Best Muslin Poems
Tremble at this door child but do not come in yelled the Quent
she an ogress at the end of her wits wearing muslin and flint
was only looking for a King who could love her as she was
When the angry boombox voice gave her quivering she went
away, hunching her shoulders she glided away her ogre scent
A little latch opened a flash of blue a slant of eye then he re spoke
"do you clean Kingdoms and can you cook, for a jaunty bloke?"
"oh for the love of God" she cried, I got teacups bigger than this place
yes I can wipe your palace, dust your crocket, just don't look at my face
and so he let her into the Kingdom of JUA, and so began their chase
A little fairy magic in the soup was all he needed as he ate in one gulp
contented as a Mishka, he cried out, " my your skin is soft as pulp! "
From an Ogress to a Tigress, down she went like a pile of timber
while he headlong without haste planted a kiss so soft and limber
that it opened her heart, henceforth they lived happily ever after .
The End.
December 24, 2020
All in Good Time
Sara L Russell, 28/2/14, 00:30
Given time
the inner eye of memory sees with softer reverie,
as through a muslin curtain; softly veiled and far away -
and how temptingly tranquil seem the waters of the past.
Given time
lost minutes lengthen into hours, to long-remembered days,
lost words that needed saying fall like petals in the rain
Turning slowly in the air until they fade to dust at last.
Given time
a distant haunting melody's translated into sighs
birdsong at morning lilting like a glimmering of streams;
and moments of reflection spill too swiftly through our hands.
Given time
dry leaves fly through the chilly air and scatter in the sky
summer will have her finery returned from green to gold,
and snow will cover everything, like time's relentless sands.
Three day's journey from Coachella to Paradise,
felt like adding beauty to my day, and you did.
Pretty painted toes peek from muslin wool socks,
all your nametag revealed: Hello, my name is...
Once looked at me wondering am I the one.
Let me spare you some disappointment, I'm a coward.
Hey, not squeamish at the sight of a little blood,
tho' scared I'll be unable to save you again cactus flower.
Sense a phantom pain from a missing limb,
still afraid I'm borin' you to death.
Laptop key tied to you in gentle refrain,
just another heart left out
by an absent-minded tin smith.
Your illusions wistfully missed my cactus flower..
without true love, what a waste our finest hour.
'Til then let nametag be proof that we exist,
a paper illusion called 'Hello, my name is....'
It's ugly out here and getting worse
The winters wind blows cruel harshness upon on our own humanity,
scarring with images the brutality of our most innocent
The degradation of ourselves,
by ourselves.
Righteously wrapped in the shadowy shroud of God,
The harshest of the verdicts,
handed down,
administered as only we can,
as only we understand.
What is one more,
Black life,
Muslin life,
Jewish or
Christian's Life?
What is one more.
Beaten
women,
child,
drug addict?
When does spring bloom on this winter?
When will humanity shine its light,
its hope,
its future
In each other?
When will it be time to say
It is enough!
Umbrella
When, picking up from where it left off last,
the gales begin to blast the good rudders,
anchors or anything that underpins
a muslin day or when, ineluctably
caught up in the searing frenzy of
earthly pangs shaking up the innards of
another silken day or again, when
the carefully manufactured myth of
social ceremony needs to be propped
up with the vigorous mien of a noble
bearing, one seeks out the folded up,
dormant vitality from some corner
of one’s psyche, dusts it, opens it up
and finds under it relief, rest or class.
By S.Jagathsimhan Nair
Form: Sonnet
27-3-14
For Kelly Deschler's contest
We nod into gentleness like genocide
sleep in flourishing sanity
through elms sifting epitaphs.
Our sheen of silence on white muslin
offers up old uncles like hedge apples
useless seeds of grieving trees.
I cannot remember my father
ever saying he loved me.
There is no time for monologues,
soft slurs of alabaster days
burnished on a tusk of sky.
Tenderly, the testicular moon rises
in night, iridescent, opulent,
laid open like a wound.
I walk through thin veils
of colored light and carefully
tread upon gleaming shards
of precious glass -
broken and neatly scattered
upon arctic bathroom tiles.
Each sliver reflects
a single piece of your
perfect anatomy.
An arm, a leg, an eyeball -
a swollen horizontal speck
perceiving a soloist’s surrender
outside a witch’s mirror.
I cried your name
in between
loathsome waves of solitude
this past weekend -
weightless letters floating
above my bleeding passion
like starved vultures
gleaning over carrion.
Did you know the affection
I’ve smothered you with
these past thirty years
is beginning to smell
like dirty nylon socks?
I use them now to
dampen my bloated eyes.
You're fitly ignorant
of my extended limbs
and repressed sorrows.
They covet apparel
not filamented with
fleece and falsities.
Your rehearsed kisses
are dressed in dull razors -
rendering my lips
gauged and coarsely
cracked.
I took a shotgun
to the nightlight last evening
and prayed as I reached for you
through strands of tattered muslin.
I was hoping to grasp
a parcel of your fading glint
and humbly touch
your jagged aura -
I foolishly cut my hands.
Pour milk into vats, let it sit overnight;
the cream will be rising until it’s just right
and can be skimmed off to make butter. Now warm
the milk gently up so you do it no harm.
Add whey and add rennet which makes the milk curdle,
stir gently until you have taken that hurdle.
Scoop curd out with muslin, dividing the whole
in two, tie the cloth and suspend from a pole
so the liquid can drip off. Then shape in a mold,
stamp the rind and let sit until it’s two days old.
Now immerse it in brine for about twenty days,
then it goes on a rack for maturing. It stays
there for twelve months at least to be earning it’s name
and be called “Parmesan”, a label of fame.
But if you give it three full years to rest
it develops the tyrosine crystals, that’s best:
a creamy and salty hard cheese with some crunch,
that is something delicious for people to munch.
November 11, 2018
For contest “Cheese”
Sponsored by Barry Stebbings
Women of the Word
Some wore finest linen –
Others wore wool;
Some wore the silk of royalty –
Some wore cotton, some muslin;
Some were called to great things –
Others walked with sorrow
Some were called to ordinary days
All were called by God
Some lived in a palace
In Jerusalem
Some lived in a simple tent
One from the land of Moab
Some lived in Judah
In the flowing hills
Some made their home in far off Galilee
All lived in the Lord.
And see, their lives reflect their God
These handmaids of the Lord
Oh, these women of the Word.
One was named Sarah
One was called Ruth;
There was a queen named Esther
Deborah, Martha and Anne;
Elizabeth and Abigail
Tabitha and Hannah
A girl named Mary in quiet Nazareth
All said “Yes” to God
And see, their lives reflect their God
These handmaids of the Lord
Oh, these women of the Word.
They plant the seeds to birth at harvest
Grind the flour for the bread
Gather family at the table
See that all who come are fed
Share their stories with the children
Put their hands to every kind of task
They are wives and mothers, sisters
Who work and share their giftedness.
Some wear denim blue jeans
Others love pink
They live their lives of faithful love
Lives of courage and hope
They put their hands to simple tasks
In the service of God
No matter which age they’re called to live
They are women of the Word –
Oh these Women of the Word
3-23-22
Contest: We Salute You, Dear Women
Sponsor: Beata Augustin
“The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.”
~William Shakespeare, As You Like It, Act V, Scene I
I weep by the stardust shore where seraphs sing
Tangerine tears rain despair ‘neath a velveteen veil
My melancholic muse, muslin-wrapped in ice-cold caskets
Slain by ruinous romance swirled in absinthe abstractions
Despondent sloughs bespeak the depths of my soul
Saffron scars scream sonnets through metaphorical mists
Morose melodies paint scabs on pastiche strophe
Pregnant pause, so precious, submerged in lurid lament
But then it whispered, a voice unvarnished by purple plumes
A verse, it bloomed, untainted by thesaurus bleeds
Sculpting off silken scaffolds pasted upon profligate poetry
Leaving a profounder palate for plainer prosody
Fools thought wisdom speak in sequin-laced soliloquy
But wise men abrade from calligraphic charade
Cascades, the silken light
As it wreathes the lonely child.
With an esoteric melody ,it entwines.
An enigmatic beauty she hides
Behind those painful eyes.
The warm light does passionately kiss
His lover's muslin skin.
Glides on her satin hair
Mingles with tears on the face
Melts into lacerated veins
Of the forgotten child.
An enigmatic beauty she hides
Behind those painful eyes.
Upon her, the lunar love drips.
Her sacred beauty, he worships
To which this colossus nature relinquishes
The gods themselves did sculpt the sublimity
Of the beloved.
-Angom Amy(15)
Needle by needle
The tunes for the fiddle
Press by press
The pink caress
The up and down
The silky gown
Sideways too
The silky hue
The muslin sheen
The fluid violin
The orange sun
With love spun
The slippery satin
The tender teens
The roof grows crack
The burlap sack
Coarse daytime
The internal rhyme
The needles of strife
The burlap life
The people ragtag
The burlap bag
The filigree of labour
The burlap savour
The blue attachment
For the natural scent
The crafting and decor
Burlap we look for
The hugs and kisses
The blue berry bushes
The burlap screen
No harsh wind
The happy times
For the shrubs and the vines
Though poles apart
Both close to our hearts
Burlap and satin
The brown and the green
From the knife and the blade
Towards the burlap shed
From the market din
Towards the songs of satin
Burlap and satin
The stories umpteen
________________________________
March 26, 2018
Burlap and Satin - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by : Anthony Slausen
Wrapped in six yards of white muslin,
banished from her home with a tonsured head,
she faces a curse of loss of colours
ever since her husband was brought in dead.
Mummified for life she still exists
breathing, eating bland food, all desires unfed
Bare feet, she lays herself to sleep
curling up pillowless, on a cold wooden bed
But when she sleeps she often dreams
of butterflies and blossoms in purple and red.
I am "Black",and I do not blame all of my misfortunes on "The White Man"!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Look in "The Mirror",and realize: and see what you yourself have done to "Help or Hurt" anyone!!!!!!!! Red,Yellow,Brown,Black,or White!!!!!!!!!!! Christian,Muslin,Jew,or any ,or no Religious Belief at "All"!!!!!!!!!!!! Hatred is "Always Wrong"and is "Never Right"!!!! Can or Will we some how "See The Light"?????????? The "Real Enemy" is "Hatred"!!!!!!!! Am I Right? Can "We finally "See Reality" in "A True Clear Light?We need to decide "What is Wrong? We need to decide"What is Right"? Red,Yellow,Brown,Black,and White...........We fight "Racism,and Hatred" that is embeded in some of those of every ethnic origin.........Must I "Begin Again"and blame "White Men"?Men and Women live on "Land",and travel through the air,and travel on the "Oceans,and on "The Seas",and "The Enemy" has taught "Racism"in "The Home of The Brave,and where "We fight for "Freedom" so that "All Men and Women" can be "Free"!!!! Racism was "Taught to you and me"!!!!!!! We are "The Lord's God Almighty's Creatures,and his "Sun" shines on you and me,and I believe that "Racism "The Mental Illness" has sent many a man or woman to "Hell" where they will never be "Free"!!!!!!"I see "Racism" practiced everyday,and every night!!!! I see "Racism Practiced by those who are "Red,Yellow,Brown,Black,and White!!!! Racism is "Wrong,and is never Right"!!!!!!!Racism is a"Criminally Learned" or "Criminally Taught" "................Mental Illness!!!!!!!!!!!
He does not answer when I speak,
the severed head in the picnic basket,
nor do the swarming flies on the muslin sack,
buzzing on the dried blood, concern him overmuch.
I still speak to him as ice chunks melt
about his rotting skull, and he rolls with a soft bump
on the passenger seat.
“Al, baby, we’re gonna find out what this is all about.
You and me, Al, we’re gonna find out.”
Mexico shimmers and burns through
dust and dirt, gunfire, filth and murder, and we drive
the backroads in the hammered paint scarred red car,
backfiring clouds of exhaust, pollutant patches of hell.
Gunshots echo through my mind,
bodies pirouette in slow motion, tissue quake ensues,
jetting blood through ripped cloth:
“Why? Because it feels so damn good, that’s why.”
I never had much to speak of, dreams, a girl and a piano,
now my girl is dead and all I have left
is a car, a gun and a severed head in a picnic basket.
And in place of dreams, a heart of darkness and
this impregnable death wish…