Best Frocks Poems
Socialites
those was good days.
sneakin' out the bedroom window
tryin' harder not to wrinkle our frocks
than not to wake momma
runnin' down the dusty road
with pointy-toe pumps in tote
hopin' we didn't miss too much
of the party.
greeted at the end of the road
by three cats
in they daddy's shiny black Bonneville
waitin' to give us a ride.
they'd be justa skinnin' and grinnin'
thinkin' they might just get some ass
before the night was through.
some nights,
if them cats was slick enough,
they would.
we'd Slide all night at the juke joint.
eatin' pickled pigfeet and
gettin' high off of stump-hole liquor.
tellin' lies 'bout how
we was gonna go to New York one day
and how we was gonna go to Coney Island
for hotdogs at Nathan's.
and then go over to Queens
to find us a soul food joint
for a taste of collards and cornbread.
from there,
we would just follow the crowd to Harlem
and take us a place in line
waitin' our turn to
bow at the feet of Apollo,
god of the Chitlin Circuit.
soon,
he would entertain us with
his dukes and his queens, and his godfathers
and, boy!
that palace would be smokin'!
'course
all eyes would be on us-
the socialites from the sticks-
all dolled up in our fitted skirts
with can-can slips underneath
and the cats in they pencil suits and wing-tips
and all us thinkin'
if only the niggas back home could see us now-
snappin' and tappin' in Harlem
with dukes, and queens, and godfathers.
The aunites gossip back home
About how you've grown
Out of your white cotton frocks
And into red silk saris
They talk about how you're ripe for marriage
About how quickly boys flock to you--
Your family's rich and you are beautiful.
Like a princess but with none of the excess.
Their perfect Indian girl is rather simple.
But, the real you they can never comprehend.
Those brown khol-rimmed eyes with
That understated nose ring confuses them.
They'd rather ignore your luscious red mouth.
Those soft lips were like velvet as they brushed across my lashes as you pretended to blow sand out of my eyes one drunken night on a Konkan beach.
Both too scared to be the first to say anything
We just sat there drunk and giggling
When the aunties speak of you
I can't help but imagine
Things that leave
Little to the imagination.
I am a woman
And you are a woman
We're on the same page.
The boys will wait.
When Meaning Is Meaningless
The value of life is delicious debris
When meaning is meaningless
The victims search bread crumbs in the bounteous stale loaf
The light of nude night blinks blindness
What does meaning mean for life at the edge?
for ant’s feasting in farmished frocks
I find flames from the bottomless fire of life
If you seek meanings on this ploughed lanes
You sing museless songs of leprous crochets
When meaning is meaningless
Those who saw off meaning say:
‘See this sense with little sense and
keep this lunacy living in the silent hut’
The dire strait of sense- less bigots
Stifle the lobes of logic-quotient that can midwife meaning
What meaning is in our meaning?
Around the carnary class of misfiring mermaids
What meaning do we allot a life laden in scars
From fiery vaults and heart brakes from many lovers.
We shall find the missing syllables and symphonies
And sing songfuls in the sweet seraphdom
Disco dreams and disco balls
Big city,bright lights
Pub crawls and bar fights.
Mini frocks and hair dyes
Made up faces
Mascara filled eyes.
Vodka martinis and champagne
Bus trips and black cabs
Standing in the rain.
Nightclubs and deejays
Entry stamps on wrists
And tattooed fists.
Late nights and hangovers
Fast cars and kebabs
White wine spritzers
And mishaps.
One night stands and live bands
Autographs and queues
Sing-a-longs and sad songs
And over packed loos.
One line gags and handbags
Glitter and sparkling eyes
Cigarettes and suffragettes
Gossip and lies.
Brawls,another one falls
Drunks and punks
Frilly skirts and love hurts
And late rides.
Secret kisses and front row seats
Cinema aisles
Red lipped smiles
Beauties and beasts.
Flashy cars and night time stars
Takeaways and glad rags
Silly jokes and whiskey cokes
Dreams and high hopes.
Nights out and walkabouts
Cheap thrills and teenage wonder
Hitch hikes and motorbikes
Delinquent lightning and thunder.
In the land of laundry, I search high and low,
for missing socks - wondering where do they go?
Each morning, I search for a matching pair,
but they seem to have disappeared into thin air.
They were together in my washing machine,
I set the right temperature for them to clean.
I saw how they frolicked in soapy delight,
then placed them in the dryer to warm their wet plight.
Perhaps they eloped on a wild escapade,
or is there a sock monster renegade?
Stealing mismatched socks to make you vexed,
such a dilemma leaves the mind perplexed.
Does the sock monster consume them for dinner?
Or are they traded as a money spinner?
Or maybe they're hiding in some secret lair,
giggling at me with a mischievous glare.
Maybe to them it's just a humorous game,
but wearing odd socks can cause bullying shame.
The main issue though, that always irritates,
is new socks mean my bank balance deflates.
I've looked everywhere, beneath every chair,
but those sneaky socks don't care my feet are bare.
They vanish like ghosts in the hush of the night,
leaving me confused from this sockless spite.
So here I sit with a solitary sock,
feeling defeated, dazed from the after shock.
Thinking it's a relief, that I don't wear frocks
and I should protect my drawers with padlocks!!!
How fast time has fled in limitless wingspan
How months and years have merged into eons
Bringing such changes, so awesome and spectacular
I have come swinging open the iron gates
Of the Netherworld where I have been asleep
For over the last four centuries from now
From my prolonged slumber, I am just awake
With my memory intact as in the days
I walked the London streets on my way to Globe theatre
And roamed through the streets of Stratford on Avon
Here, I stand stunned like a Rip wan winkle
Wistfully staring at a world so strange
Wondering how in place of shacks, skyscrapers stand!
How the serene villages into bustling habitats made!
How the frilled frocks into jeans and shirts changed!
Seeing the changes that have come over now
I can only remain perplexed and “tongue tied”,
An expression I used long time back, but still in vogue
Happy I am to revisit the literate of the world
Especially members of my own clan;
My friends of Poetry Soup who wield their pen
To see words are latticed like filmy cobwebs
In diverse poetic forms, on themes and subjects varied
And in rhyming sonnets, my favorite poetic form
Though I stand in a remote and distant tract of time
So happy you still remember me and hail me as an immortal bard
And you name the young lovers- 'Romeo and Juliet'
And write on their amorous romance in honeyed rhyme
You call selfish and cunning people as ‘Iago’
And exclaim on being betrayed- “You too Brutus”
When you are confronted with problems insurmountable
Like Hamlet, you ask the million-dollar question-
“To be or not to be”
My friends, this is my parting words to you
You may live by fame as I do
Through verse, your name you eternalize!
When dead and in solitary vaults you lie
May your verses ring clear in umpteen hearts
And produce echoes that time cannot stifle.
Jan. 13.2023
~Placed First~
Shakespeare in 2023 Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Anoucheka Gangabissoon
On the wind-swept Nebraska prairie sits a building in wretched shambles,
Surrounded by a sagging fence and overgrown with prickly brambles.
It was once a bustling one-room school house, abandoned long ago.
Its weather-beaten clapboards, I judged to be a century old or so.
Atop its cupola, swaying listlessly in the wind, was a rusted weather vane.
Eerily, at the whim of the wind, the school bell still tolled now and again.
Two ancient oak trees stood sentinel seeming to provide a guard,
To ensure that trespassers like me would value its past with high regard.
I warily opened the door, its rusty hinges protesting, to take a look inside.
Mice skittered across the dusty floor and cobwebs I had to brush aside.
There were well-worn desks, a blackboard and pot-bellied stove for heat.
To muse about its past and the ghosts of scholars of yore, I took a seat.
I pictured the schoolmarm who taught readin', writin' and basic math,
Who struggled to maintain order with imps who suffered her fearful wrath!
Little girls looked so prim in their pinafores and gingham frocks;
The boys wore knickers, buckled boots and gaudy argyle socks!
I could hear the droning recitations of pupils whose attention would digress,
To the ticking of the school clock anticipating the merriment of recess!
I noted relief on the teacher's face when at last the kids were released.
I sensed that she felt she had been nurturing a horde of wild beasts!
Governed by our beastly needs
We don our frocks and mount our steeds
Rasp-rasp, rasp-rasp, the saw moves up and down;
because coffins are built better by hand.
My young daughter watches in her pink gown;
to make sure that it's right, you understand.
"It can't; it can't be a shabby old box,"
she cried out loud; "best wood, best silk, and, and;
he needs to be dressed in one of his frocks;
it has to be super awesome and grand!"
Her first small pet, Bunny, expired today.
Put in the box with love; sobbing, and tears
we'll surround it with buds, flowers; and pray;
while both stroking its soft downy big ears.
"Can we plant it now, dad?" She said with glee
"And will it grow into a rabbit tree?"
"Flowers, the emblems of beauty and fragrance proudly assert that loveliness can catch every eye and brighten even the gloomiest heart" ~ By Poet
look at these white blossoms,
attired in snow white velvety frocks,
unassuming and elegant
under the canopy of the starlit sky.
though tiny in size,
en masse they exude a hypnotic charm.
birthed in the stillness of night,
they proclaim their presence,
in dazzling white.
decked by dewy beads,
they dance freely unnoticed.
some perfume the air
with exotic scent,
permeating the nightly breeze.
during day, they wait to be garlanded,
by the amber beams of the sun,
longing to be hugged and kissed
by the amorous butterflies.
these simple beauties are the silent partakers,
of life’s most beautiful romance!
Sock it to me Baby
He strut like a proud peacock in his crocs
Green they were, worn with lime shocking pink socks
He asked for a date
I said "no way mate"
"Only because I have no matching frocks."
He said he just didn't care what frock I wore
'Cause he'd got crocs of many colours in store
"A lady in red “
I answered in jest
Suspecting that he was aiming to score.
Both of us went on the date dressed in red
"You must be clothed for a bet" someone said
My dates crocs and socks
Gave out vibrant shocks
'Cause all he wore matched, down to boxers and vest.
I answered "yes and it's for charity"
And we raised loads to put in the kitty
My date turned out great
We're now best of mates
His socks and crocs are my flitty ditty.
“Sock it to me baby, come hold me tight
Your crocs so excite me, love me tonight.”
8th June 2021
Summer times are spent in the orchard of apples and pears
That old wooden rope swing; all frayed, from over the years
Hazy days in the summer house, watching the children play
Puppy dogs running around chasing the butterflies all a gay
Homemade lemonade. and jam sandwiches cut into squares
How we all loved to go into the fruit orchard, over the years
Gals in their light cotton frocks, and the boys in short shorts
Gran; with her wicker basket, taking flower cuttings of sorts
Grandpa; in his shirt with sleeves rolled up sawing the wood
Making all the lost wooden tiles, on the summer house good
Papa would arrive after a long working day pop ices in hand
This home as his castle and the garden and orchard his land
Seen it all blossom, with a loving wife, watched it all expand
As loving gestures given between them; they so understand
That this beautiful dream was built; surrounded by true love
With praises given to HE, who blessed this home from above
Things bloom more beautiful when breaking down.
The nave now ploughs through foams of flowering trees,
a frozen caravel. Kissed by the breeze,
the river surface suddenly seems to frown
exquisitely. The apse’s jaunty crown
of weeds above one (sightless) eye would please
romantic poets. What was once a friese
lies strewn about, a shaley shanty-town.
We love whatever withers, atrophies.
To see a calked construction founder, drown
beneath its own detritus, by degrees
slough off its shape and, sinking to its knees,
expire, is satisfying. Velvet gown?
We’d much prefer to see a soiled chemise.
A lake? A cloud? A mountain? Megan Fox?
If we acknowledge Beauty in these things,
what are we saying? As when Smokey sings,
or girls emerge in slinky summer frocks,
something’s taking place outside the box
of regularity, and sprouting wings.
How might we classify these happenings?
A rupture in the norm? The whole Baroque’s
built on this very point. If Beauty rocks,
what is the special quality it brings,
and why is it so pleasing? Beauty flings
a spanner in the works of Orthodox,
and laughs at Workaday. It mocks
our essence, lurks in quirks, and smirks at clocks.
“The Wordsworth ouevre is cretinous. Discuss.”
The Long, Laborious Quest, The Sparrow’s Nest,
The Noble Oak of Guernica, Addressed –
We can’t escape the feeling he’s a wuss.
His subjects are unconscionable, plus
the rhymes he uses are a facilefest.
If only he were even half in jest!
His humour’s unintentional, and thus
more entertaining than he could have guessed.
Yet something in his scribblings seems to wrest
significance from dross, analogous
to Newton’s differential calculus,
invented by the by, at whim’s behest.
When Wordsworth falls apart, he’s at his best.
Azaleas putting on spring frocks,
Bluebells holding up their heads.
Columbine blooming 'neath the sun,
Daffodils springing from their beds.
Everlasting's new in spring,
Fig Marigolds gaily attired.
Goat's Rue coming through the soil,
Hyacinths keeping us inspired.
Iris, most beautiful of all,
Jasmine listening to spring's sounds.
King's Spear pointing at everything,
Lilac brighter than surrounds.
Meadowsweet as sweet as sugar,
Narcissus, dainty and refined.
Orange blossoms scent the air.
Peony as bright as one can find.
Quaker Lace is in the woods,
Rhododendron does not know where to hide.
Sweet William is as sweet as ever.
Trilliums brightening countryside.
Umbrella Magnolia weeps,
Violets so sweet and shy.
Water Lily in the pond,
Xerophyte is standing by.
Yucca growing tall and wide,
Zantedeschia by her side.
4/11/16
Is Jesus in a box, hmmm…, let’s see,
Jesus in a six sided container? That’s hard to visualize for me.
Who’d put him in? Better yet, who’d take him out?
Is he really in there? That could cast some serious doubt.
What a tidy package is your Jesus in a box.
Would you have your Jesus dressed, or only in socks?
If “Jack” looked ridiculous in his spring loaded box,
would that mean Jesus should wear similar frocks?
How would we get him to far flung destinations?
Would UPS carry him without preparations?
Would he be bathed before he was laid inside?
“Cleanliness is next to Godliness.” Recall the aside?
If you brought some vocal atheists to this table,
surely they’d sponsor legislation for a Biohazardous label?
Would Jesus still be relevant in Antarctica or the Sahara?
Remember they were late comers to a Christian era.
So I’m thinking, Jesus is not in a box, as far as I can tell.
If he was, it would likely be his permanent “death knell.”
For me, I like things the way they currently exist.
Jesus in a box, no, that’s just not something I’d like to mix.
For the Jesus in a box contest.