Best Oiled Poems
"Tease for Two"
“Ein bisschen Zucker
mit Ihrer Sahne, Sir?“
German accent
smoky toned
she purred
Periwinkles suavely winked,
then played with his -
cufflinks
“Not now Schvee Tart”
he said holding his attache tight
looking across the room
grinning Lupine Blues
a slight smile on his lips,
bemused,
“Service calls,
her name is
"Q”
Across the dance floor
all eyes turned
Parting tall bus boys, handsome waiters
matrons with their peach blinis, their tart apple martinis
flustered debutantes
all poetic unsure
first time daters
dilettantes
rubbed their -
eyes again, they blinked
made way, made room,
for Q's
sashaying soliloquy
serious multi tasking
sensual stiletto Hell-on-High Heels
slick Scarlet lip-glossed
VaVaVoom
As it should be
entertaining control,
further into the room
across the dazzling polished dance floor
no pastie tasselling girls
on well-oiled silver poles
The Special Agent
slinked
The Old Boys
raised their drinks
He stands
She sits
"Ist das eine Waffe
in deiner Tasche,
Special Agt Schmidt?"
She glances at her
Bulgari Serpenti Incantati
and in English says,
"This better be good,
Now is not the time to quit"
Like a wolf
Periwinkles
grins
"Q," he low growl says,
"I propose a change in destination,
I've taken the liberty to buy you
feathers for your wings -
tickets Q...."
then flirtatiously adds,
"Simply adore your bling"
(LadyLabyrinth/2019)
1. lupine/wolf
2. lupine/lupinus, genus blue flowering plant
3. Libertango
Sounds of a Day in the Past
Cherry Creek was a thriving small town
Children played on swings up and down.
They screamed with delight and why not?
Today with no school, so homework forgot.
How they laughed and frolicked and ran,
All cares forgotten, catch me if you can!
The swings were well-oiled and so no creaks
Could be heard, but happy they enjoyed their leaps.
Not far away, parents and singles formed a march
Protesting against chemical factory built beyond the arch.
Sounds of a Day in the Present
Cherry Creek is now a ghost town
And all the rusted swings are down.
The chemist factory spoilt their fun.
Children in Cherry Town were none.
So many died from deadly fumes
All protests covered in all newsrooms.
But to no avail, for protests fell on dead ears.
Parents left to other places shedding tears.
The only sound you hear is the wind
No swing moved, empty all rust lined.
But I forgot the sound of money,
The factory simply insults me.
There’s a party tonight so I bouffe up my hair
Pamper and powder my sweet derrière,
Arrive at the door, all done up to impress.....
Oh man, I forgot! Invite said “fancy dress”!
Pete and Sue are here, seems their theme’s ‘Tarts and Vicars’,
Sue’s skirt’s microscopic! Look at her tiny knickers!
Pete’s in a nun’s habit; the image is scary,
I’ve not seen a nun with a chin that’s THAT hairy!
And there’s Spider-Man! (although I’m perfectly certain,
His cape is made out of his living room curtain),
His curve-hugging costume’s quite “cosy” in size,
I think our friend Spidey gobbled too many flies!
In the corner, a lady has come as Snow White,
Gee, her bosoms are out there, her corset’s so tight,
They look like two bald heads squeezed into a sack,
Glad my hubby’s not here - he’d have a heart attack!
In the hallway, a robot is looking well-oiled -
Her costume’s made out of three rolls of tin foil,
She looks more like a turkey at Christmas, so later,
I really hope no one is tempted to baste her!
By the buffet, Fred Flintstone is looking contrite,
I think he and Wilma are having a fight,
Behaving all “caveman” has got Fred in trouble -
He showed his big man-club to poor Betty Rubble!
There’s a massive man-baby dressed just in a nappy,
The “milk” in his bottle has made him quite happy,
He’s shaking his tooshie and sucking his dummy,
And asking a lady, “can I call you Mummy?”
On the sofa is Princess Fiona from Shrek,
Blimey, Count Dracula’s nibbling her neck,
I avert my eyes to avoid his rising passion,
In walks his wife, and his face turns quite ashen.
His irate wife’s dressed up as pop singer Cher,
In her see through outfit she looks almost bare,
Then she lays into Drac just like Rocky Balboa -
She’s drunk as I skunk, I’m relieved I don’t know her!
Suddenly, Batman bursts through the door,
In his skintight costume - my jaw hits the floor!
He’s so muscular - bulges in all the right places,
If I play my cards right, could be me he embraces!
Well sadly I haven’t a costume of course,
Til I spot a young chappie dressed up as a horse,
I leap on his back - I’m a great improviser -
Strip off and shout “Hey I’m Lady Godiva!”
Collaboration between Jan Allison and the amazing Nina Parmenter
3/17/18
~
“Pristine your pose, exposed artistic allure”
Canvas on easel waits patiently,
naked in formless thought
Inviting rapture’s brush strokes
“White on white destined pleadings”
Visions engulf watercolor yearnings
blending passion’s tints…
Seductive bristled breaths fall
“Soft curves fill unframed desires”
Orchid skin seeps semi-gloss wishes,
hues of fire fed glazing
Smooth along tender tan lines
“Valleys of bliss penetrate oiled needs”
Mahogany eyes captivate,
portals shimmering silently,
beckoning in secretive glances
“Seductive palettes draw on my sight”
Crimson lips in a whimpered pout,
satin pillowed arching designs
whisper me my dreams
“Their touch breaks my will”
As I paint you, I linger in lust
Overwhelmed by your beauty,
falling helplessly into this masterpiece
“And we become one via art”
Saturated in drop cloth drippings,
sighs of fevered temptations rise
releasing abstract movements
“Acrylic serenity, vibrant achings”
Melting in chromatic motion,
collapsing among over-sprayed delirium,
embracing flowing iridescent endings
“Lost forever in a portrait of love”
In the maze of concrete and glass,
where tall buildings reach the sky,
rivers of money flow,
but only to the chosen few.
Below, a shadowy city exists,
filled with hard work and grime,
where dreams are just whispers,
lost in the cracks of old streets.
The rich, wrapped in fine clothes,
dance to the tune of hidden power,
leaders of a silent orchestra,
playing a song of silence and control.
Their laughter, touched with champagne,
drowns out the cries from below,
where rough, tired hands,
reach for fleeting hopes.
Halls of influence, slick with promises,
echo with the steps of the elite,
their words, hidden daggers,
cutting through the truth.
In this theater of lies,
curtains of wealth hide
the machinery of greed,
oiled by the sweat of unseen millions.
From high-rise penthouses,
they look down on a sea of struggle,
where the hungry feast on illusions,
and the thirsty drink from wells of despair.
Marble palaces stand tall,
monuments to ambition,
while shanties lean on faith,
held up by pillars of resilience.
Markets buzz with chaos,
colors blend in the bazaar of life,
where the weight of a single coin
can tip the balance of existence.
Yet, the streets remember,
each cobblestone a witness,
to the dance of disparity,
the waltz of inequality.
Children of the dusk,
eyes wide with innocence,
navigate the alleys of shadows,
their dreams painted in hues of maybe.
In the rooms where fortunes are made,
decisions are inked in secrecy,
pacts that seal destinies,
unseen hands shaping the world.
But in the heart of the storm,
a murmur grows,
a rhythm of defiance,
beating against the pulse of oppression.
Voices rise, a chorus of unity,
challenging the gilded throne,
for in the contrast of gold and dust,
lies the spark of revolution.
The streets, arteries of rebellion,
pulse with the lifeblood of change,
as the fabric of corruption
begins to fray at the edges.
In the end,
from the ashes of greed,
a new dawn will rise,
where the scales of justice
find their balance,
and the city of gold
is built on a foundation
of humanity's unyielding spirit.
It is hard to really tell you
The beauty of this man
For many simply find it
Too hard to understand
They laugh, they smile, and tease
As I describe his every being
They just can’t fully see
The splendor that I’m seeing
Though he is just a character
I really can care less
He is real in this crazy heart of mine
So give your teasing a rest!
His hair is black as ebony
His voice as smooth as milk
It reminds me of dark chocolate sliding across oiled silk
His face is pale and serious
With black eyes that pierce your own
His grimness makes me envious
In this world he is alone
His nose is hooked—but not too much!
And his rare smiles are divine
His black robes add a vicarious touch
I wish he could be mine!
As far as personality goes,
I say, he’s quite the charmer!
Dexterously shielded by a past of foes
Beneath his shame of honor
Sometimes he’s angry, but mostly glum
Rarely is he content
He lost his love, cold and lonesome
Sarcasm is his lament!
Alone he lingers in the dark
Torn and set apart
No one knows he has left a mark
Right smack-dab on my heart!
I stared intently at book and screen
When they first came on
Every word he utters is like a dream
And then again—he’s gone!
Nevertheless he leaves me
With a feeling so grand
At loss of words from the awe he gives me
A joy that no one understands
Can I help but swoon and gape,
At the great professor Severus Snape?
*Note: Although Alan Rickman is a contributing factor to my obsession,
I’m seriously just in love with the character…and that is my confession!
Rusted, but well oiled and continuously in use, heaven’s gate.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Contest: One, One Liner
Sponsor: Rick Parise
Placed 2nd
© 9th November 2016
"Selkie"
Tomorrow never comes
shadows dance on walls
the wanting of bodies electric
pressed fast and tight
in the hot surrender
of wet sheets sailing
over solitary satin skin
neroli oiled slick in the scent
of a foreigner's musk
bitter sweet orange and honey
touched in the moment
by a hint of green
limbs tangled
like climbing jasmine
wild orchid
drips off moist fingertips
a rapture rising in notes
piercing velvet chords
stroked out from cherry stained lips
caught on the turn of a tongue
not spoken
as you turn relentlessly
in the tumultuous burning
Sea of Dreams
graced by tears
kissed fresh by
saltwater lips
Ocean eyes
breezes in
towards your
rising twin peaks
whispers over your forest
where the wild lives
a warm breath delivered in the
hollows of the curves
of your waist
fascinated by
something
incomplete
he’s replete
with poetic
soft roped nets
your sung in
like a Selkie
you shed your skin
living naked
eyes half open and drugged
in the sensual unspoken
But you are never kept;
for the moment
suspended
you let him in
but he doesn’t
own your skin
(LadyLabyrinth/2019)
"...And if some lover, such as we,
Have heard this dialogue of one,
Let him still mark us, he shall see
Small change, when we’are to bodies gone."
("The Ecstasie"/John Donne)
"...When thou knew'st what I dreamt, when thou knew'st when
Excess of joy would wake me, and cam'st then,
I must confess, it could not choose but be
Profane, to think thee any thing but thee."
(The Dream/ John Donne)
""I was thinking of Bourbon Street
in New Orleans when I wrote it -
I was getting ready to go there and I thought:
what the f--k do I think I'm going to find?
It's about the incredulity that I
could still be fooled into looking
for a perfect moment."
(about "Fascination Street" / Robert Smith, The Cure)
The white charger's belly is bloated with hay
The helmet helm's rusted quite shut
The tack room door hinges are tearing away
The leather's un oiled and dry
The lance is still good
It is bracing the fence
but I traded the sword for a pen
I am presently seeking a page
So if you're still waiting
and anticipating
A Lochinvar ending of sorts
I shall purchase wild oats for the horse
I recall how to sow them of course
With hardly a shred of remorse
Because you’re a poet, that’s why
Behind the thick crimson and gold thread curtains
he stands listening to the din of the audience
searching their seats for popcorn crumbs
while roaming hands brush against the legs
of those sitting closest
The young girls get the winks
and free drinks as the old men
vie for position, straightening their hair
and flashing thick wallets
from stretched out back pockets
He peeks through the slit in the
fancy brocade drapes to find a full house,
everyone is here, the self imposed mayor
wearing a handmade campaign button
shakes hands and seeks signatures
Mrs. Broadmore assigns seats in her row
as the little people gather around, telling her
how beautiful she is while hoping for a glimpse
of the diamond crusted gin filled flask she keeps
tucked away in her left garter
The lights dim as the depressed sulk to their seats in the balcony,
broken hearts fill the back rows closest to the bar,
cheerleaders in pink lipstick and short skirts, the football team
all stoned out of their minds and the debate club collect in the center
while the pretty people, the wealthy pose in the front rows
He gets the signal as the curtain slowly lifts
to the ceiling on well oiled pulleys
There is not a sound as he makes his way
to the microphone at center stage, dead silence
but he reads his poem anyway
It is obvious he is no Leonard Cohen
but he does his best as he recites the verses
he has penned especially for this evening
Upon finishing he stares out as two people
clap their approval and the others whisper and look away
His shoulders drop as he leaves the stage,
head hung low, crumbling the paper he had read from
and tossing it in the trash as he wonders aloud, “Why, why do I do it?”
A janitor sweeping near the exit door hears him
and shaking his head replies, “Because you’re a poet, that’s why”
I reposted this poem because……..I like this one. : )
Written: March 31st, 2025, for contest, Sponsored by: Kai Michael Neumann
************
After basking in yesterday's afterglow,
I divested my vestments
to shift in cognitive mindset.
I stroll toward the horizon.
where the azure sky
embraces the vast sea blue.
Waves dance.
With silvered clouds,
Creating an orchestra
The wind and light are present.
Sallow shadows scintillate.
In Moonlight Melodies...
As dusk settles,
casting a shimmering awe that echoes of
The splendor of the galaxies abounds.
In every breath,
A promise resonates,
to the dawn
that dwells within me.
Gliding on golden wings
a sovereign among the kings
As light swirls beneath the Milky Way,
The cosmos shines brilliantly.
In a pearly gown.
Angels slide,
Unleashing their power
to restore their lost throne.
With flickering wings,
Wield the sword of stone
their footsteps inscribe
a path of golden light,
As they conquer the onyx depths
of an obsidian night.
Loving blasts their souls.
angel wings shake in sadness,
where grief and despair are hefty,
seeking an aerial citrine nirvana
I recall it sharply,
as if it were yesterday,
Tears mar the silky pillows.
as honeysuckle
It oozes from eager lips. —
There is a longing for satisfaction.
Lipstick etches its mark.
He left an imprint on his bare skin.
Even now, those intertwined chains
of Memory ensnares me.,
As well-oiled fingers traverse
the curves of the sensuous body,
ordinary yet glowing in the sunlight,
filled with a relentless passion.
Nervous tension shattered,
striking, akin to a diamond on ebony velvet.
As her body warmed and became silky,
Her lips melted and tasted delicious.
They expressed love ardently.
and hugged fervently.
swept up in passion and longing,
wishing the moment might last forever,
cocooned in each other's arms,
and felt blissfully pleased,
Polishing words into gems,
dusted garnet, with sunset slips
In citrine clouds cast
There was a ray of magenta skies.
I wish for unending delight.
and utter bliss in the afterglow.
As words escaped constricted passage
of time from eons of layered myths,
legends of demi-gods thus linked,
in glowing rendition, with whisk on hand
the Orator with staff, sang the Eel to slumber.
As words from parched lips of orchids, flowed
dispersing sweet juices germinating dense spheres
of time in which history was packed in roots,
armed with psalms in measured cadences,
the Orator soothed kings and chiefs.
As words of our ancestors oiled and pampered
by prophesies of aging oracles, songs of lovers
and monotonous chants of old men...slithered
into hiding while physical wars waged, succinctly
the Orator proclaimed the heroic pursuits of warriors.
As words, precision in recitation of kinship ties
craftily sewn by political machinations of unions
vital for survival of race waltzing in purity of blue
when blood flowed thru veins of aging rocks as
the Orator cemented pacts chanting tribal honorifics.
As words, imageries of sky bursting, moon phasing sunsets pertaining to legends of my village heroes,
sweet nectars that put rhythm in his art of tongues
inspired by fruits from my garden, mine own words
the Orator in action, was he infringing my copyright?
As words, our heritage orally passed down in poetry,
set imageries prohibiting meddling with sources,
set quotations where time absolved breaches of patent,
plagiarism, for traditions dictated that the word be
secured in a cocoon of oratory ferried down the ages
by the dynamics of cultural rites and rituals.
the Orator, blessed not only as the spiritual Vessel
...but now deemed as the Spoken Word incarnate.
She rises above a pool of twilight blue,
The water glimmering liquid crystal
Fluid as an oiled navel which brightens her flesh,
That inside pure eyes, mist radiates
On her curve, and frost trickles heavily across
Dampened lips …blending with manly scent.
A gush shudders at the rhythm of her depth
While the anima of his raw grace, such kindness
Transforms her outline into a Borealis
Laying on a nightglow of lace and hemp …
Till male and woman become undefined,
Aligned through his surrender to a feminine
Seed , as the water continues bathing them
In the discovery of astral glow… like so,
The sweet vapor within her body rains
------ and his tears
Fall upon her quivering pores,
Honoring the fertile goddess within.
……………………
Anima- “ Every man carries within him
The eternal image of a woman.”—Carl Jung
----------------
Animus/ Anima –Part 1: Anima Contest
Sponsored by Tom Quigley 5/8/2016
For Andrea’s contest
Show me the Funny (part two)
Eskimo Nell & the Door Repair Man
Now Eskimo Nell
Has a story to tell
A tale, about my last visit
Into her igloo
I went through and through
Though this entrance I’m told is illicit
She said, “Just for you
That one will do
Coz the wind, it chills to the core
Me back gets stone froze
When whoever, God knows
Is hammering, at the front door”
I told her, “Thank you”
And with no more ado
I slammed that back door with some might
I was grateful to seize
Some relief from the freeze
And discover it fitted so tight
She said she was pleased
That it had come un-seized
For some of her clients she thought
Preferred the back door
Where nobody saw
They were doing what they hadn’t ought
“I’d keep it well oiled
Coz you don’t want it spoiled
As it sure gets a great deal of use
So if it gets dry
You’ll find standing by
This bottle of lubricant juice”
Then the bolt was so stiff
Which was nothing diff
So plenty of juice I applied
Coz I’d known from before
It could give you a sore
If the bolt did not easily slide
Now the bolt it was cold
Like an ice cube to hold
And to warm up it needed some friction
It, I moved back and forth
For all I was worth
And it helped being in such constriction
She asked “Are you done”
I said, “No, not yet hon”
So I picked up the pace, worked like hell
Soon achieved my aim
She said, “Glad that you came
You’re great service to Eskimo Nell”.
O harlot of colored scarlet hath divided the spoils
The wealthy, well oiled, prophesy uncertainty
Thee measures of barley spoil not the oil or wine
heavenly leaven is unmeasured, care to take a wager
A bird in hand of human man, faith is in the bush
O little bird, swish the bush, faith is not a human wish
I will laugh at your calamities O harlot
I will turn a deaf ear to thy wails of anguish
As a queen thou has ruled unjustly
Ground the face of the poor of earnest contrite
Thy kings shall cast ashes upon their heads
And call for the mountains, “Come fall on us!”
I will loose the yoke of bondage, Love, sayeth Almighty
For it is just in my sight, I have waited for precious fruit
You have remained aloof of un-cloven hoof, relieved not poverty
Of the absolute you have not partaken, or cheweth the cud
Nor forsaken thine own way, Love commands pay...
...of the illusionary substance death of your own logical way