 2/12/2016 12:00:00 AM
Sponsored by: Marugu Mo
2.nd Place
The hospital corridors are silent
but outpatients reception is busy,
muffled voices are heard behind closed doors,
a shuffling dressing gown stalks the silent halls
in fluffy slippers pushing a drip stand,
waiting patients just in from the cold
disrobe. "Heather" the tannoy remarks,
assessment room three is empty for you,
"Heather" departs, a young girl is frightened
she hug her mum tight, a blood test awaits,
it won't hurt much she says, just a little jab.
appointment for 9 but no movement by 10,
a white uniform amazon appears,
seven vials of blood later I'm let go,
Ray of the X-Ray takes me in tow, strip off
he says chin on the bar make like the chicken.
chest out, big breath, hold it, relax and breath,
you're wearing a cross, chin on the bar,
big breath, hold it, hold it, hold it, relax.
back to reception tell them you're done,
now pay 6.50 for a latte and biscuit,
you've been done, should have had a water.
My dream was such that I just didn’t want to be awake
When an unexpected change in tone caused my good mood to break
As my Buena Vista faded ‘neath a penetrating sound
And forced my sleepy high to plummet swiftly to the ground
Jolted violently awake from necessary beauty sleep
The most annoying, intermittent, ear-piercing beep
It was not the smoke detector that had opened my eyes wide
But the other one – that warned of leaking carbon monoxide
Still somewhat groggy, my self-preservation mode kicked in
And I woke my wife, who’d managed to sleep right through the whole din
In haste, we grabbed two dressing gowns – I donned hers, she took mine
And stumbling down the stairs, convinced her everything was fine
Now reeling from the shrill, we made our way to the front door
Still trying to explain why we were up at half past four
The dog was barking wildly, running rings around our feet
As we sat in our odd nightwear in the middle of the street
The pre-dawn chill was biting at my unprotected ears
But as clarity returned I knew that I must face my fears
And pulling my pink dressing gown tightly around my waist
I threw my shoulders back and bravely climbed the stairs in haste
I pulled the shrieking beast from its position on the wall
Trying hard to see the readout, but the numbers were so small
What does ‘97’ mean – and is this reading far too high?
Is it well within the limits or are we about to die?
My concentration shattered, headache pounding and cross-dressed
I held my breath and pulled the batteries from its beating breast
No time to find the handbook, but I needed now to know
Just what the reading meant and could we stay or should we go?
So I turned instead to Google, but the image that I found
Resembled mine; though in this picture it was wrong way round
As dawn arose, daylight revealed the cause of my ‘mix up’
That ‘Lb’ means ‘low battery’ when read the right way up ...
I spied a stranger when I went to town,
Sipping champagne whilst in his dressing gown.
He looked at me, gave a smile,
I gave one back it's true.
Thank you for the drink he said,
I've just charged this one to you.