Best Stockinged Poems
Ladies leather shoes
adorning stockinged feet
Clip clop
upon the catwalk
of the city streets.
Tired and aching after a long day
I bath them
then pamper and massage
to sooth those aches away.
The smell of those shoes
and her stocking feet
A feminine alluring treat
my tender loving lips
and warm mouth
find so wonderfully
sweet.
Bare feet
Another special treat.
Peter Dome.copyright.2014. Jan.
Kissed by the rebel mouth of Dionysus
set tight against their fulsome lips;
lapped into shapes by intoxicant tongues,
arms fused in a chain of swaying hips.
Tiptoe this sisterhood of Athena,
this trio in bright synchrony;
blown back on Acropolis stilettos,
risen skirts above the stockinged knee.
Aphrodite waged love at closest quarters,
hair and smiles in abandonment;
cocked ears unto the night owl's dreaming cry,
dancing rings on cracked cement.
And in their gentle, giddy transit
do these Three graces reincarnate;
resurrected in neon and nicotine apparel,
a vodka cocktail triumvirate.
With clicks of glitzy, glittery nails,
Beauty, Love and Pleasure burn the midnight oil;
the winds of Olympus ply their skin,
bled as one with each other on urban soil.
A graffiti collision of sensual ephemera
sprayed on a backdrop of brick and grime,
Three graces raised up by the ancient gods
from the mists and depths of mythic time.
Oh to see the marriage of their personas
bared in a nocturne, driven weeping,
only one lone gaze imbibes the miracle
for the world and his wife lie blind and sleeping...
The poor man on the street
With threadbare dress and blistered feet
'Tis his slogan, he howls,
"I feel hungry, my stomach growls."
The rich man sits to eat
With silken dress and stockinged feet
Tells after his plateful,
"I'm not hungry, my stomach's full."
The poor man sits and begs
For some leftover food and dregs
In his poor broken bowls,
"I feel hungry, my stomach growls."
The rich man's enjoying,
He's had his three course meal full swing,
Says, "I've had plentiful,
I'm not hungry, my stomach's full."
He'll never understand
(He's not hungry, his stomach's crammed)
Why that poor weak man yowls,
"I feel hungry, my stomach growls."
---------------
19.11.16
Red bulb
casts sultry shadow
across the
room
spilling onto the
street
air heavy with
illicit
night scent
rain smog weed and
jack
clinging
along for the ride
blurry eyed
distorted reflection dares you
“look up”
shoes
high with painted toes
pulse quickens
stockinged legs the
pathway to shapely hips and
white lace panties
silk
skims navel and
cups breasts
dark
hair spills
tense anticipation
fear
molten lava veins
palms
sweat
heart pounds in ears
feet carry forward
musty
perfume envelopes and
draws into her
realm
cash binds
the deal
one night of
passion
for your
probity
outside
inventoried oval-stoned
cathedrals appealing
chiming crimes of passion
woke citronella
fog
hung in cement-hamocked snowdrifts
cloaked slow on slick-stained windowsides
tenement sheets
with the pomegranate notes
of rhythms unrhymed
while all the uptown laundromarts
rising up
from insomniac-scrambled sidewalks
corked-copper moon tumbling earthward
like a sweet
sweatshredded pennants
of sun-saliva silks on rain-dribbled cotton
then
cherry-flat footsteps lust-percussive
under shamble-wracked sills
pause and then pass on
momentarily appeased in time by
blued bars on fly-fouled panes
bell tower-balanced above
taverns abutting back alleyways of
need
by fireplace mantle-pieced nooses
of nylonic shirts and poly slacks
and musts dusted-down
past stockinged-lidded faux plastic lampshades
passed on past magnolia movements
of fingertips on muscle surfaces
in-side
defoliate-spun spinnakered islands
chocked choked
in passing lynched adhesion
ignoring nicotine-papered stripteasing walls
or scotch-spat skirtings
creeping pedestal for
a moulded tangerine ceiling stuccoed into sudden mute
breath
rinsed down a night-scented-taking-stock
split-mirrored motel door
they go lunging over greasy chapels of
grit-grained
breakfast jasmine-tea-stained mock vinyl rugs
squeaking cot now like some
concreted river bed's of slump
of stun-spurned wants broken down
consciousness half-considered
stirring
Oh, Youth—naïve days lost,
Just learning life
In baseball cleats,
With soccer balls,
Days school bells rang
And girls, girls, girls:
Light lilting laughs,
Smooth budding curves
In sweaters tight,
Lean stockinged legs,
And perfumed air
Enshrouding each …
Oh, Youth—long, restless nights
When life knocked hard—
Those turned-down dates,
My anxious heart,
A stolen glimpse,
Small hand in mine
And, then, that night
Soft lips I kissed,
A boob I touched:
First teasing love,
My spirits soared;
Oh, Youth—where have you gone?
In 1950 the boy's world
was mostly populated by women.
Men were there as well
but they were like forces of nature
dark, incomprehensible, moving around
making deep sounds.
Women had red painted nails,
they had permed hair,
they had bosoms
smelling of babies.
They spoke often, mostly pleasantly,
their words left a dryish lipstick taste
on the boy's lips.
When they kicked off their high heels
the damp odour
of their nylon stockinged feet
had a strange allure.
There were little girls,
small feral things
with glittering, gathering eyes
and they sometimes bit.
The boy wanted one of these
but did not know how to acquire her.
So he touched her hair
and she slapped him away.
That night he slept with the sting
of her eyes
cuddled in his arms.
One cold Sunday morning
I walked across the road
Cold wind striking my cheeks, leaving its bleeding marks
Hands stuffed in my pockets, feet peeping through my socks
I sat on the cold steps outside an old church
I had no other place to shelter.
People came and people went
Carrying heavy hymnals
Wearing pretty clothes within fancy coats, stockinged feet in striking shoes
Some threw me coins, some just passed by
Till a little one came running up, took my hands in his little ones
Looked up into my eyes and smiled.
That my friend, made me warm
Forget my hunger and made me strong
To look through this cold day
And see another
Better and beautiful one.
The winter went and Summer came
I had a little shop by then
Fixing bicycle tyres, mending broken brakes
Hands covered with grease, forever on my knees
I sat on a little stool in my tiny rickety shed
I had a place now to shelter.
Children came and children went
Bringing bicycles old and new
Gaily painted shiny ones brought some, some ones battered by fond use
To some I was a friend, to others just a bicycle-man
Till one day came to my shed, my little friend who took my hands
And smiled at me on the cold stone steps.
He brought his sparkling new bicycle
Steady my handle, I can’t handle
This bicycle, it makes me tumble
In his eyes, I saw fear and hope
I bent down
And studied the cycle spokes.
“My little friend”, to him I said
“The fear is only in your head
Climb on the seat, look only at the road ahead.”
I looked down at him, smiled and said, “I know you can.”
He looked back a long moment and smiled
He gripped the handle and rode, bold down the road.
Trod softly with stockinged feet
hallways of righteousness
echo the sound of
mendacity
Ringing hollow on hallowed walls
the brides of yesterday
cry out in mourning
their excuses
Wed in white their vows falling
sweetly through lips tarnished
with lies overflowing
in laughter
While purity longs to be gleaned
on the morning of truth
passing in beauty
everlasting
© Mar 01 2010 Charles Henderson
Inspired by "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof" with Burl Ives decrying "Mendacity". This is a light slap
at second chance marriages that are done in white. Although I understand a white wedding
does not mean the same now as it once did.
I walk a knife the sharp side,
With stockinged feet.
My soles meet
The bloody shark, my bride.
Cut deep, spread the wound,
Find the sick in here;
Heal the fear;
Keep my fleeting mind tuned.
Find the illness, cut it all out.
Give me solid ground
All year 'round.
Give me my blood, without
Knives, without trees and rope,
Without adding pain.
I cry in vain:
"I cannot cope, I cannot cope."
While meditating earlier today,
a flashback leapt
clear for me to assay,
those ever receding
early boyhood daze,
now subsumed within fifty,
plus nine shades of gray
blissfully innocent naivety,
(though blessed) no way
would, aye desire to turn back
the hands of father time (hypothetically),
where unstructured play
regularly with older sister
(thirteen plus months
my senior) predominantly
slicing, sliding, and slipping
stockinged feet skittering
across slippery basement floor,
this then soul full
skinny thing bellowed hooray.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"I'm Matty Mattel; I got hurt;
Can you go out?"
Those words uttered
by the very first
pull-string talking doll
Mattel did tout
circa nineteen sixty
revolutionizing the birth
of quasi simulated (lifelike) toys,
and made of common
materials found scout
ting around the house simply comprising
hard vinyl (i.e. pseudo
plaster of Paris) head he did flout
with remaining body
stuffed with padding,
a definite no
no (chew toy) when Fido about.
Actually that pooch,
would be Georgie to you,
(a hybrid Boxer Dalmatian)
with docked tail
my young parents acquired,
when as a newborn,
aye did inconsolably wail
though recollection of such memory
fifty nine years ago tis of no avail
yet, a resumption of meditation,
sans lightness of being
(analogous trancelike state),
that doth prevail
replaying silent film preceding,
when psyche seem so frail
plummeting into emotional abyss
the nadir i.e. anorexia nervosa
pleading return to nostalgic boyhood
decrying change hide didst bewail!
THE ELEGANT ECHO
On the busy walkway of the city shopping center
In the air of elegance ruffling her well-set auburn hair
She walks in style on her stockinged slender legs
With delicately encased feet reclined on the golden stilettos
The beat of high heels echoes in the throb of many hearts.
June 6, 2018.
Papery feathers strain to take wing.
Frills ruffle, mythic masks gnash at the air
beautifully belligerent.
Plucked, they dally daily
between the surfaces of legend,
and the finery of a silk-stockinged
sentience.
Diaphanous stems are necks-laced
below an open-mouth in full quaff
pastel beaks
revealing a mute floral clamor.
Flame refined dragon-hearted blooms
they consume the oxygen of our
domestic awe. Pepper us with a
salty serpent presence.
Lightweight and splashily bearded
we see them gambol
on the tippy-toe of a metaphor.
When within a circle of sunlight
we place them,
they may fire-dance
with a scolding snippiness
goading all and sundry
with a dragons gimlet gaze.
Newspapers can be logs for the fire
or non-functional rolling pins
Obsolete as white-stockinged town criers
along with typewriters ~ has-beens
In a church where hymns soar high and free,
A mouse embarked on a daring spree,
Up the stockinged leg, it did dare,
Past the congregation's wide-eyed stare.
The preacher's wife felt a tickle, then a squirm,
Her face turned red, as it rounded a turn,
She jiggled and wiggled trying not to shout,
As the mouse explored, in and out, and about.
"Dear Lord," she prayed, "keep my composure tight,"
While the mouse ascended in silent flight,
A sermon on chastity, unintended yet wise,
Unfolds with a mouse, in disguise.
The congregation gasped, chuckled, then roared,
As the mouse's adventure became church folklore,
A tale of a climb, so bold and so high,
A mouse and a lady, under God's watchful eye.