Best Socialite Poems
An ancestor known as, "Miss Lottie"
Was a New York socialite "hottie"
To her lasting disgrace
She slapped Paul Revere's face
When he invited her to the p-ah-ty
One thing I have learned in adulthood
Is that were all a little strange
each of us, a bit misunderstood
The severity has it's range
Once you become a socialite
People expose their inner truth
You witness them at twilight
Or perhaps their lack of cooth
We encompass unique impurities
Living in the shadow of what we market
We clothe our insecurities
Or our faults become target
Behind every beautiful face
There lives a weeping soul
We keep it in its place
While spiraling out of control
Ever notice how most people seem normal ?
That is, the first time you meet
Dressed in their best and formal
Their head down to their feet
With time, the normalcy fades
Their inner weirdo rings
It shocks you like a hand of spades
When the fat lady sings
VENUS screams
Influential dreams
Incredible heavenly bodies BEAMING
CRIMSON FOES
SOCIALITE codes
Hovering SPHERES
All cheers send great
Wishes good fate
VENUS CHRISTMAS craze
Maddening Martian haze
PASSIONS rave
Monday laze
Ever lasting kisses
Chronic phase
Ultimate seduction
Immaculate immortality
Cleansing MORALITY
Mistletoe sumptuous kisses
CHRISTMAS SWITCHES
Next year all here
Repeat with flair
Mr. Spider is an ugly looking creature. He has a hairy face and arms. However, the hairs on the top of his head are somewhat thinner than those on his face, and scattered all over here and there. His hairs looked dark, rough, and stiff, but those hairs in his beard, which covered on his broad and flat face, were grayish white. Mr. Spider has a pair of sharply pointed claws on the end of his thin clumsy-looking finger. Moreover, he has hiding his sharp and crooked teeth behind his bushy beard. His two big, dark, and atrocious eyes never blink or move but fixed on one spot from behind the shadow where he was squatting down.
Ms Butterfly is an elegant high socialite. She always wears the colorful robe. She glides and dances in the air as if she were a piece of gorgeous floating corolla. She didn’t eat any solid food. She flies in the air and stops on one flower bloom to the other for delicacy of sweet nectar. She enjoys it, for it keeps her in good shape and enables her to maintain her coquettish figure forever. Ms Butterfly, however,
is an arrogant and selfish lady. She never considers the feeling of the others. She acted only for her own good, yet she was a just simple lady.
It was a sunny afternoon in early spring when Mr. Spider caught Ms Butterfly in his cobweb. When Mr. Spider saw her in his cobweb, he didn’t wait a moment. He dashed toward his prisoner. However, when he came close enough to grab her with his hands, he refrained from catching her, because he saw her helpless slender body trembling in the gorgeous robe, and her beautiful but fearful eyes, asking him
for mercy.
Since then, Mr. Spider has never left his cobweb. With his fascinating eyes, he has followed and stared at elegant Ms Butterfly from a distance, while comparing his ugliness with a gargoyle and thinking of his cursed life, as if he were Quasimodo on the bell tower of Notre-Dam, watching and admiring tenderhearted, naïve, and lonely Esmeralda.
[Although Ms Butterfly was not deserve for Mr. Spider’s pure and wholehearted admiration because of her frivolous, flighty, and insincere personality.]
Hannah Rayburn*
shared virtues she did learn
blest in her growing-up endeavor
inspired by Dad, a Holocaust survivor.
Emma 'Grace' McKee
showed values of spirited glee
along joyously functional friendship**
midst socialite Mom’s absentee-partnership.
*Hannah and Grace are the main characters in “State of Grace” which is an American comedy-drama series that ran for two seasons on the Fox Family Channel later ABC Family during 2001 and 2002.
** Proverbs 17:17 A friend loveth at all times…
October 28, 2021
1st place, "A STRAND (1066)" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand; judged on 2/5/2022.
A habitation hanging on a pole of love
circled by an orbit
of calm and tenderness.
Unto its walls;
purity and goodwill stick.
Floats on water and edged by the mountains
architectured by exotic plants.
Colour and beauty
mixed with the interplay of nature
as both the living and the inanimate
interact in ordered pattern and harmony
A place where time
has no definition
as so many todays
make up centuries
with nothing like yesterday or tomorrow.
It rains water in the morning
and in the evening, milk
with satisfaction and strength
the content of every marrow.
Everlasting joy;
you need not seek.
Bountiful kindness,
enjoyed even by a shadow.
Beautiful gardens and animals in diversity
forming a clique
as even the Lion's breast
becomes a succulent pillow.
Every being that breath becomes meek.
Unending peace
clinging unto you
like a lonely widow.
All in one simple existence
hardly to believe.
Is it the socialite and the geek?
Or the Eagle in dialogue
with the sparrow?
Are all rare happenings never to let go.
A land void of unpleasant states
where you can neither
find the weak nor the sick.
Equality and happiness is its constitution
with no one down graded to a minnow.
A site full of exactness and perfection,
a serenity edifying and accurate,
an atmosphere so complete and hundred percent.
Where in the world would this place be?
If not in my dream.
In the land of giving where orphans
openly share their palms of humility
upon the fist of rough winds
bearing the expired porridge
warmed by brown sacks of hope,
they flicker in candles waning blank.
This is the purest of a melody
soaked in gaunt eye-drops
singing alone,
infecting blue stars
to radiate into their creased fingers.
And the voice of alleys returns
with the same promise for another dawn
fading in yellow, stretching the reams
of grasses growing tall, taller
than the limbs of a city enduring
all the empty cans,
where mediocre socialite- smiles
don their thickened masks
on faces dark as hardened liver…
all this hypocrisy in the land of giving.
....................
Charlotte Puddifoot's Dark Poetry Contest
8/10/2014
Moon night!
Full quarter, half-moon snow bright;
Mid-day, mid noon, such a boom;
a Moon lit Knight;
Son of a Jewish Rabbi;
Birth given name Marc Spector;
Was a professional boxer?
Did a tour of duty, fought as a Marin;
Leaves them to join ops. In CIA!
Later in the parlay
Becomes a vigilante;
A gravity anti-hero;
Mercenary;
Killed by an Egyptian Bushman;
The Egyptian god of Konshu resurrects;
Marc Spector mercenary rich socialite;
Now transformed by this god into;
Moon Knight;
Vigil unto battle mode;
Ready to deal with any ordinary criminals;
Crime fighter dressed in WHITE;
With the crest of the quarter moon on his chest;
Moon night;
Full quarter, half-moon;
Mid-day, mid noon;
A Moon Knight!
8/6/21
10/3/2022 revision©2021, 2022©
"From anthology Marvel Comics Poetry BIOS"
For Moon Knight Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
I'm burrowing inside today
because outside, it's cold and grey.
I'd hate to be a socialite;
I much prefer to sit and write,
so here inside my house I'll stay. . .
And in this little getaway,
You'll find me in no negligee.
Instead, it's PJ's none too tight!
I'm burrowing.
I'll watch a TV matinee;
take time to see my kitties play!
I'll pop some corn when it is night,
then snug in bed and feeling quite
content, nod off. . . And that's okay!
I'm burrowing.
For Brian Strand's
AS YOU LIKE ONCE MORE any theme/any form 2 to max of 16 lines Poetry Contest
Although she's always attired in exquisite clothing,
Miranda Vasquez dances, but she's not a socialite.
She spends most of her days embroidering dresses
and decorating flowered fans long into the night.
Her finely sown garments would fetch a nice price,
but money is not what brings Miranda great joy.
No. For she gives them away to low-born ladies
who proudly wear her raiment of felt and corduroy.
Her garments are beautiful works of creative art,
similar to grand paintings from a master's brush.
Bright and bold colored fabrics she loves the most,
green, gold, and crimson hues of cheeks in blush.
Miranda is loved by young and old in her village.
A legendary figure she's bound to become in time.
With her dark lashed eyes and dainty red lips,
she's adored for her heart and tailoring, sublime.
Silence occupied the room for so long
No signs of a visitor to step on coming
Trying to entertain himself in craving
Of bygones and the future just like a throng
Shebang of party for a corporation
Another shanty is built for the hapless and poor
To prance inside malls to buy gifts and liquors
Some lull their little ones and enjoy the sound of the nearby occasion
Where some folks went house to house to go caroling
Street children do their own charm to get the pay of their talents
As the street, they considered as their home from abandonment
A strain to other’s eyes but to God’s eyes they are for caring
Some are excited to receive new things from exchange gifts
While others, jazz up old belongings to make it look like new
A mother holding her baby in her arms was cooing softly while lying askew
In the muteness of the night, both fallen asleep and had gone adrift
Into a socialite community a lavish buffet, at which guests help themselves
In the remote area's scarcity of food, at which family members do share equally
With their flickering gas lamp, spend the night hanging around the house lackadaisically
While others are enjoying the spectacle of the brightness of Christmas tree at twelve
The whole night of Christmas Eve was splendid to view
Alive and zest for a family with wealth
The whole night of Christmas Eve, that has dwelt
For the poor is a house frame suffused with a cold dew
A portrait of the Holy Family on the first Christmas Eve
Within that stable, baby Jesus was lying in a manger
A message of love, joy, and peace be extended to every stranger
On Christmas Eve, Jesus will visit every home and this is to believe
Posted in Voicesnet.com
23 December 2009
She has been a delight
since she first joined this website.
She performs an altruistic rite
both day and night,
sharing her insight.
Pious as an Israelite
ascending Mt. Sinai’s height.
She has ability to distinguish wrong from right.
Lactiferous with human kindness in a metaphorical light.
A moral beacon during a starless immoral night.
Always being polite.
An exemplary socialite.
Never requiring being contrite.
Displaying formidability despite
A genteel cortical initial sight.
Standing upright.
Possessing intrinsic might.
Speaking with eloquence forthright.
Containing innate perspicuous foresight.
She has a voracious appetite
for all knowledge in sight.
In addition, with encompassing insight,
she includes inscribed descriptive might
that can put up a fight
without any fright.
She may write
with words subtly lithe and light,
in quantitative measure appearing right.
About birds in flight,
soaring to great height.
Or sunshine exceedingly bright.
Sometimes a softly moonlit night.
Occasionally of gems of malachite
glowing like green moonlight.
Perhaps rubies luminescent with fiery light;
polished to a radiance shown in a volcanic eruption sight.
She is an experienced poet write;
a legitimate constituent outright
on this poetic workshop website.
She is not a literary neophyte.
Her face is not the sparkling mien of an angel
And her hair is not as hard as a horse’s mane,
Her gait is easy to predict and it’s nothing close
To the cat-walked strides that beauty models feign.
Her shy smile will send chills down your spine
But it cannot rival the practiced grins of a socialite,
She does not intend it but her cooing will drive
The most deadened stoic into a bout of sensual appetite.
She’s not any reincarnated ancient goddess
And she’s never thought so highly of herself,
Humility her weakness and coyness her strength;
Suzie disdains the quick girlish tempers of an elf.
With other pretty girls she does not herself compare.
Pageant judges can never fully unearth her limitless splendor
That puts hibiscuses and chrysanthemums to easy shame,
And makes all roses look uglier, and every peony feel less tender.
Suzie’s brimming beauty no fabled nymph can ever attain,
Though her humble aim is to remain hearty and ever plain.
Kim Kardashian’s weight
why
the
****
do
we
as
a
species
give
a
****
about
Kim
Kardashian’s
weight
while
pregnant?
why do we care about her ****ing weight while she was
not with child?
why do we care about Kim ****ing Kardashian at all?
she has been labeled a “socialite,”
she has been labeled a “television personality”---
um,
let’s just get down to it…
WOULD WE EVEN KNOW HER NAME
IF IT WASN’T FOR THE FACT THAT GUYS WANT
TO **** HER?
would we even know her name, if it wasn’t for her big
ass,
that much like Jennifer Lopez’s,
has been talked of as if it had a zip code of its own?
there had been rumors that Lopez got her ass insured,
because of its great worth…
there are rumors that Jennifer Love Hewitt is thinking about
getting her breasts insured…
this is the world we live in america,
this is what the empire does on the inside
while we beat other countries senseless &
force them to walk, talk & act like us on the
outside…
think of the time,
think of the effort,
think of the money,
think of the jobs involved,
all to get a picture of Kim Kardashian on the magazine cover,
on the website blurb,
on the television program…
just to talk of how much she weighs
while pregnant,
as if she had contributed
anything
at
all,
whatsoever,
to our advancement as a species,
besides being a goddamn doorknob…
and then in unison,
throw up.
The sertraline queen of New Orleans
Getting high on her brandy and coke.
Perched on a bar stool, surveying the scene,
While she lights up another smoke.
Tom Waits is playing on the radio
“In the neighbourhood”, plodding and slow.
Nicotine clouds drift across the stained bar
TV blinks in the corner, like a flickering star.
Sitting proud and upright in her red and white dress
Black shiny stilettoes, dressed to impress.
Flicks open her compact, with lips pursed and tight
She sharpens her edges, this new socialite.
Here she can be whomever she wants
Pick her own style, choose her own fonts.
Not just a mother, a daughter, a wife
Now a bohemian, pulsing with life
Redrawing her outline, sensing her form.
He tried to erase her, now she’s reborn.
Once bound with threats, with ropes made from fear.
But now she was free. He wasn’t here.
No more would she be stifled,
Excluded and erased,
Nor stand upon South Portland Bridge
Convinced she couldn’t be saved.
The barman gives her a sideways look
As he towel dries another glass.
He says “Do you want another one love ?
Or will that be your last ? ”
She sighs to see her black cab pull up
On the rain drenched, Glasgow Street.
“I’ll just have one for the road” she says
“But you better make it neat.”
Raincoat around her shoulders,
Collar pulled up to her chin,
She opens the glistening cab door
And nestles deep within.
“Where are ye headed ? Tis nae night for a walk”
Asked the cabbie, in time honoured patter,
“Just take me to anywhere else” she said,
“Keep on driving, the place doesn’t matter"
The Sertraline Queen of New Orleans
Watches tenements slip out of sight
Cheek pressed to the window of the steamed up cab
That delivers her back to the night ……………