Best Hankie Poems
Lace hankie tucked inside her jacket sleeve
Hard candy filled the tin beside Mom’s purse
Gray mournings, nature’s gifts for those who grieve
At times when it seems nothing could be worse
So many dresses filled her closet space
And most of them I’d sewn by hand for her
I folded them as memories gave chase
Recalling the fine fabrics Moms prefer
Her perfume bottle nearly stood half full
Its fragrance still brought thoughts of Mom to me
And when I packed her scarf of finest wool
A teardrop fell that only Dad could see
For as I stowed Mom’s things, my Dad looked on
He knew I’d pack again when he was gone
*January 3, 2020
Under his nose hung a big greenie.
The kids all thought he was a meanie.
He didn't have a hankie.
That's why he was so cranky.
Also, he had a hollow weenie.
Lying on my back,
the warm sun blanketing,
I watched the cloud stacks drift,
breezily blown across the bluest skies,
imagining, dreaming . . .
Dangling from my lips,
sweet honeysuckle straws dripped nectar candy,
delicious extract for flavoring dreams,
visions of the joys to come
when I was older grown,
reveries of life and love
and children of my own.
Beneath the apple tree,
in spring pink blossom carpeted,
I laid out the charming rooms
that framed a happy home.
The hollyhocks lent their blooms
for babies hankie-swaddled
and clothed in petal gowns of white and pink.
My flower-children, plump and fragrant skinned,
rocked in cradles strung between the branches,
were lulled to sleep with tender lullabies.
The happy days of childhood passed,
and I was suddenly grown
with tiny babies of my own,
sweeter far than any flower known.
The kisses that I gave to them
were answered, returned to me,
from lips like rose buds formed
perfumed with baby breaths, fragrant and warm.
The childhood dream that I held dear
I treasured year after year
until I found it realized,
reflected in my babies' eyes.
Copyright, August 16, 2015
Faye Lanham Gibson
What's a necktie
dangling for?
Too stiff, too thin
to be scarf, a bib
or an apron,
Too smooth to be
a hankie,
too short to be
a suicide noose
to contemplate on!
Written by Gail DeBole
Pink polka-dotted skin stretching body-wide.
Bulges interrupting other-wise peaceful areas.
Spots of lotion and cherry-flavored tongue
Comforting misery.
Across the room, stacked in safety;
Precious dollies that will be played with another day.
With forever smiles.
One last sniffle for the night.
A hankie is tossed into the glass that serves as a hoop.
Nostrils attempt to function, and a sudden cough
Shocks the precious dollies.
Their smiles remain.
Erstime, ere bards nor Wondering Joyceters
did glybb their gobs with glanjous tongue,
Sir Slip The Most (a Figleafmoistner)
was undangled…and his sling unslung.
‘Twas on the Ile de Deux Sans Mustard,
with her Fowlling Fopplott never wording,
that the hunkerflesh-fed Fowlsome Bustard,
marked best by dark, was ever curdling.
Sir Slip, slop-upped and grammar-morphing,
from moltensteam one dawnless dread,
swear-foring most and all ef-alling,
did clopp young Fopplott's furgeld head.
The Bustard drubbed Slip: 'Dumcummayler!
To flump the sweet lad's yearnsomeness!
Bludaddled knight! Brain-drained wassailler!'
(Sweet Fopplott mock-loomed nasalfless)
"Clogsfyberbucks!" Slip rudblud obscented,
'That nert, that frot, that wibeljankie,
swombodled, gobbed, or sexcremented
God don't know notwot, in me hankie.'
The discompuncted Bustard illglimned.
Then, ventforthing with a scroatful shout,
she snouted, all redblynd and goredimned,
to clip Sir Slip a gobfilt clowt.
Bowelwildered, and fear-smeared arear,
and awefulled of trans-plonker stretch,
Slip, leaping to escape his nadir,
unware… did bare….. his hunkerflesh….
Hencetime, though bards and Wondering Joyceters
do glybb their gobs with glanjous tongue,
durst ne'er no Sir nor Figleafmoistner,
no furgeld Fowlling to one bung.
What's your necktie dangling for?
Too stiff, too thin to be a scarf,
a bib or an apron;
too smooth to be a hankie,
too short to be a suicide noose
to contemplate on!
SEXY REXY wanted
JUST JOEY because she
loved his IRISH EYES.
Joey was not up to
HANKIE PANKIE because
he was THE CONSTANT
GARDENER. So,he asked
DAVID AUSTIN to forget
his roses and use his
ORANGES AND LEMONS
to give the LADY a
RAPSODY IN BLUE
beneath the BLUE MOON.
It worked!!
Ah had a aulder bruther whin ah wis wee,
ah wis five then an' he -wis nine yea see.
A tendid tae follow him aboot,
bit bein' aulder he widnae care a hoot.
Aw jings a remember wan day at school,
oot o' ma pocket ma hankie a bullyboy did pull.
Whit arrrr' yea cryin' fur? Ma brother Jack did say,
that big bullyboy pinched ma hankie whin ah wis at play.
Noo bein' aulder an' bigger he set aboot his bloke,
at furst the bloke thocht it wis a joke.
Bit no fur lang whin Jack grabbed this blokes wee wee parts,
the bully bloke screamed an' had an involuntary fart:)
Weel a gote ma hankie back an' it stoaped me fidgin',
as that bullyboy bloke walked away haudin' his Nether region"
Naw ma bruther wis no fond o' playin' wae me,
bit he wid a'ways protect me tae the Nth degree.
Whin a wis Nine an' ma bruther wis thirteen.
Jack wis a'ways oot an' never tae be seen,
Wan day ma faither came hame frae his workin' day.
"Alex" he shouted oot the windae , cum in this minit frae play.
Jings, crivens he wis in a blidy angry mood,
a wid hiv ran a mile if a possibly could.
Did you burn aw those window curtains doon?
a looked up at the windae an' blidy swooned.
The curtains wir hingin' wae a wee bit charcoaly thread,
oh crivens a wished as wis blidy dead,
No me faither, naw it wisnae me,
jist then, at that moment, ah hid an' involuntary pee.
The door opened an' Jack came in,
his face white as if he had done a terrible sin.
Sorry faither it wisnae Alex that done this horrible deed,
oh so sorry faither I wis stupid, Jack did 'onestly plead.
It wis me as ah flicked a lighted match,
oan blidy fire those curtains did catch.
Aw a kid dae wis tae pull them doon oan the flair,
an' smuther the flames wae the back o' that there chair.
Noo , faither dinae explode,--- at aw,
even efter aw whit he had saw.
Faither said. Twa things saved yea Jack ma lad,
an' fur those twa things you should be glad.
First wan, yea admitted yer firey crime,
saved yer wee bruther frae a hell o' a time.
Second wan wis yer presence o' mind,
actin' sae quickly whin yea were in a terrible bind.
So ma lad, thank you for being so quick an' true,
no punishment but a reward for you is due.
Sadly for me noo baith have gone,
but niver have lights so brightly shone:)
The Auld Yin.
Chubby cream grubby against white ice
Hungry somewhat clumsy polar bear heist
Hopefully loping over to an asylum of seals
Tusked beasts bound to become tasty meals
Damp nose oscillates, catch tongue anticipates
Hook claws extend, jagging his cumbersome gait
Ungainly angle rotates blundering bear ballerina
Jaws roar frustrated, mishap sadly signals dinner
Jolly bodied, barrel stocky well insulated brood
Swivel protruding chests to avoid being food
Fear pulls polar threat away, phew! - Relax
Pack pacify, raft drifts after cold cracks
Snowy blows his nose with hankie huge paws
Lucky that chubby has arms strong as oars
Iceberg dips, whiskers twitch while wishing
Imminent swim success - in frigid fishing
8th March 2023
Written for Contest: Cracked
Sponsor: Anthony Biaanco
The posh Tart.
She, an old fashioned girl, when walking past me
dropped her handkerchief, gallantly I picked it up.
and hand it to her, it was scented and had enticing
aroma of womanhood. Said her price and my face
fell into the street where it was dragged along by
a cleaning car. She didn´t look that way- short skirt
beret and red handbag-. Said she only picked up
gentlemen, I was going home from a literary party
consisting of pork pie, hot air and warm red wine.
I walked into a bar, had a double whisky thought
about what she had said… calling me a gentleman.
From the inside of the bar I saw her drop her silk
hankie again, like bait, this time she caught a fish
and off they went to make posh love, I marveled
over my everlasting naivety and wondered if she
called him a gentleman too.
what's a necktie dangling for?
too stiff, too thin to be a scarf,
a bib, or an apron,
too smooth to be a hankie,
too short to be a suicide noose
to contemplate on;
psychologists say it's a boy
scouts knot-tying hang-up
and status symbol,
but to folks doing laundry,
it's just a collar-tightener,
pure and simple;
designers say it's a grooming
enhancer used to express
a fashion statement,
but to butchers, it's an appendix
for which they harbor no
kind sentiment;
though unschooled in sartorial
elegance, viewing the necktie
as just a dangling thing,
a butcher like me secretly longs for
a chance to wear one and look
like a boardroom king.
Muscle-bound goons. The kind that rape the world. Self-satisfied, in no hurry to devote their remarkable faculties to understanding another’s mind. Such wise men. Stares as blank as summer nights, red and black, tricolored, golden star-stung steel: twisted features, leaden, pale, inflamed; hoarse guffaws. A grim onslaught of pretense. To hear what these kids would say about Cherubino in their rough voices and violent ways. They’re heading to town to get it from behind, all decked out in sickening luxury.
A violent Paradise of runaway sneers! But no match for your Fakirs and hackneyed theatrics. In costumes sewn together with all the taste of a nightmare, they strut through assorted laments, tragedies filled with all every brigand and demigod missing from religion and history. Chinese, Hottentots, bohemians, fools, hyenas, Molochs, ancient lunacies, sinister demons—they slip savage slaps and tickles into your mother’s old chestnuts. A little avant-garde here, some three-hankie stuff there. Master jugglers who use riveting comedy to transform players and scenes. Eyes ignite, blood sings, bones stretch, tears and red rivulets run. Their clowning can last minutes, or months.
Only I have the key to this savage sideshow.
:: 07.31.2022 ::
Mixing two things will create
Something new that's really great
Yellow and blue will make green
And an outside pretty scene
Purple comes from red and blue
Growing violets==rare and new
Pink is made from red and white
Lace is a soft pretty sight
Two more things can mix together
Two lonely hearts bound forever
In one happy and sweet place
There's never a single trace
Of pain anywhere or time
Two hearts with a long love line
Formed by mixing two great things
Wedding vows and golden rings
A warm outsides serene and quiet
Hair decorated by nice violets
Pink lace all along a dress
Matching hankie in his vest
No scene could be quite as nice
Than two hearts joining for life
Outside the sanctum, clenched teeth, tension,
a sense of being spun slowly, in comical ocean drift
Bobbed cork barely able to rein my orientation.
Luckily, current flux of haphazard happening flapped
a variable vantage.
Blown as though by silk hankie butterfly blessing
launched under lead light detail dragonfly wing
Inside the sluice.
tender seagrass arms greet me, surprise caressed
Silky entry to a tepid tub, a calm community
of smug inner sanctum club members, afloat.
Blind to bedlam, their faces automatically accepting
Smarmy, aloof, knowing the code
Clicked into correct holding pattern
Galvanized now among the longed for,
unlocked passage
Boasts a right angled me, porthole refuge
Catatonic sanctum immune to struggle
Bay of steady abundance
Top step mission for admission somehow granted mine
Spotlight shon on my cloned social demeanor,
Meticulously honed modesty of highbrow gallery.
24th February
Written for Contest: Gateway
Sponsor: Constance La France