Best Mohair Poems
I remember you holding me in your arms
Rocking me gently while singing lullabies
I remember when you lived a short walk away
Relatives were local and get-togethers were the norm
I remember your amazing purple mohair sweater
You knit exquisitely and wore so gracefully
I remember your scented creams and signature ring
I never grew tired of holding your hand
And telling you how much I loved you
I remember watching in awe your bedtime routine
As you meticulously undid your braided coif
Dropping your soft wavy hair to your waist
I remember you never missed Sunday mass
And held on to that glow throughout the week
You knew about plants with their healing powers
Neighbors came to you for answers and advice
I remember how you would scrape savings for travel
Always working in visits to friends who had moved away
I remember the aroma of the pies you baked
After tireless hours of quilting, sewing, weaving
Embroidery, knitting, crocheting, and whatever else
I remember there was nothing you couldn’t do
You started tutoring me when I was three
And probably earlier as I was eager to learn
It was my favorite form of play
I remember hearing your schoolhouse stories
I’d picture a little house in a field and your teacher attire
Your turn-of-the-century class full of kids
Then I’d let you continue teaching me to read, write and count
Though I wasn’t yet of school age
I remember being uprooted and moving to the country
Leaving city life and you behind
I remember how good life was when I had you
To turn to for support and guidance
Or just for your warm bountiful embrace
I remember getting that gut wrenching feeling
That bitter call in the middle of the day
As I was told the crushing news
I would never again see, touch or hold you
How can I not remember
The inconsolable devastation that never dimmed
Published in my 24-page photo/anthology ~ALWAYS WITH ME~ 2020
AP: 1st place 2026, 1st place 2020
Submitted on September 26, 2017 for contest LOVE FOR MOVIE SCREEN sponsored by SILENT ONE - RANKED 2ND
Dreaming
Mohair goats to make yarn.
40 acres and a barn.
Trees, grass and flowers,
there is… nearly heaven here.
It is a place, we dream about.
I want to take you there.
We can ranch, and farm,
and there will be no alarm.
Just… peace and serenity.
Drive out all that is bad,
take in all that is good.
Give back all that we…
can spare!
The eagle’s nest, yet better still.
A place where only He…
has His WILL…!
God’s country, it is for me.
God’s country, it is for thee.
Come with me Cowboy,
under the star,
let’s begin a new life,
away…and a far…
Eagles Nest is a reference to a giant lot of ten acres on top of a mountain.
That is where the giant birds fly out from, each morning.
HONORABLE WINNER POEM
Allpoetry June 26
Contest Prompt: Tactile
_________________________
we watch red petals on velvet couch fall
pistils are blood cells raw opened
falling on white cushion watching
grey feathers from parrot fly satin
mohair filaments shy shiver wet
eating figs we tactile break juicy
stroking —
knifed you one loaf for eight
near and far you are my star
crazed or tranquil polishing brass
fingers tactile over my belly
sailing oceans with oil spills floating
ship hull slip waters feeling cold
stroking —
fish dying as gills ooze dna crawling
king then peasant or poet, know it
I feel skin tactile eating figs sticky
weaving words regretting regression
how you escape depths, visceral mate
Persephone presses for ocean peaches
stroking —
slippery scales tactile move slimy
sailors breaking bread on a blue deck
forefingers stroke thumb touching nerves
I watch enthralled tactile oysters slipping
shore with pink shrimp crawl urging
cell membranes stretch, waves rippling
stroking —
lick it
tactile
tender
__________________________
The old guard is having a gala at the Omni tonight
They are shooting off fireworks
And scaring the dogs
Cowing in the corner thinking only the worst could come of this
I am drinking whiskey with beer backs and playing my guitar
I wonder in amazement at what all this means?
For whom or what is this celebration?
A wedding perhaps…
I know not
It all seems so trivial
As I slip into the darkness of the bourbon
It will grow on me through the night
And strengthen my resolve to never give up
The morning will come and I won’t remember a damn thing
But tonight I am omnipotent. The world is my nut.
And I am strong in my resolve to make sure those rodents
At the yacht club are done in for once and for all.
They have their topsiders and khaki pants with blue blazers and brass buttons
All covered in vomit. Those momma’s boys pretend that their orphans till the train pulls in and things are getting very small.
I’ll march over there in my Sunday pants and a mohair vest and set them straight
And they will stand up and listen
The bastards
After what they did to my kid sister
They’ll listen
And then they will bow their heads and ask forgiveness
For what they scratch on the wall
And the words that come from their mouths is foul
And a stench rises up imprisoned by their conceit.
They will learn how to love and to forgive.
I will teach them the only way I know how.
Through hard love, tough love, my fathers love.
And then and only then can they celebrate the pitfalls of humanity.
For I am the Black King
And my dark wing will fold over them and help them to understand
That charity does not start at home
It starts with me.
I needed a friend because I was scared,
My curiosity compelled my decision,my choice.
To precariously balance on my tricycle,
To peer into the unknown,
The strange shaped glass covered
Gas meter.
I was almost able to peer,
Into the strange, yet fascinating
Object that hung on the brick,
Wall outside, in the backyard,
Of my childhood,
Home.
I don't remember exactly,
How my chin ended up,
Slammed against the glass,
Other than the wheels,
Slipped back, my head,
Forward.
My chin spilt open,
A gash,pain,blood,fear,
Shame, wondering why,
I didn't plan better to
Avoid such a dumb
Mistake.
So Mom and I, we walked,
Up to the corner to the
Bus stop, to ride the
Bus to the hospital,so
I could get my first,
Stitches.
I can't remember the pain,
Or the shot, or the room,
In the hospital, where my
Chin was sutured,but
I do remember you,
Teddy.
The gift shop had you,
Sitting on a shelf,
Waiting to be placed,
Into the arms of
A child, who needed
Comfort.
Thus began the friendship,
Of my brown-eyed,
Felt padded, mohair
Stuffed animal that,
I so carefully named,
Teddy.
Still today, I wonder,
Whenever I see a
Gas meter, placed outside
On a wall of a house,
What became of you, my
Teddy.
"Electric Boobs and Mohair Shoes"
Furry feet
slide across your
shiny floors
smiling cheshire teeth
incandescent
electric boobs and jets
there you sit
blown away... again,
kitty winked
a bachelor
forensically
degreed
brain open
not yet spent
(LadyLabyrinth/ 2020)
“Benny & the Jets”, Elton
https://youtu.be/V5zFpctrgjs
“It’s always the last poem…”
Anonymous
"Last call Minsky's...
Piano Bar, Freedom Keys..."
Anonymous
1. Cheshire Cat.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cheshire_Cat
2. Lewis Carroll
2a.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lewis_Carroll
2.b
https://www.smithsonianmag.com/arts-culture/lewis-carrolls-shifting-reputation-9432378/
3. Lorena Liddell
https://news.artnet.com/art-world/was-lewis-carroll-a-pedophile-his-photographs-suggest-so-237222
4. Alice Liddell
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alice_Liddell
5. Minskys Piano Bar.
6. Forensic.
7. Another Story. x 2, plural.
8. Orderly...Street. Lewis.
Soon after I'd paid
My sixty
Or seventy pence,
I found myself
In what I thought
Was a miniature London.
I saw girls
In chandelier earrings,
In stiletto heels,
Wearing evening
Dresses,
Which contrasted with
The bizarre
Hair colours
They favoured:
Jet black
Or bleach blonde,
With flashes of
Red, Purple
Or green.
Some wore large
Bow ties,
Others unceremoniously
Hanged
Their school ties
Round their
Necks.
Eye make-up
Was exaggerated.
The boys all had
Short hair,
Wore mohair sweaters,
Thin ties,
Baggy,
Peg-top trousers
And winklepicker shoes.
A band playing
Raw street rock
At a frantic speed
Came to a sudden,
Violent climax...
Melodic, rhythmic,
Highly dancable
Soul music
Was now beginning
To fill the hall,
With another group
Of short-haired youths...
Smoother, more elegant,
Less menacing
Than the previous ones.
These well-dressed
Street boys
Wore well-pressed pegs
Of red or blue...
They pirouetted
And posed...
Pirouetted and posed.
"Wicked Cahoots" and "The Woodville Hall Soul Boys" stem from stories written in the late 1970s; while they first saw the light of day in versified form in 2006.)
Promenading along Ashley Street,
wearing Jumbo Rollers covered with
pretty floral sheer scarfs,
chattering, giggling, being thirteen,
trying to pass for sixteen,
hoping the boys in their bat-winged cars
would wave and holler and make a big deal,
as soon as they caught our eyes,
we'd pretend to ignore them while our
shoulders pulled back, heads held high,
and our mohair sweatered chests protruding
for all the world to see.
If a car stopped our hearts skipped a beat,
we'd lose our composure and act very young,
running to the neighborhood soda shop
where we'd find "protection," someone's
older brother who was sipping Coke and eating
French fries with his date while the Jukebox
tunes were blasting, feet were tapping
and where Pinball Machines were ringing,
these were our soda shop memories of long ago.
A Steve Thing
More vague than unclear are each causes alibi.
I choke on sour taste as I maneuver to slide by.
Feelings bunch up, they crouch within my throat.
My tries to set them loose just causes a group float.
It’s smiles I want in greed’s own count of more.
Longings oft drown in contamination's pour
of severe thunder reared, heavily fake dank air ~~
ill aimed at my wants, soft dreaming atop mohair.
I want to make it complete,
just take this life and wrap it up,
tied all nice and neat.
BUT … my scissors edge is bland
and they shake in my hand;
… my paper is worn,
the golden edges torn;
plus, my tape won’t adhere
... oh …
say,
could I be in the wrong sphere?
So seamless an entity is he.
sleek before the crowd
bullet proof
tempered hard
steel
determination loud
Urban warrior
lean before the mass
tackle business
evenly
dodge before the crash
Suited armor
mohair gleam
woolen effigy
strained vessels
temples red
Imbibes with glee at noon
Not enough to win
the day
ore brethren in the clinch
they must lose
fall away
to rise another inch.
fat monkey's with beady little eyes
wander back and forth along the kitchens edges
licking their lips and hungrily kneading their hands
while i tend the pots and kettle
wearing my best low rent apparel
and listening to only the finest of garage grunge
its miami gardens in springtime
and all the pretty people are strutting the boardwalk
looking for backwater bargains at cheap motels
she is here with me in her barley there bikini
fashionably perfect in all the politically correct ways
its perpetual summer in miami gardens
all the sour hearts on the phone making travel arrangements
the snowbunnys are out in force this year
can't step one foot to a western wind with treading on some ugly mug
but they are oh so friendly
don't you want to cuddle up with some furry little monster
its wintertime in miami gardens
she strips down to her birthday suit
and the monkeys start getting itchy in
their mohair leisure suits
its hard to get comfortable in your own skin
in the land of picture perfect bodies on the sand
so lets all sit down to eat
share a meal and a mile of road
maybe we can find enough in common to keep out the cold
thinking about miami gardens in spring
mohair grips
as certainty slips
away beneath the covers
blanket
heavy as sleep
recedes
sinewed lovers
breath
escapes blush lips
sense
fingertips
hush
touch lingers
caressing
fingers
Pierre was a billionaire living in BelAir
A most successful concessionaire
Handsomely suave and debonair
Loved reading excerpts from Voltaire
Played for hours games of solitaire
His favourite lair was in a cozy wingback chair
Savouring his Earl Grey with chocolate éclair
Loved to travel just about anywhere
His wife accused him of having an affair
With a stewardess high in the air
Turned out it was she dating a commissionaire
Though every night she said a little prayer
She got caught with her derrière in midair
Quite unaware of her disheveled hair
And how deep she fell in her own snare
Totally no panache or an ounce of flair
She thought life to her had been unfair
Since Pierre’s money she’d not get a share
It would all be left to an heir
One whose loyalty did not compare
Pierre’s cuddly pet, his rare mohair bear
On this fine day I do declare
Liars and cheaters do beware
Play your games if you dare
But if I have my way I swear
You’ll only inherit your fair share of despair
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
We humans seem concerned that we must die
Yet complain we cannot sleep with shuttered eyes
Stay awake and let the mind roam free
Invent new recipes, enjoy some tea
Feel the peace of darkness and the bed
Tell off fishes swimming in your head
Get up and clean the kitchen of its grease
Check your records if you have a lease
Knit a mohair hat for winter time
Wash a scarf and hang it on the line
Change the printer ink before it dries
Volunteer to work for M I 5
Unwillingly admit we can’t control
The night and day, the journey and its goal
My Sunshine shines on my mohair suit, flickering explosions of perfect light
Heels a clicking causing small sparks on the cobbled streets.
Shirt and blazer so sharp and neat, a clean white cover on my scooter seat
A cufflink clinks on a cold wine glass, and I look at the refection in the glass.
A record cover lays around, with a target and a guitar sound
Heels and boots lay all around, white powders, pills its ultra sound!!
Parkas fitted over suits, weather shielded overtones
The road to Brighton glides downhill, Love reign on me!!!