Best Lapels Poems
Color Coquelicot
Blazing Coquelicot
paints famed Flanders Field Poppies
on battle-scarred land.
Honored too on coat lapels...
war symbol of remembrance.
Sandra M. Haight
~NA~
Premiere Contest: Kim's Color Splash
Sponsor: Kim Rodrigues
Judged: 07/14/2017
Rules: Write a Tanka or other brief poem using an unusual color choice along with a flower, plant, or tree
Coquelicot, (coque·li·cot) originally another word for Poppy,
and is the flower's orange tinted red color.
Listen to pronunciation here:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D5nR1X-QT1Y
In the spring of 1915, shortly after losing a friend in Ypres, a Canadian doctor, Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae was inspired by the sight of poppies growing in war-torn fields to write a now famous poem called 'In Flanders Fields'. After the First World War, the poppy was adopted as a symbol of Remembrance.
I stood before the mirror, one last check,
a quick inspection, then head off to town,
silver kipper tie around the neck,
shirt of green, sports jacket of light brown.
Platform shoes on, I boogie down the street,
a first date to look forward to that night,
flared pants flapped in the breeze around my feet,
and my jacket lapels both jinked like kites.
I patted my breast pocket to make sure
my cheque book was inside there, just in case
the night I had in mind costed more
and ended up leaving me sat red faced.
She met me outside Ramsdens, half past eight,
I kissed her cheek and said how good she looked,
went in the bar, got drinks for the short wait,
eight forty-five I had our table booked.
Melon boat for a starter, prawn cocktail,
then chicken in a basket with some fries,
two ice cream sundaes, wafers stood like sails,
we ate and gazed into each other's eyes.
Once the Mateus Rose wine was downed
the waiter swiftly took our plates away,
I paid the bill, got change from twenty pounds,
the chequebook lived to fight another day.
I saw her on the bus, a brief embrace,
a kiss, for one second did our lips meld,
she smiled goodbye, I tried to read her face,
her eyes gave no clue what the future held.
Though forty years have passed since that one date,
my mind still recalls every detail now,
I was told she'd someone else by my best mate,
I pause and still remember her.
The cow.
22nd February 2018
For contest 'where were you in the 70's ', sponsor Line Gauthier.
With the dawning of every new day
Comes the chance for my mood to change
It's really no secret how this I do
As I don the apparel of my Ice Cream Suit
On the few days that I'm feeling bland
I take the Vanilla Bean right off of the stand
And the Mint Chocolate Chip I yank off the hanger
To cool down a bit as I battle with anger
If you're looking for a hint of the truth
I know about me but not sure about you
There's no telling what I might do
Without the favorable array of My Ice Cream Suit
There's the chocolate for my darkened moods
With the fudge lapels that helps me brood
And the Neapolitan of brown, pink, and white
In my daily struggles to make up my mind
There's even a suit in Pistachio
When I'm in the mood to let it all go
If you're ever wondering at the mood I am in
Just check out the suit that day I'm wearing...
THESE BUTTERFLY KISSES
I cannot tell what happened
But I heard somebody telling me:
“They vanished in thin air”
“My butterfly kisses are broken wings”
“I know no butterfly kisses”
Yes! They told me like this:
I am Petal from rosebud secondary,
I know butterfly kisses that whispers to my lapels
Drawling how irresistible My fragrance is,
Realizing not I am being carried away to permanent bunk,
Not reasoning. My reasons are these beautiful sterling waggish wings.
These are severe hands and clubs against flesh,
Designers tyre; attires to pregnant bellies.
This was illusion to knack and knackers.
“please give me a paper and the pen so
I can write about My life of sin”
Dear Lillies :
These butterfly kisses ain’t loyal.
By: Nosipho Madywabe
Pen Name: Nosipho bleeding ink
Its like being nicked
or narked,
Being triggered to spark!
Being filtered out of your mixes that pair well with high speed art,
if visions of passion release your greatest remarks-
how come your *****es aren't snitches in places that are dark?
Its because the new future has had a start,
20 years ago, but who's counting,
are you a happy old fart?
So where to be nested or invested or even confessed to?
At the bar! ?
GO AND GET NEXT TO YOU!
Send out the best to be viewed!
Treat the bets well,
'cause you're already in a sweaty smell,
they have necked into your vest and stretched out the lapels.
But winged birds are pests don't you know...
Don't be a germ, just do your best -or got to hell.
Flagrantly you've made your bed, and had all the time in this world...
Go be a girl!
Cause men's jobs don't need your opinionated help.
With paper blooms of vibrant red,
recalling battles and their dead.
A moment’s silence, deep in thought
of young lives taken as they fought;
of blood and innocence still shed.
From Flanders fields the poppies spread,
on black lapels they grow instead.
Remembrance, love and hope are sought
with paper blooms.
Eleven chimes; with lowered head
sincere, unspoken prayers are said,
let those lives lost be not for naught,
please heed the lessons that we’re taught,
and pave a peaceful world ahead
with paper blooms.
A Better Bridge, Or Wall
I can read the future like a book
The pages flip before I’m wise
It’s over before a second look
The ending came as no surprise
And all the love I gave, was took
Like the yarn they spun from the wool on my eyes
Hating the victim like he was the crook
Weaving a truth from obvious lies
I should’ve seen that your heart is a pendant
And my lapels have been bare of late
On whos shining are you now dependant?
My shoulders bruised by the lead suit of fate
I wear the wounds, and swear the blooms
Underneath my skin will wait
So now I labor all alone
Injuries and all
Experience, blemishes I hone
To build a better bridge, or wall
There are many uses for a stone
They could fly, but much better to fall
An exaggerated style, the zoot suit
was a statement in clothes.
Yet it fell into ill repute,
history shows.
Outlandishly flamboyant and distinct:
comedy was its roots.
Clothes came from the Harlem precinct:
called culture suits.
With their wide lapels and baggy trousers:
they were ostentatious.
And favored by rabble-rousers;
loose and spacious.
Worn by African-American youth
and poor Mexican teens.
They looked rebellious and uncouth;
much more than jeans.
Oft accessorized with a gold key chain:
and a fedora hat.
Frisco sailors showed their disdain;
armed with a bat.
More about color than flashy fashion:
racial riots broke out.
All those beat without compassion:
left little doubt.
Important to note this the ACT of dawning in Spanish (know of no English equivalent)
Cape Hatteras
Joe the Moustache
wiping the suds
& plays a black trombone while she
(Joe has taken a player piano
and nickelodean
from his lapels)
hurling now a nylon
and suddenly
slipped out of it all;
Joe throws her a blue and giraffe skin
She blows a kiss
and lifting a thigh
smiles and is gone
Joe into a head
blows himself
away.
Laying in the morning twilight, yawning, my head nods down and I jerk it up again,
The barbed wire faintly twitches, someone has touched it, will it be a friend or foe,
Shadows float across a near dark landscape then fade away into nothing, an early start,
Machine guns begin rip the earth, and rips the last turf, then rips all the shadows away.
I've had enough and more, I have stopped talking to anyone, I just cannot be bothered,
The daylight makes me angry and people talk to me, I just stare way over their heads,
Some think me strange I don't bloody care, just leave me alone, get on with your day,
Don't comfort me, keep away, let me fight my own darkened demons in my confused mind.
Sudden sharp cracking noises and an odour, a stench of gunpowder, a sour smell of bitter death,
Head pointing directly forwards having no eye contact with anybody, just in case they want to talk,
I sit on mud soaked ground and someone shouts something at me so loudly and I just ignore him,
An N.C.O. running, splashes his way towards me, shouting, swearing and screaming I take no notice.
He pulls me up off the wet ground shouting abuse, why? but I can no longer understand him,
He lets go of my soaked lapels and I sink back down to where I was, his face an angry red,
I hear the word insubordination and that makes me laugh wildly out loud, it makes me stand up,
Then I decide to climb the ladder and walk onto 'no mans land', again the barbed wire faintly twitches.
Wounds Into Scars
by Odin Roark
It takes not a wise man to know
What we resist
Will persist
So goes the healing process
Just as a tree
With its heart and initial carvings
Carries its scars with little notice
So too might we carry our own
Those verbal
Physical
Spiritual
Lacerations
Often a suffering performance
As if they were for public view
The small child knows early
“Kiss the booboo”
And mothers are quick to reinforce
The child’s need
But as we grow
We forget the essence of a mother’s care
The mother’s empowering way
To repair with love
Instead
Many wear pain and sorrow on their lapels
Trusting a confused society
Often glorifying pain
Placing many an open wound
Before audience-sympathy
Unknowingly substituting exploitation
For the teachings of maternal empathy
How wanting one’s instincts can become
Innate reaction to hurt
Once serviced by natural response
Too often succumbs to ego pampering
Rather than seeking the axiom therein
That place where accepting the hurt
Seduces pain into questioning
Bringing to bear
The precarious courage
To learn the lesson
Of self-love’s curative
Might it be
Like mother nature’s engraved trees
At any age affliction reminds us
Growing is still the purpose
Injuries and scars inevitable
Like the tree
Perhaps it’s really a question
Of how we absorb
And treat ourselves
From within
Do not buy a new hat for my funeral.
Fill up your gas tank.
Donate that money to charity.
Instead of the, blue and white polka dot "fascinator"
with the black veil?
Get your hair done.
Or those leopard print nails
you saw in that magazine.
Do not buy a new hat for my funeral.
As I am the guest of honor, so to speak?
I insist upon it.
I'll ask you not to lay me to "rest",
in that elaborate casket
with the plush golden satin pillows.
I'm sure "rest" is a disposable sentiment
under these circumstances.
Do not buy a new hat for my funeral.
I'll skip the printing of my name on the side of the casket door.
It leads me to believe people are mingling in the afterlife with,
"Hi my is..." stickers pinned to their lapels.
Thunderous palpitations upon benign sedaments,
Miscreants vindicate with justice of six cents.
A vociferous tyrannosaurus bursts sickly
Sanitized wives and rodents scurry very
Sedately towards dainty cliffs and heights
Of unforeseeable depths-withered sights.
A Persian rug is spread across garnered grounds
Before touring gypsies which please sound.
Great stories gather precariously on the head
Of a pen sent from hapless flutters in bed-
Sensations traverse a thing called a universe,
Discoursing various travesties as a nurse.
In gambits trained by substantial lapels
And triumphant whores who cast spells
Of priority towards declining propellers.
But, you're right, titanically proportioned cells.
Dwelling in tumultuous storms just to feel,
To melt the ashes of memories, means to heal.
Neglect the skeptic who's late for dinner
Skinning prunes and my meat suit's a winner.
Standard debasement sits beside youth
Stinking of stale sex and sweat of a sleuth
In the waiting room planning substantial
Equations translating to aliens:
We're still here...
Seventeenth of March is Saint Patrick’s Day
Great day for the Irish I can honestly say
All over the world they’ll wear the green
Drink some stout and a glass of poteen
There will be parades up and down the land
With marchers walking behind the band
On lapels they’ll wear a sprig of green
Outrageous hats so that they are seen
You don’t have to be Irish to join in the fun
The St Patrick’s parades are for everyone
Some travel from near and some from afar
By plane, boat, train and motor car
If you’ve never been, go on enjoy the craic
You will enjoy it for sure and next year, go back
But it’s still March, might rain and be cold
Look out for a rainbow, you might find the gold
Many will be late going off to their bed
The next morning they might have a fuzzy head
But it’s only once a year so do have a ball
And a Happy St Patrick’s Day to one and all.
Stirring with they’re spoons wishing;
Perhaps anticipation has them twitching
And bad bears are they’re always itching;
For those salmon eggs they’re fishing.
Have they showed a ticket going nowhere?
And are sublime of thought and often without care;
And have you ever heard them swear
That it wasn’t them they wouldn’t dare
And when a writer pens a sonnet;
And leaves it there for comment;
Do the ladies all wear bonnets?
And men’s lapels do they have flowers on it
And the jokester as he chuckles;
At those whose thumbs they’ve suckled
Big laughter bangs its knuckles
And the fat men they lose their buckles
But there is no need to worry;
And you needn’t bother to get bogged;
Just simply grab a tumbler;
And fill it full with grog.