Best Slippered Poems
My Christmas tree in sparkling dress
stands in my window to impress.
She smiles at all the passersby.
She waves hello. She is not shy.
She winks at all the trees she sees
in nearby houses on the street.
She seems to shiver with delight
counting the minutes till midnight.
For one late hour wakened from sleep
through the dark house on slippered feet
I crept, while up, to catch a glance
of tinseled Christmas ambiance.
Outside the window daintily
danced my glittering Christmas tree!
With others down the street and back!
They twirled around the cul-de-sac!
Amazed I gazed quiet and still,
propped against the window sill, till
tired but thrilled I left to resume
much needed rest in my bedroom.
I heard giggling in early light
when she slipped in and stood just right.
But, she leaves needles everywhere
and ornaments dropped here and there.
She’ll have her fun till New Year’s Day,
then take a nap all tucked away.
Next year she’ll dress and dance again
with all her many merry friends.
12/11/2018
Her radiant beauty crested, wave ebbing,
summer shakes her flowing green free of cooling rains;
yet, stubbornly they linger, gathering
in misty gray garlands about her peaks.
Decay's first browns creep among the flowers,
drab omens of pallid landscapes soon to come.
Vain summer! Water mirrors she left scattered
reflect from every concave surface of the ground.
Fearful of the season's ending glory,
she reaches for a gown only a queen could wear--
parading field and forest in cascading folds of crimson velvet.
Brilliant oranges, scarlet, gold weave her leafing harvest crown;
Her saffron slippered feet trip down a path of aging green.
Even the moon grows large with October envy,
but he cannot out do her flamboyant display;
his grand act only lasts a moment
compared to summer's pretentious autumnal show.
She hangs on, only brown remaining,
wringing out every vestige of our praise...
until winter comes, ice bragging, to steal the last away.
Copyright, August 28, 2014
Faye Lanham Gibson
All heaven's hosts rise early Autumn nights
A million stars a-twinkling merrily
The moon reflecting sun's diurnal light
Silhouetting lovers, snuggling cozily
My fireplace crackles, warming slippered toes
A whistle from the kettle on the stove
The doorbell rings; in cold like this, who goes
Come in, dear friend, do not this cold night rove
The stranger enters, shiv'ring head to toe
His face pale blue above his knitted brow
Removes his gloves; into his hands he blows
He would yet tell his tale, but knows not how
Exhausted steps, and then he stumbles, falls
~His story's buried deep within my walls
(Iambic Pentameter)
"SUPERSTAR"
You’re a diamond
Superstar
wonderful
dancing barefoot
Godiva
riding bareback
ocean rides
Stand, lift your heart
up in your hands,
the World’s your everlasting
Shining Shrine
Ultra cool shooting Sunbeam
Zephyr in your own
BLUE SKIES
Daisy Chain resplendent
freedom Queen Bee Crown
LOVE ONE ANOTHER
stand together
Girlfriend, you just
need to dig deep
See what I see in you
BELIEVE
L’il Sista. X
Big Sista.
You’re walking with
the hidden power
of a magical
Yellow Brick Road
Red Ruby slippered
Mega Watt Electric
Twisting Tornado
spitting out a
brand new
Diamond
Lady Godiva
SUPERSTAR
(Lovejoy-Burton/Jan 2018)
For my daughter, Georgia, given freely, with ALL MY LOVE.
And any other Sista’, needing some balm for her blisters...I couldn't resist ya...
1. "Hey Girl" / Gaga & Florence
https://youtu.be/ZGo1Cstx24I
2.
https://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/putting-an-end-to-shaming-and-criticizing-other-women_us_587534d0e4b08052400ee69c
The clouds drape low,
shrugging blue mountain shoulders,
melding with ghostly river mist
ascending in specterous vapor trails
salted with primordial tears.
Between stately mottled sycamores
and aged medicinal white oaks,
slippered phantom figures glide,
clad in hides of deer and mountain lion.
Down to the silvered stream--
a mirror for chalky spirits and bright stars--
they slip to drink of pristine springs.
The powerful spell impacts within, without,
invading every animated sense.
A dream, an apparition?
I wonder at the dawn of bright sun rising,
green moss clad boulders warmed, fog dissipated.
I discern the curious sensation
of withdrawing from an ancient trance.
The happy river dances down the valley,
bordered in mountain laurel ruffles, pink;
the fragrance of breakfast bacon wafts,
a tantalizing, hunger inducing wave,
and campers' laughter echoes off a dream.
Copyright, August 19, 2014
.
a day’s diary
turns to unwritten pages….
a new sun rises
from smoldering dark,
a spark ignites heart of dawn…
flames kindle the hills
darkness falls away
like the velvet rose petals....
a gold ring of sun
soft slippered skies watch
while drowsy earth awakens….
garlands of pink clouds
sun kisses the frost
with glittery lace designs…
dapples of white glass
begging attention,
the garden bursts into bloom…
valentine bouquet
all the red roses
stand tall with unabashed pride…
birds sing from the heart
P.S. Each morning sunrise is a valentine's gift. :)
For P.D.'s Contest: Valentine Haiku
In old fuzzy slippers, she makes her children's lunches
wondering and worrying if her husband has any hunches
of where she goes or what she does while he works each day
or that she spends her time thinking, "While the cat's away..."
In worn bedroom slippers, she kisses each darling cheek
a good mother is always loving. Role models should be meek
She hurries her young ones to the bus and off to school
aware of the ticking hands of the clock, but playing it cool
Doting mother, affectionate wife, in fuzzy slippered shoes
but there is another pair, the sexy ones she'll soon choose
Tucked in the closet are ones she keeps hidden, anticipating
how they make her feel, and the man who will be waiting
In black stiletto heels, she becomes quite a capricious flirt
Her husband has no clue. Oh, how much he would be hurt
if he knew of those sexy shoes and tight-fitting slinky dresses
the perfume she wears for him, the way she curls her tresses
And when the deed is done, she slinks her way back home
to bathe her secret sins away in a tub of bubbles and foam
Into those well worn slippers, she will slide her cunning feet
to welcome home her family, with a smile so sugary sweet
August 1, 2017
Two Pair of Shoes
for John Lawless
Into my mind, a muse is wont to slip.
Capriciously she comes to visit me.
She brings exotic wine that I might sip.
I then reanimate with poetry.
She glides on tiny noiseless slippered feet
to catch me unaware by night or day,
and swiftly I imbibe her liquid sweet,
for never do I know how long she’ll stay!
Too well I know before I’ve had my fill,
the drink shall be withdrawn. She’ll leave my head,
and when she’s fled, my brain grows cold and still.
I clutch the verses left me in her stead.
Forevermore, I pray, may I be graced
by her who bears the wine I long to taste.
Rog the funambulist
A paragon was Rog, heroic in the air, without airs
One of the most magnificent funambulists at ease
Whether walking a rope or flying on a trapeze,
Though he blessed the earth with no dauntless heirs.
None could ever hope to meet his burly like again.
How admirable was the way he stood, so poised
Muscles taut on his tightrope, the crowd un-noised
Agog, as he stepped off his platform drum, laden
With two massive iron balls held above his head
With nothing but his huge iron-bar moustache
To balance him, and a saving sense of panache.
Rog was unembarrassed though unencumbered.
He bore no unnecessary clothing, as he began to stride
Going forward, forty feet above the hard ground,
Looking straight ahead, as the crowd made no sound,
Eyes turned up at his almost bare bottom, and sighed
They gazed in awe, hushed in uncritical admiration,
As Rog held a two hundred pounds weight of iron balls,
Heavy, manly balls aloft, to earn him the more applause,
Balls steady over his glabrous head, wet with sudation.
The audience gasped as the taut rope trembled,
Twanging elastic beneath his firm, slippered feet.
The still warm wax in his moustache dripped suet.
Sweat oozed through his striped jumper, downward.
But Rog didn't tremble. Rog went forth on his way,
The way of the funambulist, not dithering or wayward.
Until the wax from his moustache fell ropeward.
Rog's foot was sure; Rog's arrant slipper caused dismay.
Rog slipped, and crashed to the ground, earth thumping,
Dropping his iron balls into the crowd, with abandon,
Maiming and slaying as Rog smashes into a circus lion,
Crumbling his skull, whence his brains were pouring.
The loitering lions were saved the trouble of cracking.
But Rog should not have waxed his handsome handlebar
So soon before he stood so perilous high, airily ahover.
There will ever be another Rog, so frightfully smashing.
Silent but Deadly (Written 2014)
In the heart of the nursing home where old folks stay,
Lived Erasmus, a man twinkling in twilight's array.
With a glimmer that danced in his mischievous eyes,
He concocted a plan to bring great surprise.
Not a prankster by trade, but a jester at heart,
He perfected an art that set him apart.
With a silent approach, undetected, unseen,
He'd let loose a cloud, where he once had been.
The residents gathered, unknowing, at ease,
Till the air filled with a curious breeze.
A stench so strong, it could wilt a rose,
They clutched at their noses and squinted their toes.
"Who could it be?" they wondered, looking around,
Silent but Deadly Erasmus made not a sound.
Except for a giggle, suppressed and discreet,
Erasmus, now hiding, pretending to be sweet.
The ladies, most prim, with their hankies out,
Fluttered and fussed an occasional shout,
"It's Erasmus again!" with a laugh and a tease,
Pointing at him, the one cutting the cheese.
Though the air was quite foul, the laughter was sweet,
As they chased down the halls on their slippered feet.
For in every life, a little fun must be had,
Even if it's a bit smelly, a bit bold, a tad mad.
So remember dear Erasmus, with his silent decree,
Who taught us to laugh, letting spirits run free.
For in the end, it's the joy that we spread,
That lights up our days, 'til we're finally in bed.
And so, in this home where the old folks stay,
The legend of Erasmus lingers to this day.
A reminder to all, that life's for the living,
With each silent gift that keeps on giving.
Imperative to see what fits familiar feet
with slippered glass and sand blown memories
of times which swift occurred then swept away
the remnants of a luscious perfect day
to wishes in the wells of self-defeat
and tragedy too painful to complete
the harmony eclipsing shadowed moons
to cool the concrete footsteps sunken hewn
It's with this feeling that I trace your steps
and hope to feel emotions that are left
like elements unmoving, set in stone
I feel them beat my heart when I'm alone
and in this solitude I see your face
as real and as alive as my disgrace
from blowing passed integral memories
imperatively set beneath your feet.
ON THE TOUR BUS IN SAN MAR-ANDORRA-STEIN
“We are older than your George Washington;
We have the tallest fields of cotton
West of the Volga; and our castles are small
But all guaranteed to enthrall.......”
It appears this swing-a-cat country
With its pipsqueak army
Of skirt-swinging, fur-slippered,
Medieval-style soldiers carrying a halbard
Has a National Income less, if you please,
Than most big western companies.
Oil comes not in a pipelines, but a tube’ll do
(Costing many hundreds of roubles too.)
“McDonalds came here five years ago -
Their first restaurant east of the Po.
KFC will be coming next year -
It will be a national holiday here......”
I climb wearily back aboard
Our tour bus here abroad.
I don’t wish to seem quirky
But I’d rather be home in Albuquerque.
.....................................................................................
Note
Verses in quotes are the tour guide voice. Other verses are the tourist’s
thoughts.
Evening tiptoes away on slippered feet
Houses up and down the street are silhouettes
The faint sound of a train whistles through the air
leaving a melancholy soliloquy resounding through the night
A table cleared of all traces of supper, is now set for breakfast
Doors are locked, and a screen has been put across the glowing embers
The two Labradors, in deep slumber, are curled in baskets by the back door
The house settles, like arthritic old bones
and the momentum of a busy day winds itself down
Beyond the kitchen door, a garden is washed white by the moonlight
A mantel clock is ticking, and the refrigerator is humming with comfortable familiarity
The moon slowly makes a shadowy passage
through the windows of each room
as it puts the house to bed...
I quietly head up the stairs, reluctant to let these parting moments slip away
Crawling between the cool sheets, I snuggle my head on the softness of my good fortune
In the long silent moments before I fall asleep
my drowsy eyes turn to wander
where window gazing finds the harvest moon
rifting in the darkness...
Against the moonlight, a magnolia branch is stenciled black and keen
Three stars are tangled in the topmost bough...
My eyes and I say goodnight to the moon....
and thank you to the stars.....
And today becomes tomorrow....
With the unlikely proposition that winter would end
green tips took
form
beneath the softening crust of snow around the
mail
box, a
collage congealed by road salt and sand
buried the early dream of spring in
a
granular mass
My slippered feet sank muddying the soft
sheepskin leather. Joggers pushing the envelope
as well
people the curb
cutting to the heart of the matter
springing forward with a rabid desire to bloom.
*I printed out Charlotte's contest direction and cut out the first word
in each of these lines.
You knew by then there wasn't much left,
except wandering sterile halls--
amid blackened lungs;
Where time meant nothing--
fading into insipid yesterdays,
knitting needles complicating--
tomorrow's worried hands;
Age, flattened numbers--
held tightly against your heaving bosom,
as if engraved with loss's stone endearments.
Charred coughs loudly wheezed--
spitting hope upon white cloths,
yellowing expectation--
between porcelain veneered smiles.
But you walked, smiling anyway--
around gurneys with little slippered feet.
Blond hair capturing sunlight--
through slanted windows;
Waiting for those Sunday visits,
when youthful optimism raced up stairs,
where it was greeted with nothing--
but grown-up lies.
Did you know I hated you then?
For no comfort could be given--
amidst such blatant denials,
preparation never kissed any lips.
Now conversations interminably hang--
like unfinished tapestries;
Threads slipping through fingers--
leaving me grasping at each moment's meaning...