Best Saunters Poems
he enters the room
coyly she tugs her skirt
just a bit
enough to reveal her shapely legs
tossing back her golden tresses
she shakes her head
just a bit
hoping to attract his eyes
tiny shift of the derriere
she takes long, gentle strides
just a bit
has he seen her yet?
bending to reveal cleavage
she winks as she pours champagne
just a bit
a taste of ambrosia from a vixen
“Sometimes less is more,”
she says in a deep, sensual tone
“Just a bit,
I saved the best for you.”
in the mirror she sees his eyes
they follow her
just a bit
before he saunters to her side
he kisses her hand
warm and soft
just a bit
camouflaged emotions become clearer
other partygoers stay inside
he coaxes her with flashing green eyes
just a bit
as he leads her to the lakeside pavilion
a vision in the moon’s soft light
she moves closer
just a bit
and whispers demurely in his ear
“Your place or mine?”
they giggle
just a bit
"Should we call the babysitter?"
When Autumn comes, she saunters in.
paints asters blue and streaks the skies
magenta! When chill winds begin
to susurrate, we hear her sighs.
Wearing multi-colored dresses,
when Autumn comes, she saunters in,
capriciously shakes her tresses
and with bright leaves then loves to spin.
Cavorting with the clouds within
the summer-ending skies of blue,
when Autumn comes, she saunters in.
But soon the woodlands she glides through.
Not long will Autumn stay too calm.
October sees strange pumpkins grin -
not like her onset days of balm.
When Autumn comes, she saunters in.
They enter the strip
joint like the last
flurrie of flakes.
She hears the music,
hears the voice of the
D.J. Wind, enters on cue.
Her cold poles await her
as she moves to the beat.
One south, one north.
She works them both.
They call her Storm
she is the feature act.
Drawing her minions
in for months now.
Quickly the starkness of ivory
starts to melt off her body.
The long blanched gloves
covered those particular
patches are the first to go
revealing the fresh lustre of
bare skin once again exposed.
Sexy,
she's a professional!
She stares out
noticing the skeletal
frames once only
shadows,
now with a glimmer
of light.
She knows her time
is short now
feels a hint
of life in her
domain of
dead stares.
Hears sounds
that are telling.
Was that really a chirp
or just a whistle?
The pulse of warmth starts
to pump through her veins.
Now her shiny robe
falls to the ground and
you can sense the smell
of want in the air.
The flow of liquids
previously frozen stiff.
Storm the stripper
slowly teases the crowd.
Down to her Victoria Secret
garb she tugs at our groins
knowing her audience craves
more.
In this case that also
means less.
I personally will miss her
in this present form.
Her tidy white lingerie
against her tanned skin.
Covered peaks,
rounded mounds.
You just want to
ride up, and maneuver
your way down.
The timing is wrong.
I know she will strip bare
as first the top goes then
down to a G-String of snow.
Naked,
winter stands
in front of me.
She will meander a bit
shake with a breeze
of perfumed cold.
Slide onto the floor as she undulates
with her come ons that near a finality.
She saunters off the stage
and me I watch winter's end.
Spring, on winter's barren
ground starts to peek from
around the curtain,
with her touch of green.
Warm breezes.
Her array of pastel colors.
Ladies and Gentlemen,
Winter has left the building,
Spring is here!
01~19~2015
Sponsor: SKAT A
Contest: Winters End
I want a piece of chocolate cake
Oh and a delicious piece of cherry pie
I want a piece of that place called Fort Knox
With all those pieces I could afford a lot
I want a piece of that lady over there
In her haute couture she saunters with such flair
I want a piece of the clouds in the sky
I just want it, don't ask me why!
I want some tiny peace of mind
To have some pieces left to be kind
Then I can give you a piece of Art
A piece I promise comes straight from the heart
One of my favorite poets here is Craig Cornish. He made me fall in love with the sonnet. :) He coached me in getting the meter right. It has become my favorite form to write in. This is a poem Craig wrote for me. I'm so honored! :)
Menina que Passa for Eileen
She saunters along the boardwalk
more confident than in her youth,
when young men would swoon
and older men were wishing to be
young again.
She meanders next to the surf laughing
at the sea's efforts to catch her toes
in a rush of briny bubbles tickling
the grains of sand hurry away.
She strolls and as the sea
eddies and pools in her footsteps
like the memories that wash her mind
tosses her hair face to the sun and
embraces the day
She wanders near the smooth stones
polished by the relentless tides
like days and years they come and are gone
come and are gone
but with each a blessing
she ambles among those blessings
with a flair and an aire
she has that "Something"
that "Je ne se qua" and she is beautiful
Craig Cornish
To me, a gift of words is one of the most treasured gifts I could ever receive. Thanks, Craig, for making me feel beautiful today. :) Hugs
Dawn's rays burst through gray clouds
Though evening's bitterness lingers
She struggles to shake free of tear-stained, satin shrouds
Each morning, so much effort just to rise
But lips part to flash a much-needed smile
When she opens the door and ventures outside
A sparrow had nested in her hanging flowers
High-pitch chirps alert the world life has renewed
And gladly does she acknowledge nature's powers
A wee, brown owl is perched upon the sprawling oak
He's forgotten to take refuge as the night receded
Then a tiny tree frog begins his pond-side croak
She sees his motley, textured body and begins to laugh
For nature's creatures have learned to live carefree
As he does daily, the frog hops to board a lily-pad raft
The tension has eased as nature's chorus serenades
Such joy and harmony their songs evoke
She saunters through the woodland, joins their parade
Her heart is now light; she has mastered their technique
Overcome with gratitude, she skips along the path
Knowing that wallowing in sadness is never unique
For the blues will strike again as night covers the land
And she will face her personal demons once again
But for now she revels in these gifts from nature's hand
And to find relief the next morn, she will simply open a door
Step into the refreshing flow of a passing breeze
And find her way to happiness once more
For Farah Chamma's "My Favorite Things" challenge.
Oh haste, brumal mists, that twilight kisses
on hollyhocks, meadow-born,
Sweet tears resurrected on petals neglected,
collect 'midst the early morn.
The dew-christened flowers parading the hours,
sing hope to the callow hearts,
Then rises the moon, while it saunters to swoon
and the ballet of eventide starts.
Tall grasses that thrive with new life, come alive
with a shimmer of luminous lights,
A slow-spinning dance of glowing romance,
that July has thus gifted its nights.
A heavens' breast lighted by stars, unrequited,
sets stage on the vault, above -
Night's magic, gone viral, as fireflies spiral ...
in a whimsical waltz ... of love!
~ 8th Place ~ in the "Spiral" Poetry Contest, Kai Michael Neumann, Judge & Sponsor.
He saunters in with a slow steady gait
gathering all of nature in his warm embrace.
The whimsical artist splashes colors to sky;
miniature airplanes and exotic shaped kites.
Vocal chords of moon beams strummed by crickets and toads;
a serenade through open windows of our humble abodes.
So light on his feet; ocean's glass dance floor;
leading sailboats to sea and lovers to shore.
His breath on your neck puts you under his spell;
caught up in his love, as romances swell.
His pulse beats hot through sun ray veins,
then he showers us with gifts of cool, fresh rain.
We lounge with him in fields and meadows,
and miss him as Fall nudges him deep in the shadows.
A most unfortunate event
has occurred at our house.
It's embarrassing to admit,
We have a resident mouse.
The elusive little devil
has avoided every trap.
Though set in various places,
we've yet to hear a snap.
We have a playful tomcat
who loves his toy mouse,
carries it clutched in his teeth
to flip, toss and pounce.
Unfortunately, he performs
the same with a live one.
I'm urging, "Get it, kill it,"
he's too busy having fun.
Again and again he turns
it loose, enjoying the chase.
The mouse runs for his life,
hopeful of winning the race.
The crafty little victim
eludes the slothful brute,
scuttles down a heat vent,
leaves Tom to other pursuits.
Whereupon he saunters around,
searching for his toy mouse.
We're left with a useless cat
and a mouse in the house.
The Playbill for the 9/8/01 show at Godspeed Opera House falls from my palm to the floor. Here I sit, with a drugged hangover but alive. The last thing I remember is a suicide note in the Underwood typewriter on my desk, beside an ashtray of Blanche's lipstick smeared butts. Putting back on, the bifocals that had been dangling from one ear; I frown. I can't remember arriving? A phone's ringing; I stumble toward the tone. Odd looking thing, I think, as I bend over. The note taped to it says; it's a cell phone? "What the hell?" As I flip it open, I'm tackled. My heel slips on a broken pencil; I'm down. "What did you do? You bastard," he bawls, waving an airline ticket in my face. Looking toward him, I notice the stage still lit. He grabs the cell phone, "What the hell is this? You a commie spy?"- The 'phone? screen?' says 'Fred go to the opera house by midnight or you're both dead.' The curtain parts revealing a pool of blood: a chord is struck.
It's midnight accordin' to the ticker. I have a moment's relief before my arm's wrenched behind me. I'm cuffed. There's a shout from the lobby and the sound of sirens. Lifting me, he shoves me to the wall; locks me to the door pull. The theater hall appears empty except for us. Through a door, he charges. "Back here guys." The SWAT team arrives. "Smells like the dead in here Marco's, where's the body?"
"Ask him. Take him out and open some damned windows will ya." Two of the gorillas toss me on the porch under the moth laden lights. Just when the cop was about to kick me in the head; a woman screams. The coppers run inside. I hear a crash and a half dozen clod hoppers trompin', then through the door rolls a single gold earring. I scream "Blanche!!!!!!"
The crew hollers CUT-PRINT-It's a WRAP. I smile as Blanche saunters out.
part 1
We bend low under over-hanging branches
lit by reflected river-light gently shifting.
Our boots suck the muddy bank.
We wade into clear water
the dappled up-light playing
on our serious faces.
Intent on our task
hands plunge.
Cold-shocked I gasp.
You hold your jar steady.
I scoop mine.
Triumphant in a shower of icy prisms
we hold our prizes aloft,
laughing and shouting,
water streaming down our arms,
jars teeming with tadpoles.
Faces pressed close
to these underwater worlds,
we stand transfixed.
Each reflects a small disc
of sparkling sky.
part 2
April trees rake scudding clouds.
Far away farm dogs bark
at wind-snatched shouts
of bird-nesting boys.
Somewhere, a cuckoo calls.
In the back garden
a blackbird stakes out his territory.
Ignoring him the cat purrs,
yawning in the sun.
While unnoticed
on the garden table
beside a upturned jar,
a sprinkling
of flattened tadpoles
commas
drying in the sun.
The bored cat
saunters by,
her tail held high
in the shape
of a question mark.
Head down
The old woman sews
A dress
Nimble fingers
Marking each stitch
The whirring of machines
Whirling and whirling
Round and round
Threading memories
Of another time
Reminding her
Of a night
Long ago
When she was afraid
To speak to a boy
Sitting next to her.
As her busy fingers work
She remembers more
Of that summer night
A blue cotton dress
With tiny ribbons
Lace curtains gently
Pulled by a breeze
Drifted out through opaque windows
While musicians played a rhythm
Of their own
And shadows pranced
On empty walls.
Waiting that night
She wondered
Why no one
Asked
Her to dance.
Old memories
Glide by
On silver sails
And today?...
She knows that today is now.
And yesterday was yesterday
Finished with her work
She catches her breathe,
Straightens her hair,
And turns off the lights.
Pausing to look back
Into the darkened room
Shadows return her glance
With a gaping stare
Adjusting to the darkness
She begins to recognize
Familiar shapes taking form
Satisfied that all will be the same
When she returns
She closes the door.
Going outside
She holds onto her purse
Waiting
For a traffic light
That has already
Changed
A smile crosses her face
As she remembers
When the boy
Became her husband
Children were born.
And the years went by
In a brown bag
Neatly folded in two
Is a blue chiffon dress
Almost like the one
She wore years ago
Only this one
Is for her granddaughter
Impatient for no reason
To go nowhere
The crowd pushes forward
But the old woman lingers
On the corner
Savoring the moment
Glad of memories
As a busy world saunters by.
On a temperature perfect evening, while kids play and run
I am sitting in a gazebo under a slowly setting sun
Unexpectedly, an insect appears in my line of sight
like the stereotypical tear flowing from a man of might
Watching; it saunters around my feet
Is it afraid of my presence? Should it be afraid of me?
Have I become afraid of it? Paranoid are we.
Is this the feeling the great and defeated Goliath felt?
Intrigued by this encounter, I think what an awful hand this bug was dealt.
For I have now become judge and jury; The gazebo is now a courtroom
The insect moves beyond my feet and closer to me
My nerves all rise.
Perhaps I could crush this being
like a foot to a grape, its ending would be red
On the contrary, it's possible the insect just wants to be fed
Perhaps I'll relocate the bug without the shedding of slime
It would be hard to justify such action, consider the scene of the crime,
Perhaps I shall agree with its innocent plea
and leave it alone to let it be...
The latter I chose for who am I to decide
A splatter of a death for an outdoor being, being outside
Upon leaving the courtroom feeling justice was served,
I was unaware the insect was being observed
Compassionate was I, like a god being merciful to a sinner
but it was soon caught in a spider's silky web for dinner...
Written March 19, 2017
Boundless Blue
Born in a misty rainbow,
Blue slips out from her place
between her sisters Green and Violet,
painting the heavens azure,
covering the earth like the robe of Virgin Mary.
She floats into the ocean in a navy dress,
then waltzes on waves of the Danube.
Sailing the teal waters of alpine lakes,
she journeys to glaciers,
leaving her daiquiri-colored footprints on glacial ice,
taking some with her to cool the fires of Robert Frost.
She treads into meadows and gardens,
planting delphiniums, lupines, hydrangeas,
bluebells, and cornflowers to sprout in her wake,
with morning glories to climb fences.
People copy her free spirit,
painting their china in Delft and willow patterns,
sing “Blue Suede Shoes,” “Blue Velvet,”
“Blue Moon,” “Blue Hawaii,”
even play “Rhapsody in Blue” on their pianos,
blow their cobalt glass, dye their denims,
even their ice cream and candy.
They try to capture her lapis, turquoise, and royal sapphires,
pressing them into frames of silver and gold,
hanging them on chains.
She smiles at their craftsmanship,
then saunters down the path to the forest,
seeming to sway to her own swingy music.
With only her blue tick hound trotting beside her,
she picks wild blueberries, savoring the tart fruit
as its indigo juice runs down her fingers.
This poem was inspired by Meenakshi Raina's "Optimistic Orange". That poem is a great example of how fun it is to write about and personify a color. I encourage the rest of you to try it!
Contest: All Yours (May 5)
Sponsor: Brian Strand
5-5-21
It is the evening I have waited for,
stiletto heels three inches high adorned my feet,
real nylons hung from garters beneath a
skin tight, leather skirt of maraschino cherry-red.
A blouse of white silk, with a cascade of ruffles,
played peek-a-boo with my décolletage.
Outdoors, the rain pounded the asphalt
making the reality of his arrival even more bizarre.
A Harley barrels into the driveway.
Apparently, he thinks
he is Marlon Brando
and I am Stella?
I stand on the porch, a black umbrella
covering my new do, and watch as he
saunters through the puddles on the concrete walk.
The color of the umbrella my only
non-incongruent element in the frame, the scene made.
His smile was like a box of Chiclet's
on his clean shaven face.
He kisses me.
I lick the raindrop
from the tip of his Roman nose
and take hold of his Russian fingers.
He tosses my umbrella on the porch,
throws his black leather jacket over my shoulders,
lifts me off my feet, and carries me to the bike.
The sun breaks through the clouds and the rain stops,
just in time for the neighbors to glare at the sight of my legs
reflecting on the bikes chrome work.
Shake their respective heads
and donate a few wolf whistles.