Best Nightgowns Poems
Nightgowns on at 9:01
Adrenal induced delerium
Santa’s journey has surly begun
To our beds, we were a scurrying
Closed eyes, at 9:05
But sleep would not come easy
We’d twist and turn, side to side
At least til 5 past 3
Then somewhere before, 3:44
Sleep would come, by chance
Til little sis would creep through the door
Ready to sneak a glance
Prowling the stairs, side by side
And past the grandfather clock
Which, by now, was reading 4:55
Five ticks before each tock
Around the bin and into the den
Stood our sparkling 8 foot tree
Palms were there, to catch our chins
We’d gaze til 5:03
Up the stairs, new teddy bear
Little sister, close behind
Sound asleep, to prepare
For the alarm at 6:59
B eauteous bewitching botanical gardens in the early morn
R ivers rhythmically running, as we race to adorn
E verlasting earthly echoes, the beauty that is shown
A bundant acoustical atmospheres playing heavens tone
T imeless tall trees that titillate the aromatic air
H oofing hormonal horses mating their scented mare
T ropical topless tanning on the island of the blue lagoon
A lphabetical ascending acrostic’s that sing to the moon
K ookie kinky kisses that I shall receive from you
I mpulsive inviting incantations in our lovers brew
N aughty nightly nightgowns of witch you will undress
G orgeous genital gestures, that I shall soon caress.
March.09.2016
For Breathtaking Acrostic Contest
(for N.K.)
Gossamer thoughts, gossamer things weaved as
sliken nightgowns with quarter moon kisses,
lurking with left handed promises
with secret eyes and au pair wishes.
In morning memories, school girl, you and sun
rise, maybe mantraing,"Thy will be done."
Gossamer days, gossamer nights envision
dawn and dusk as tenacious myths begotten
by Genesis and Revelation.
Spider (Greek astronomers gave no constellation)
Mayan's Orion* for celestial landings
and only seen at a bird's eye viewing
or mountains or planes---you always succumb
to "Thy will be done" by your demure designs.
Gossamer thoughts, gossmer things, love,
you, too, shall pass, from a school boy's mind,
not thinking of you until dawns efface
old webs and dusks become Penelope's face
of quiet desperation, imploring,"Where? When? Why?"
I'm now spinning webs spelling,"Goodbye, goodbye."
While expiring, your nightgown creases...
You're sleeping Arachne's and Selene's schemes
with gossamer dreams and gossamer needs,
while stars weave around quarter moon promises.
Cameras
The root of my agony
Lies beyond this dollar store
To my foremothers and forefathers
Shackled by thieves
Stolen from the graces of Africa
Their feet once light to
The drum's rhythmic complexity
Now bound in the west
My feet --- diseased
Prohibited to roam
Even in this
Tiny, dusty, dollar store
This Indian man’s curiosity unveils
Equating me to ---a crime
Or a suspect
My large plastic drugstore bag
Opens in obedience
My purchased 18 pack of recycled toilet paper
And four nightgowns
For mama and grandma to share
The Indian man offers
To carry my school supplies
And have them rung up
Cameras watch me
As do the Indian man
In this closed
Confined space
Next trip to the dollar store
I arrive empty-handed
My recycled cotton tote bag
Folded flat
Into my navy blue Land's End
Water resistant jacket
Plastic man
Paid with plastic money
At the exit I
cautiously bare and clutch my tote
To secure
My heavy notebooks
The black plastic bags
Could have torn
By Marckincia Jean
Free verse
09/09/17
Heavy lidded
Quiet and still, blurring
Visions with inklings
Of slumber, laboring
To breathe dreams
Through the embrace
Of comforting sheets
In colors of soft light
Lavender and pink
Blushing like roses, gentle
Graceful as the morning
Whispering fanciful
Fantasies, wishes, reveries
Blended on the moments
Dozing like the memories
White lace nightgowns
Intimate as poetry
Brought to life on hearts
Who listen to the glow
Of swift, still light
Reviving the feelings
Laughing silently
Through promises
Of dense truths, honesty
Growing wise inside
The heart who believes
This sweet serenity
Only comes with the closing
Of the eyes, the night
When everything rests
Soundless as the snowflake
Caressing the naked branches
Light as the wind
Sleep frees the spirit
To know the night’s abandon
5/11/22
Flouncing flamenco style or doubling up for a pass a doublet is neither a right or a wrong in a semi colon in nightgowns. But trespassing on a land? Really? Who said? Hum. Huh. Disgusting. Go irrigate a system. It is irrelevant in an underpass. Really. Are Astronaughts astronomically passing? Or is it the ordered preordained multitasking whisk that whirls around. Speaking in a descant voice is rather a pleasant octave. Ignoring ignorance irrationally is a quotation on a journey. But planting ones feet in a mystical view is an integral part of being a being and being a being is good and who would argue with a ninety thousand year old goldfish. Not wise. Not clever. Compunction compounds. I don't wanna wear clothes says I but I have to. Says who. Snails travel at high speeds un the morning. Hahahahahahahaha now eat. Hahahahaha boom bang. Imminent. Dangerous dogs demonic. No ha ha to that bunch of dying arranged posies. Xxxxx decriminalisation z
Look at the loovly garden!
Narry a thorn there scratches.
Look at the loovly birds!
A peeping chick soon hatches.
Look at the loovly house!
Such loovly locks and latches.
A loovly family inside.
In nightgowns lacking patches!
Each retires to loovly beds.
As I light loovly matches!
Come morning see the loovly dead.
Reposed upon the ashes!
"Loovly House" was in FANTASY & TERROR 4, 1984.
Your world collapses A name shies of comeback
breaks the water for bare bones unaligned you
hunker down for the happenings didnot fit
in the shoes of black magic it was a damned
reversal of the pygmies to become tall the old city
dies on the hill young steps start a never ending
descent of the wheels can you stop this vintage flow
in night king was sitting without a glass
rolling stones were laughing after the conversation
and the sons of soil smashed the barriers
after the illumination cacti become prominently displayed
in the jungle of weeds wearing nightgowns of thorns
two headed snakes lapping up the milk from the teats
of a moon the cow jumps on the hemlocks amidst
the cries of children of tomorrow
Satish Verma
the sunspots ensconced
behind howdy-do curtains
a cockcrow in lace
white watering can french blue
white sprouts of ivy deep green
unhackneyed eggs bright brown
the pale yellow sun flickers snow
and no one wears silk nightgowns
as knees fall, and wrinkles like weeds
are read on the backside of palms
that hurry the yolks and sizzle
the bacon, pour coffee into old cups
one for the geezer who grumps
but puckers up for his buttercup
Your world collapses A name shies of comeback
breaks the water for bare bones unaligned you
hunker down for the happenings didnot fit
in the shoes of black magic it was a damned
reversal of the pygmies to become tall the old city
dies on the hill young steps start a never ending
descent of the wheels can you stop this vintage flow
in night king was sitting without a glass
rolling stones were laughing after the conversation
and the sons of soil smashed the barriers
after the illumination cacti become prominently displayed
in the jungle of weeds wearing nightgowns of thorns
two headed snakes lapping up the milk from the teats
of a moon the cow jumps on the hemlocks amidst
the cries of children of tomorrow
Satish Verma
Moon's midriff chequered with light blue letterboxes and legos
Carbon-dating the museums of our miniature hands riding the nightingale jukeboxes,
Contoured in concertos of glacier nightgowns and batmobiles...
A topcoat of my father's snickerdoodle smiles sowed and watered beneath the morning's stale smile
With a pretty loud "HEY KIDS ! Time for breakfast ! WAKE UP !", with mumbles meandering with magpies in and out.
He laces lifetimes out of the first the letter of his name, in macrames of my mother's myrrh murmurs,
Secretly setting up the kitchen table, for the upcoming date night to be stencilled forehead to forehead.
He laces lifetimes from roasting the ristretto beans in an open fire,
From sketching the summer sunbursts and the sunglasses in permafrost pitter patters,
From crocheting dad jokes in matchbox-built bus rides emptying the crimson clouds of January.
Plucking promenades outlined in scarlet raindrops playing leapfrog under saccharine sunbeams,
Watching over me as I give climbing the bonsai trees higher than the neighborhood kids a first try.
Untwining anadems of one semicolon, instead of drawing a line of full stops stomping at the soles of our shoes,
Remodelling the lifeless bits of "Life On Mars".
I guess he would love to know what life on Mars would taste like...
He would kill to be in those batmobile treks and those glacier concertos wearing nightgowns,
And most definitely he would give defying gravity another try beneath those bonsai trees alongside with me.
I would kill to look almost like him, to sound like him and to be like him.
I would kill to try saying his favorite catchphrase over and over again "HEY KIDS ! Time for breakfast ! WAKE UP !"
I would kill to try his beret on, look at the skies and wonder "Hey there Dad would you stay forever young ?"
Anywhere. Evening rain.
Snakes cross the road,
that is no longer an obvious place.
It cracks like old toffee.
Lost souls in nightgowns and slippers
foam behind wire.
A dark tide bids,
then waits for the gallery of slight heads,
a row of serious blue eyes,
devoid of doubt.
A world of small signs.
Another Year Passes By
I look askance as the days pass by
even as they slip into nightgowns
and then it's the chirp chirp, caw caw
up and on to daily chores
displays on laptop
glued to the screen
see-saw with indexes
outcomes writ large on the face
and the nagging back pain
adding to the queue
ailments on the prowl
in propitious frames
yoga and pranayama
apart from vaccines
to the rescue
the swarming germs
on the radar, family members
soldiers in trenches and bunkers
money trails or terror attacks
occupy spaces in brain cells
can't just throw out the pictures
ferry them to bed
fall asleep with nightmares
that leave a pounding pulse
as a wrist-band records the reams.
Soft t-shirts, warm flannels, easy to step into
Cozy fleece, light cotton, stretchy elastic waistbands
Comfy nightgowns, flowered pajamas, and a mumu
Retirement encourages a new way to dress
Comfort over class, coziness over chic
Fashion is over the hill now
I live in the country
The only ones who see me are my husband and my dogs
Snowflakes
seasons, all four
pretty little gardens
holiday cheer
landscapes beautiful
be it mountains or the sea
painters painting
selfish to the souless core
yet tell me is so pretty
dawn, dusk and sunsets
clichés smashed with superficial
wrap you hate any way you wish
a real mother cares for all children
angels looking down
see the hypocrites
self-centered in floppy nightgowns
if I had a knife
and was them
I would fear myself
however I fear nothing
I whisper softly
the embrace of death
near
Its your own cold heart
you should fear
Gone in the toilet
all hatred flushed