Best Handkerchiefs Poems
Blades of grass, wet under foot, insect eyes
Dusk, offset by the cricket orchestra
Muted and receding into the trees and bushes,
Tickled by the wind, rattling snake tail wind
While we may be in the company of wolves,
A long legged friend is late for the party
Eyes, little iridescent stars
Attending to each one, and look there,
There she is, making the most beautiful geometry
Parallels within the octagons, pulling silks
An arm for every task, little perpetual motion machine
Is that the Queen of the Night under the rusted iron?
A forlorn lady, black patent leather, kill a man, maybe two
With her danger red symmetry, oozing with youth
And a penchant for paralysis, no one can resist her wine
Then there's the hall of cob webs, threadbare handkerchiefs
Left by ladies who exhausted all of their company
To be a spectacle under the moon, in the wood pile
Dressed up in the finest furs, all earth tones
Stepping out to introduce themselves in girlish droves
Venus of another sort, these little cursed jezebels
Hovering on the skin of the water, or on the red brick wall
Must frequent every happy corner, and slip away at a moment's notice
A real lady always knows when to say goodnight
Such graceful exits through cement cracks
Back to the parlor, to glow in the dark
And they become spiders again
On days of childhood past
and long faded into memory,
sisters played beneath a smiling sun
in shadowed rooms of bending willows.
Dainty handkerchiefs swaddled
our Rose of Sharon infants
to keep the newborns warm;
honeysuckle spread sweet fragrance
scenting the summer playhouse
while birds trilled lullabies of joy.
Clover chains hung as garlands
to decorate our home
and snowball bushes' spread
perfumed blossoms carpeting the floors.
Simple pleasures of a simple life
we seem to have discarded
in favor of a busier, artificial plastic world
where flowers bud stale fabric blooms
on bending wires.
The evensong of the whip-poor-will is no more.
I would go back if I could harvest
the pureness of those happy hours,
distilling a rare elixir,
a medicine for our ailing times.
Copyright, November 25, 2014
Faye Lanham Gibson
IT TAKES TIME TO SEE THE LIGHT
Death is best taught in the dark
Fetching sticks, setting sparks
Its bag of tricks: sickness and hope
A black curtain vanishes
The magician leaves you with a moonless night
A lonely night without stars
And you work to locate those sparkling crystals
And place them one at a time back in the sky
But tears fall like glass, resetting the progress
You need to accept the inevitable
But no one can do the Impossible
So cling to the possible
Surround yourself with an armloads of friends
Let them take turns dabbing your mascara
As their handkerchiefs turn from white to black
One day you’ll find the moon back in its place
You will wonder how long you missed it
1st Place
4/7/2017
DIDACTIC FORM
There’s an empty space at the table
I have a ready meal for one
It’s the first year without you
I can’t prepare a meal
Now I’m on my own
I’m grief stricken
Sweet angel
I miss
You.
This
Christmas
I’m alone.
My family
Live so far away
They sent me some presents
But they remain un-opened
There’s bound to be white handkerchiefs …
They’ll be useful to mop up my tears.
Checked with how many syllables - 45 per stanza
It’s Christmas Time Again Contest
Sponsored by Broken Wings
11-28-17
Whispers of Autumn
Whispers of Autumn
Autumn wakes to an umber jubilee
In the splendor of scarlet reveries ~
When she shakes free these her golden tresses.
Now Autumn whispers an amber sonnet
In summered fields, for fading bluebonnets ~
Love poems float above forest undress.
Summer's ephemeral breath turns cold
In the oncoming blush of autumn gold ~
Frosty zephyrs pass with a silk caress.
Honeyed harvest of falling crimson leaves
Fill winding paths like golden handkerchiefs ~
Rhythms and rhymes of silver sighs that bless.
Sung sonnet gathers notes from spinning leaves
Portrait of spring in autumnal reprieve.
New city street
With the wink of an eye
and a shuffle of feet
We wandered about
down a new city street
Where vendors wore blue
with a tangerine sash
In hopes to look good
with no chance it would clash
Their carts were adorned
with ribbons and beads
And funny designs
made of cantaloupe seeds
They hollered and bellowed
and beckoned us near
And when we did stop,
they let out a loud cheer
They offered us products
like peanuts with cheese
And daffodil handkerchiefs
in case we sneeze
Belts made of feathers
with buckles in red
And weird little cones
you could wear on your head
We bid and we haggled
but always were nice
To get a good deal
and a much better price
The street lined with houses,
most two stories high
With windows like shamrocks
reflecting the sky
The balconies all featured
ribbons and bows
That hung from the railings
such colorful throws
Where women were calling
to neighbors across
For clothes pins and hampers
they hoped they would toss
They spoke in a language
so funny to hear
For what they were saying
was not always clear
The men were all mending
and tending the place
Their hats cockled sideways,
a grin on their face
The knees of their jeans
were all covered in patches
While they polished the brass
on the handles and latches
It seems they were singing
an old fashioned song
We tried to join in
as we walked right along
We laughed and we giggled
so much fun was had
But we had to leave
and that made us both sad
So we promised each other
that we both would meet
Again very soon
on this new city street
In endless quest we sought seclusions peace
hiding in the mystery of a strength always thought weak
and so denied the hero the still of death’s parade
waved surrender’s handkerchiefs to fill his empty grave
relied upon the charity of victory’s feeble thrill
struggling to rise above fresh bloodied horror’s sound.
Relentlessly the ears decry the loneliness of empty sound
as furtive eyes no future seek in fear of war, in fear of peace,
the agony of their disgrace, the joy of living without thrill
they know they’re strong, they know they’re weak
for somehow evading battles grave
to march in fiction’s harsh parade.
Solemnly on hush of wind, wars ghosts, in shadow on parade
march to history’s retold lies, leave no footprints, make no sound
for they will not resign their fate to earthen shell of shallow grave
nor will they let it slip behind the fragile wall of unearned peace
returning to a world in which we are perceived as weak
malign them with contrived disdain, condemn their sacrifice as thrill.
Podiums will hail the cause, cheering crowds create a thrill,
rolling drums will precede taps, politicians will parade,
orators with fiery words that make us neither strong nor weak
echoing across dead ears jaundiced by the painful sound
of promises that never are the troubadours of peace
and fall, as soldiers fall, alone upon a grave.
Newsmen mumble, double talk, of situations grave
amusement parks entice us with a death defying thrill
fire crackers, waving flags, noise to celebrate a peace
heads will bow when passing by war’s endless parade
the young will even shed a tear at taps lamenting sound
grit their teeth and know that honor’s tears don’t make us weak.
For freedom is the resting place for the bravest of the weak
who stand in freedom’s honor when the threat is grave
and rally to defend her, to keep her promise sound
not seeking to be heroes, nor the deception of war’s thrill
just honoring the memory of those still on parade
knowing there’s no solace in seclusions peace.
At heart we know that all are weak, that war is not a thrill
that those who fill the graves are shadow soldiers on parade
that the melancholy trumpet sound is the exhaled breath of peace.
John G. Lawless
©6/19/2014
Even after the rice was thrown and the streets picked cleaned
A lonely squirrel searched for his share of the bounty
The widows had put their handkerchiefs in their purses
Tears of joy dried and our dance began
Holding you close and the band played our favorite song
Under the brilliant sun
Our lives begun
Those names always hurt you
Lived our perfect life in our perfect world and the dream
Your love grew and mine diminished
Those imperfections clouded with fear waited patiently
The skeletons in our closet opened for us to see
I did try to hold you close with nurture and warmth
Under the brilliant sun
Our lives begun
Those names will always hurt you
Our marriage ended with mistakes both made, and no one wanted change
We learned things ended because they were wearing out.
Our love grew thin from the washing and pounding on the rocks
We sewed and patched each garments and forgot that magnificent love
And accusations poked around each corner and grew frayed
Under the brilliant sun
Our lives had run
Did my best to desert you
The Paparazzi took pictures and were posted on the front page
Our vowels came apart and drifted on the ocean
And those waters were uncharted , and we shipwrecked
Natives parade our feelings on truncheons but still I lagged
Gave it one final effort and valiantly I yielded
Under the brilliant sun
Our lives had turned
New names that couldn't hurt you
P.S. I have work to do but this is a start
The longing grew up on the handkerchiefs of my passion,
And all Songs of love spells
are not but a sail
Fighting the billows of my beautiful concerns.
From the wind I light the poem bleeding up,
And the time remains
Pitchers from wich I pour
The nectar of the words .
THE GRIEVANCE OF DEATH
It comes unannounced
With caloric and musty sour
Calls from far and near
Under unnumerous Canopies
Behold the upper chambers
Swimming and bleeding
In white wet handkerchiefs
In saucer-eyed voice, They yell
Grievance of death
The mantle of Loneliness
Thou smeareth silence
Death is smooth and rough
But the grieve is
But a rancid bitterness
Death lights the woolly candle
She stirs in kleptomaniac toes
Trading upon domestic desert
The grievance of death
Wallows the mind in miry statute
The grievance of death
Summons ancient easy chairs
With their C headed walking stick
The red-cup headed chieftaincies
Floating in tears in their chieftainship
Death with the axe headed pestle
Trading upon domestic desert
Encroaching like a lion in the jungle
With her mighty sword
We have no choice
No reason but to join
Hence we can't say no
Children journeying in nursery rhymes
Black wrappers in their veiled heads
Weeping in tepid ogles
Death with thy barrel
To good ones
While the evil lives longer
The grievance of death
Thou shall die
When death shall die
(By Opurum Precious odiboy: Nigeria)
Copyright © odiboy 27/07/2016
There once was a man who took issue
With using his sleeve as a tissue
Handkerchiefs hadn't any
And head colds too many
Could not blow his schnoz if he wished to!
Oh do you dream of England,
when Spring is in the air?
The hum of bees on gentle breeze
is all that you will hear,
except for farmers, turning hay,
in meadows far and near;
their spotted, knotted handkerchiefs
tied over thinning hair.
With grass that's green, this rural scene,
broad skies, a blue veneer
and little children on a swing,
their laughter ringing clear.
Perhaps some croquet on a lawn,
or gentle, grazing deer.
Such lazy, hazy, daisey days
and tranquil atmosphere.
Alas! I live in England,
when Spring is in the air.
High winds will lash our Garden Fete
and blow down all the gear;
with poor bedraggled villagers,
from under brollies peer,
to find the Verger's spiked the Cup
with Continental beer!
The rain will cancel Parent's' Day
just like it did last year
and cricketers, in wellie boots,
prod wickets in despair.
For all our hopes and dreams, hard work,
I shed this bitter tear.
There has to be a finer place
and VERY far from here!
~
'SPRING' Contest for Carol Brown
Come home from work
See my girlfriend crying
She can’t get on face book
And whole day she trying
Well I try to fix the computer
To get she on the internet
The girl cries so much
Two handkerchiefs soaking wet
What’s up with face book?
Sending this girl crazy
Chatting with Amanda whole day
And now she gets so lazy
So I call her mother
To complain bout she daughter
She said she call back later
Julie on the computer
So went to her father
And said she don’t cook no more
She on face book since morning
Till I come home at four
He call me out side
He hiding from his wife
He said leave face book alone
That is part of them women’s life
The stove not light for the day
All it has is bread and cheese
She says darling I’m hungry
Go order some Chinese
This face book and women
Is a bad combination
It causing problems in homes
All across the nation
A woman updating she profile
From almost all about
When she quarrel with her husband
She leaving that part out
hannah taking out pix for face book
She runs out of lipstick
She takes two buses and a taxi
Telling the driver to do quick
So I call president Obama
Tell him face book causing hell
He said boy shut your mouth
He wants no problem from Michelle
Now face book is OK
To meet family old and new
But do people have to post
Every little thing they do
A man post he on vacation
On the beach in Tobago
While he home in couva
But nobody don’t know
I try to organize some friends
To protest against face book
When I gone them on the computer
These men already hook
So I have to stay quiet
Because my girlfriend very sweet
I pick up the phone and said
Darling what you want to eat
"*******" and pork pie hats
white shirts, black ties
sweat stains under their arms,
even wetter, the pressed handkerchiefs that wipe faces and necks.
Father Abraham looks down upon his children
and sees the words "I am a man" over and over again.
It is hot, and white girls with beehives and Peter Pan collars
cool their heels in the reflecting pool. Images of a monument to a slaveowner look up at them.
Somewhere a song plays
on a transistor:
"I Can't Stay Mad at You"
shoo-bee-doo-bee-doo wop.
A dream is young at 50 -- compared to the kingdoms of Europe, that wall in China.
A dream at 50 won't die. Even now, it haunts the sleepless, promising a new birth of freedom -- to let men grow old together, hand in hand,
to let immigrants walk the hot streets of Arizona, work their lawn service jobs
and not fear being sent away.
Today, in the global freedom capital, tourists stroll clipped lawns and snap pictures of order and majesty, of white, doric columns, Greek temples.
They email the images back to starved souls in Odessa and Beijing.
That Skeeter Davis song still plays. You can hear it in the molecules of the air, the bits of history that have attached themselves to His marble feet, refusing to evaporate.
The wind carries a tiny echo about a dream and freedom
and America living up to its promise.
The hope of the world?
History is sticky, heavy ... like the sultry air of summer.
It won't go;
It lives.
It makes our hearts heavy
and haunts our minds.
The blue hour takes root ...
There is the dark wing of the steamer,
Which takes the open sea, and carries away its regrets,
Tiny passengers, waving handkerchiefs
And the seagulls passing and passing again.
Heavy rusty chains, in heaps on the edge of the quay,
Puddles where the clouds pass,
In which dead leaves are diluting.
The evening is maritime,
The sun is still clinging to the cranes of the harbor,
Which seem aimless,
And on the summit of the trees.
The freshness already slips on its silver soles,
And it remains a few moments, on the water
The wake of dreams.
It doesn't wait to dilutes itself in oblivion.
The boat came out of my field of vision,
Perhaps a point, hidden behind the buildings of the mole.
The wind knocks at my window.
A bus goes up the avenue, almost empty.
The silver stone of the moon rises from the horizon.
The muses escaped.
The blue hour takes root,
I put a disc
And from the piano, Chopin chords.
These are the "Nocturnes".
They soon overtake the reddish mists:
Ultimate bursts of a day that goes out.
---
( translated from french )
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original text:
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L'heure bleue prend racine...
Il y a l'aileron sombre du paquebot,
qui prend le large, et emporte ses regrets,
des passagers minuscules, agitant des mouchoirs
et les mouettes qui passent et repassent .
De lourdes chaînes rouillées, en tas sur le bord du quai,
des flaques où passent les nuages,
dans lesquelles se diluent des feuilles mortes .
Le soir est maritime,
le soleil s'accroche encore sur les grues du port,
qui semblent désoeuvrées,
et sur la cîme des arbres.
La fraîcheur glisse déjà sur ses semelles d'argent,
et il reste quelques instants, sur l'eau
le sillage des songes.
Il ne tarde pas à se diluer dans l'oubli.
Le bateau est sorti de mon champ de vision,
peut-être un point, caché derrière les bâtiments du môle.
Le vent frappe à ma fenêtre.
Un autobus remonte l'avenue, presque vide .
La pierre argentée de la lune monte de l'horizon.
Les muses se sont échappées.
L'heure bleue prend racine,
je mets un disque
et du piano, s'égrènent les accords de Chopin.
Ce sont les « Nocturnes ».
Ils devancent de peu les brumes rousses :
ultimes sursauts d'un jour qui s'éteint.
RC