Best Haberdashery Poems
dogs in hats and coats
tormented by the squirrels
chattering critiques
John G. Lawless
©11/4/2018
Ciggy’s day out this is just another normal walk but where shall I go to the haberdashery or to the local library on this wonderful February day. I think I will start at the library and look for a book on an auto harp or maybe a book about a calliope. So I can use them in my collaboration latter today. I am a little thirsty I think I will get a soda in an aluminum can of course with no algae. Now back to my condominium I will go cuz it’s time to start my live web show.
In Dickensian time
Upon sunset hour
Overshadowing Thames
Is London Tower
Blackened cobble streets
Shimmer in the rain
Big Ben at Westminster
Chimes an eight bells refrain
At Euston Station
A passenger alights
On Platform 3
And enters the caff
for a nice cup of tea
At the local tavern
Behind steamy windows
The opportunists sit
Gleaning local gossip
Ever watchful to ensnare
Any hapless stranger
come wandering there
Covent Garden
still well lit
As lamplighters
carry out their remit
Striding with ladders
about old London town
With a cheery wave
and a purposeful frown
Patrolling policemen
in forbidding places
Echoing footfalls
as boots make paces
A courting couple shelters
under the arches
Oblivious to passerby's
and dray cart horses
A hackney driver cracks his whip
As high stepping hooves
on cobbles clip
From Westminster
stove pipe hatted M.P.s from
parliament sitting
enter a members club
to continue their
political discourses
unremitting
Mudlark urchins ankle deep
in moonshine glow
watch chugging steam boats
along the Thames flow
Billingsgate Market's
straw boated and
stripe aproned men
are found sluicing
with brooms in hand
the blood drenched ground
Along the West End thoroughfares
Come wealthy patrons
in open carriages with lantern flares
wearing evening attire
Bejewelled ladies in fanciful frocks
And around bare shoulders
Stoles of mink and silver fox
They ascend the red carpeted stairs
And look towards the royal box
A pretty young street seller
of violets and roses
with straw basket on hip
proffers up the scented poses
A peasouper fog blankets from
Thames to chimney tops
As a trader hooks his shutters down
Outside his haberdashery shop
Across London Bridge the East End rabble
Trail homeward to Hackney, Bethnal Green
and Whitechapel
From an open pub door
streams a music hall tune
played on an accordion
in a crowded tap room
Wending amongst the walkers
in the Strand
run beggarly children
with outstretched hand.
And......
Charles Dickens
walks the streets
at night
taking note
of every sight.
The Queens Bed
There's a certain symmetry in mis-shapes
A Correlation of zig zags
A pyramid of Mish mashery
Of Golden haberdashery
A prism geometry forgot
Disfunctional patterns
Of a Diamanté Zodiac
A Tessellating Mosaic
A crazy jigsaw of zany gems
Adorned the Queens four poster bed
A Crystalised Diadem
The perfect fit for her head
Away in a haberdashery,
No hat for me head,
Groom’s attire is needed
For me to be wed
Many months did me have
To find fitting apparel,
That there’s nothing me size,
Has me over a barrel
Me bride-to-be told me
To shop early on,
But me indecision
Has left me undone
We wed on the morrow
So what’s there to do?
With nothing to wear,
Not even a shoe!
In ancient looms of my homeland,
Fairies once shuttled across threads of rainbows
Weaving folklores of gods and goddesses.
Our tapestry needed no haberdashery of
Brabubahanas and Chitrngadas or a vijay panchali,
For no tantric-needle knitted our folktales.
I want to go back and melt in folk songs
Of shamans, who rejoiced in carnival of ripening rice,
Possessed by jingling moans of a pena.
I want to orchestrate, one more time, the ballad
Of Luwaopa and Koubru Namoinee, and
Feel the heartbeats of Henjunaha and Lairuklembi.
I want to burn my poetry in immortal angst
Of Khamba-Thoibi, and blow the ashes
On winds above Loktak's gentle ripples.
I want to defy traditions, once again,
By falling in love like Chingsompa and Panthoibi, and
Tell the world I inherited their sweet arrogance.
I want to retrace petals of
Thainagi Leirang, leaving no stones unturned,
Until I find the lost quill in ruins of alphabets.
I want to ask children of my land
To perform Eemagi Pujah by planting a Madhabi
On the stage of another Shingel Indu.
I want to revisit a forbidden village in my past, and
Reopen the second chapter of Jahera
Sitting by the old mosque with a green door.
I want to hear young Khongjomba sing
Lamphel Patki Kombirei, while I sip chilled Atingba
From a bamboo mug, in a karaoke bar.
I want to see Pidoinu dance in a discotheque
To the exotic tunes of Khulang Eshei, while
Her Moirangphi floats with iridescent embroidery.
I wish to put my ears on grandpa's clay courtyard, and
Listen to Leipaklei's sprouting sighs in a crack,
For the last time in this lifetime.
Finally, I like to be frightened again by Tapta, and
Wake up in a faraway dream where
My homeland shines as silvery as the milky way.
Note -
Names of mythical characters and entities from our folktales, history and books are used in the poem.
Pena is a stringed traditional musical instrument, played with a bow with tiny bells, of my homeland.
Loktak is a lake in my native state, which is the largest fresh water lake in eastern India, where the world's only floating wild life sanctuary lies, on which the almost extinct brow antlered deers known as Sangai, in native dialect, are preserved.
Atingba is a locally brewed rice beer.
Leipaklei is a rare orchid which sprouts out of cracks in dry soil/grounds.
This may seem a vacuous subject upon which to muse,
But ain't it amazin' the myriad of hats from which to choose?
Browsin' through the haberdashery or millinery shop in town,
You're bound to find the perfect lid to place upon your crown!
There is everything from snoods to keep the ladies' hair in place,
To fanciful bonnets trimmed with flowers, ribbons and lace.
Even pert veiled chapeaus appropriate for crumpets and tea,
For society dames as they balance cup and saucer on the knee!
For the sportin' bloke there's a selection of deerstalker caps,
And a vast array of domed derbys for the more debonair chaps.
Available for the dapper gentleman is quite a plethora,
Of the ever-popular, colorful and rakish felt fedora!
A cowpoke can select a ten-gallon Stetson to match his boots,
Makin' a fashion statement among his feller galoots.
For summer, the discriminatin' gent can opt for a Panama,
Or choose a flat-topped skimmer or boater made of straw!
Berets are obtainable for guys wishin' a military mien,
And a jaunty Alpine hat is available called a tyrolean.
But classy hats aside, no matter whether lass or lad,
Seems that wearing a baseball cap (backwards) is the latest fad!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
My frightful steel helmet is so battered, dinged and frayed
It was issued by the Air Force - not a haberdashery store
I don't suppose it would look very proper in an Easter Parade
But it sure did come in handy-dandy when fightin' in the war
For such things as bathin', washin' drawers and so much more
Camouflage nettin' adorned it in lieu of ostrich feathers and lace
Many fellers preferred civilian life sportin' a jazzy, felt fedora
On the march the dad-gum thing flopped about and fell in your face
Twigs, grass and weeds covered it to blend in with the flora
Four-letter words were heaped upon it - of which there was a plethora
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 3 in Carol Brown's "My Favorite Hat Or Bonnet" Contest - Apr 2011
Great girdle! She cried.
What happenstance have we happened upon?
Have the two nitwits knocked themselves silly with hammers?
What is the sensitivity they seek so?
She heaves humbly a sigh sumptuously,
As if the scene had the heavenly smells of Harvard halls, the musk of her haberdashery
And wondered how she could fit into such a simple equation
This is me, laughable
A slight cackle from a broken throat
Dry as Egypt's ageless dust and catching
On the flaming cottons of dead haberdashery
I caught a glimpse of moon
Eyes capsized under distilleries
A forehead clouded in snow drops dripping like rain
I dreamt of many splendid things
No, I didn't; I mock the most of all
My neck is sore and red like first time loves
The heat is stifling and I am burning your tongue
The face in the reservoir, dead slick floating but solid
The rivers wash a black night sky and slowly it emerges
Placed equally, matching my own unknowable incantation
And time again, I am born
Enflamed hollow archives, they see for the first time
Slowly in a moment, my hands touch them catching drips
Spiders crawling all over my not-quite-so cadavar
The thud of the moon and clash of wind
Titan in their endeavours and manoeuvres
Pushing forward as a child, as a child
The black heartless wilderness and rampant wooded soul
Hands to throat, choking and awake, and awake.
A fine country squire name of Zachary,
Made a fortune in his haberdashery.
The ladies and gents,
Put out a fair pence,
In return for the good squire's advisory.
He fancied a dowager lady,
Known as quiet, fastidious Miss Sadie.
She was quite a good looker,
Also a good cooker,
But there was two sides to this lady.
The squire did call on Miss Sadie.
Demurely she promised him maybe,
They could have tea,
Beneath the Oak tree,
And he began seeing her daily.
One week was all that it took,
And the squire was firmly hooked.
He lost lots of weight,
In one week of dates,
'Cause Sadie really knew how to cook.
Leather haberdashery, leather holster,
Blue steel, steady hands
Nerves controlled,
eye on the mark,
Squeeze, slow and steady,
Eruption and bullseye.
A toast.......
Of elegant swagger
From a "cocked" tail
On all four legs
With moves of
Fred Astaire, he graces
Your attention with
Haughty green eyes and a black satin jacket
Hi skits.......he scats
And Doobedee Ohblawda
Vanishes in a flash
Of "pitter-pat-pats"
Coooooool.........like a tall sip
Of high strung Ice Tea
On the hottest day.....
He jerks in and out like a plethora of air on water
And when night finally scratches
His bedpost after his catly capers
He disappears - incognito
To haberdashery bonnets
Stretched to a lopsided max
Like a misplaced wig
As a crown of honor at the top of his "Chosen's" head
Affixed..................like his namesake
He's one lofty cat..........
Top Hat
When you sort decades of electric cables from that box hidden away
It reminds of disentangling neurons haphazardly fired at random
It’s a beautiful day and you’re in it among sea saw and hammer
Hundreds of screws in the tool box and all you want is a single unbent nail
Somewhere hidden under plucky wall plugs and skewed rusty hinges
If life gives you lemons a power drill defeats convention
Nuts bananas and bolts mislaid in the fridge with washers and powder
Reveal the essence of an organized mind squished in the blender
Bedlam chaos fragmentation or glorious harmony
Synapses jumping like fleas on the mindful grey patched neuronal carpet
Heavily worn by August the Clown because a well led life is a circus
Knowledge pushed into action potentially in a meaningful way
Buttons in the haberdashery basket cased in creativity’s mad insanity
Knotted threads from life-long preservation of patchwork and passion
Enmeshed a few screws yet again and a bubble gum wrapper
And that hammer once more testing reflexes deflected patella and callus
A pendulum for more esoteric days and a Tarot card next to the cross
Saved for a rainy day of prayer and the coronation of dreams
After decade long quest a screw is still a screw whether loosened or nailed
The sander of unfinished living grinds on to an egg timer’s analogue fashion
And who an earth would prefer finding a rivet to crafting a poem
One possible morale of the story is that hardware plies softly myriads of magic
That in the wider scheme of things there are enough contraptions in the case
And once they start giggling and straying Pandora is happy
17th April 2019
Bruno enrolls in the tertiary
For a full program in Fishery.
Dad had judged his first course treachery
Or Bruno risking self trickery...
In their lusty town much revelry,
In which fish faces not rivalry:
Fish more than meat touched by cutlery,
Sometimes costing more than Jewelry!
So, Bruno vows "In the tertiary
It'll be none other than Fishery.
Thrice, Fishers charged at by cavalry,
Not by the knights of sworn chivalry;
Rather by The Dead to ribaldry:
The fish-starved in Haberdashery.