Best Waists Poems
As chandeliers drip ‘round the hall
Bouquets' scent wafts through night’s affair.
In gown of lace she sways with flair
Until her man bows ,to enthrall
A glide of waltz into soft flight,
Where other pairs hope to find bliss
On firefly steps, perhaps a kiss
That her arms fling to breath’s delight.
In whirling turns, she lifts in style
And a roulette from dancing guests
Enchants the tunes of pleasure’s zest
While coy romance drifts and beguiles.
The violin presses a hum
As her glossed eyes casts on his face,
Igniting dipped waists to succumb
Within the fling of an embrace.
Ballroom Delights Contest
12/1/2014
Fashion cover girls these days
make me sick,
All haggard and thin,
they look like .bean poles
Picking on South Beach diets
to trim flat waists
Do they have a life
'midst those surgical lifts?
I wonder if they cover up
bulimia blues with false lashes--
And party till sun up
to look doe-eyed come photo shoots!
-------------
Contest of: Frank H
nette onclaud
Seeking a better life and with chance at hand, our new life awaits
Wife hires on as servant, daughter and I stowaway as it departs
Our life's dreams sail on the USS Titanic, a new future to create
daughter and I conceal ourselves while wife toils with bunk-mates
We would change places to stay warm from bitter cold and storm
my young baby I wrapped up tight, this kept her warm to my delight
We count days till our new home, I worry and pray my wife is warm
A few days passed till that night I awoke in sheer terror and fright
Hearing metal tear, as cries and screams begin a siren sounds above
We're in warmth deep beneath the decks I grab my joy to face regret
We're not far from mom, I push and shove to get her one deck above
The time is short as I open door, to reveal wife's tears, glad to see, yet
to escape I tie a rope about our waists for in this flight can't separate
Then we begin our quest to the night air knowing we're 5 decks below
scaling 2 decks with speed, all converge but keep moving can't hesitate
Baby in hand we drag and claw moving to air, all moving with the flow
One more flight of stairs to fresh air, I take wife's hand to lead her their
Ship tilts as we get through door to sky then falling down into the night
A sudden jerk as rope catches pipe saving us as others fall in pairs
with bitter cold and death insight, I plan again how to win this fight
A mans wool coat 4 feet above I grab his coat as life slips from hope
Wrapping about my baby and wife, for warmth, in this my last night
Water rising swiftly only a few feet below, I swing wife and cut rope
Their flight to the ocean, as I follow them into the icy cold midnight
We find each other in this dark abyss, then fight to swim to life
We reach trash still afloat raising wife and babe to safety I cover tight
death assured in my last fight I tie raft to boat and tell my loving wife
I love you both fight to save your lives, as I sink from view in the night
Hours passed her body heat spent, pulls to boat in her last attempt
She wraps baby in all the clothes and begs they save her from my fame
Her baby safe as she can plan she cuts the rope with this last lament
When you all survive, let all who ask know my sweet daughter's name
This is a fictional account of the youngest survivors journey to safety, Elizabeth Gladys Dean
Our black, firm, waists, so taut and thin,
the preferred drink was Saphire gin,
and in the dreamy cool black night,
beating hearts, living skin!
What if our Easter Sunday was Holy Spirit led?
What if in place of colored eggs, lost souls were sought instead?
Instead of hurried egg hunts, we’d hurry to Christ’s grave
Rejoice to find it empty, and shout within the cave
What if crimson spotted robes replaced our light pastels?
And thorns were thought more beautiful than eggs with painted shells?
We’d tie our aprons at our waists and wash each other’s feet
A sponge of vinegar we’d taste, instead of chocolate treats
What if the fluffy bunnies moved over for the Lamb?
And recognized the Prince of Peace, the King, the great I Am?
Instead of Easter baskets, our hearts would overflow
With kindness and concern for those we do and do not know
A prize egg fat with silver coins would lose its mass appeal
For Jesus is the Risen Christ, and all before Him kneel
Father, Teacher, Son of Man, Redeemer, Risen Lord
Master, Savior, Son of God, Christ will not be ignored!
So as we dye our hard boiled eggs, and tie our pretty bows
Let us remember Jesus Christ, from whom all blessings flow
Ours is life washed free from sin, for Jesus paid the price
He died to rise on Easter morn, our living sacrifice
At the Parisian Ball
wrapped in finest gowns
of virgin-snow, sugar-rose
and washed-out pistachio pastels
The hour-glass shapes
with tied narrow waists
waltzed with gallant men
togged up in midnight-dusk tails.
Victorian ladies in frilly petticoats
and gossamer laces
swirled in delicate silks
Lifting their pretty faces
to crystal candelabras
to ceilings'baroque paintings
and to the chattering sounds
of the gathering crowds.
From the half-opened pantry door
She listened to the music
which played melodically all night.
In her simple black dress
nude stockings,white apron and cap
Solo,She danced,with the light of the moon
which was glowing so bright.
Her slender hips swayed
in a flirtatious curve
Wishing...Dreaming
to get a glimpse of his world.
Through the mirror on the wall
She saw him standing tall
As he danced with his noble mademoiselle
Through the mirror on the wall
He saw her standing small
He caught her reflection
young love and affection
Yet,He kept standing there.
She swore She could feel it
The longing,the feeling...
It was written all over his eyes
He never got closer
His princedom can't own her
But She knows She's the one
She is that little star
which keeps falling so softly
in his cold vacant skies.
Like A Dream..
Like the days in The Cradle..
Like the tale of Samson's Riddle..
In The Wake of your Fiddle..
Our Waists In Consortium..Like Beaded
Eroticas Wiggling..
Like A Dream..
Our Stroll Hand-In-Hand By The Beach..
Like Heights We have Reached..
Like The Sweetness Of Depths Unsearched..
Like This Pen I Screech..
Like Those Verses Of Wisdom We Thus
Preached..
Like A Dream..
Like The Wisdom Of Great King Solomon We
asked the Father For, In Tones that
"Beseech"..
With His Divine Wisdom and Grace We
Revolutionized Souls That Once Thought and
Acted As Leeches..
The Weight and Comeliness Of These Lines you
Call Speeches..
Like A Dream..
Like God's Kiss On Our ForeHead..
Like His Comforting Voice In Times Of Sorrow
and Distress..
Like The Outpour Of His Salient Breathe On
Our Humble Souls..that Guided Us to The
Crest,
Like A Dream..Hardwork and Its Little
Stress..
Like A Dream..In Luxury Prepare to Take Thy
Rest..
To Listen To The Voices Of My Childrens'
Playful Shouts and Screams..To Dance This
Dreamy Waltz What Shall It Take..To Show Our
Gratitude To The Almighty Please Tell Us
'What Shall We Shake'..
Like A Dream..
Like The Flavour Of These Rhymes..
Like The Heart-Felt Savour Of These Cleverly Structured Lines..
The Happy Ardour Of Such Salient Chimes..
Thus Read..What Joy We Thus Feel In It We Sublime..
Sweet Rhymes Thus Played On Musical Strings Of Time..How Happy..
Thus Life Is But A Dream..See Through.
They write in the language of perfume
flowery powdered words all layered
colours rising and lowering
in different light spectrums
as if the reader could discern
without wisened translator
their seductive dimensions
conveyed within
their small larger other worlds
notes upon notes, heady notes,
their subtle infractions
like music tinkling through
the brain bleeds, poets
and their otherworldly refrains,
naphthalene aired for old time’s sake
shaken out like clean crisp white sheets
billowing in the translucent lingerie breeze,
bedrocks shaken
the little flocks
small black murders flying
provocatively erratic stirred up
off the cobalt page
into an evocative
higher wider
elusive space
taken shockingly aback
where the heady blast
of Spirit of Hartshorn
shakes buried lover’s awake
to walk barefoot and naked
blindly in love
touching each other
through the long wet days
sugar-coated addictions
tall poppies crimson pimpernels
wading nubile through blades
of silver moon grass
licking their ankles and heels
raising their prim outskirts,
forbidden territories
within the rising mist,
the ever present,
like a breeze,
kisses their ripe
cherry orchards
unending hunger
satiated, all is manna
as they meander
through daze of
dusky dawn valleys
those garden of eden thighs,
the transparent,
slithering like hands
caressing treasure trunks
ivy leaves for plucking
further up above
the high waists
to touch what
wastes away, unheard,
what beats there,
where the crown sits
like some holy being
under its ribbed cage
red ripe like a seeded apple,
that place, just there, beating
singing some kind of hymn,
like a regulated anthem,
they're way up into their feels
like some devilish chase
like heaven's come
calling them away
They write in the language of perfume
flowery powdered words all layered
colours rising and lowering
in different light spectrums
as if the reader could discern
without wisened translator
their seductive dimensions
some things are better
left unsaid
like this Magdalene,
K.I.S.S.
Candide Diderot. ‘24
FOGGY NIGHT ©
The white orb, saturated with
tidal flows, peers through the
veil.
A ghost ship slips up the fog
laden channel.
Night gulls. sing with strident cries
fog seeps in, the tide rolls out,
day is gone, the night creeps on.
Trees, dressed in ebony, drift by.
Water glistens, gold and wet.
Edges blurred night is soft and
tender, damp seeps into cloth,
hair, bone.
Tents of light spread over the
foggy landing.
Hunters of the sea know not day
nor night, fishers all,
white feathers stark against the
darkest shadows.
Palm trees, silhouetted in
ochre gauze, black brushes hard
with paint.
Pilings sway, their waists cinched
with rope.
Matronly sentinels, the craft finds
the woody bosom.
Trisha Sugarek
Butterflies and Bullets
A FULANI GIRL’S COMPLAINT
I carried water. I did all the house cores. I drove and bred the cattle one and alone, singing songs, running and climbing mountains. I milked, sold milk and bought you silk. I ground the corn and cooked your meals. I woke up on the peak of the seasons and carried duties; I did all these to be given to a wild hard-looking stranger like a cowry!
I spent my whole youth among trees and beasts in eloquent silence away from siblings, aloof! I learned and loved God through things that spoke to me, indented, with neither paper nor pen. I wore a strange hat and a stiff piece of cloth that fell on my knees revealing my bony legs; I had strings knotted around my waists and wrists and neck to be betrothed to a wild hard-looking stranger who swept me as if I were a cow for sale, reaped my inward garment and damned my virtue! His words are swords; his horn is a worm that eats in me, wholly!
Oh, Aunt! You fastened my tongue and sold me like Dauda’s slave who would quit me by day leaving me starved, empty bottles and pockets in Gbaya’s tins. Aunt, don’t care the whips, the solitude, the empty stomach, the hands that hurt like electrical cords, but, my aunt, his words are worse than swords and I miss my olden days, the twilight, the humanly beasts I forsook for the beastly human, mother’s looks that hook the heart, oh, I miss my old self!
Galim (Tignère), April 22, 2012
Jaafar Sadig El Waad
True Identity (By:Josner Saintil)
There are girls who go about
With short skirts and unauthentic hair
To get them, many men would fight and shout,
Yet they are not regal or fair.
They do what they see others do
They dress sinfully or to attract attention,
Following the crowd absentmindedly,
Just makes a mindless girl with no identity.
There are boys who get girls easily
Pants always below their waists
Not really knowing what Love is
Only lust for a pretty face.
Tattoos and gold teeth
Trouble, weed, and going to jail foolishly.
But a grown man with no future, Just makes a hoodlom with no identity.
Many let the world and music change them.
Thinking that a club
Is more important than education.
Trying to live like rap stars
All mindless fools
'Cause not knowing what you stand for clearly,
Just makes an uncritical thinker with no identity.
Those who stand out from the rest,
With great thought for tomorrow,
Those who see the world for more than it is,
Knowing that this is a world of sorrow,
Where dog eat dog in any way,
But still work and dream for a better day.
Those who know who they are and going; their destiny,
Are those with TRUE IDENTITY!
Sometimes studying the mirror I'm overcome with chagrin
Feeling disappointed by this shell I'm dwelling in.
With my slightly too thick midriff there above my underwear,
I'm more the rotund apple than alluring luscious pear,
Making ludicrous comparisons to girls with waspy waists,
And my nose, Lord, Pinocchio's, upon my pleasant face
With its odd small accompanying hump placed what!...To accentuate?
Later, however, on better days, my focus redirects
To reviewing my favorite qualities, and what I see reflects
A somewhat shapely figure; Legs lean, well-formed and strong;
Lovely eyes, lips and breasts, and lashes that are long.
So I'm obliged to acknowledge with accepting certainty
My temple, though flawed, was gifted by God
(And there's always rhinoplasty)!
For the "I Am" Poetry Contest of Frank H.
Seconds, minutes, and hours
Days, weeks, months, and years
Pass so quickly with the breeze's tears
With no limits to stop their powers
Lives are tied to their waists
Where no one can escape into different times
That touched their lives with beautiful chimes
While others awaited their flights
They meet many people in their path
And invite many newborns to their parade
Providing each with a unique cascade
That beholds their destiny as a shallow bath
Time flutters away so quickly
Where newborns stretch and grow
Sailing across all the stages their chateau
Presenting the moments they will pass by
Newborns, then, become old people
That sit on a rocking chair
Helpless, tired, and exhausted from smell of the working air
Unable to climb their inviters' steeple
One day, old people's breathing ceases
And tears begin to gush down many cheeks
Muted by the sorrow filled within their tweaks
As the old people. the brave leaders, wave their good byes
For, they left many stranded from their tender
With no one else to replace it
As blocks of emptiness fill many with whit
As the leaders shall never return with a splendor
Seconds, minutes, and hours
Days, weeks, months, and years
Took many of our beloved old people, our leaders
As the eye sight is prevented from seeing then further more...
Mother Africa,
Gather your sheep like a good shepherd.
Teach them morals and guide them rightly,
Educate them on African Values and culture.
Protect your sheep from the hynas and lions
That parade more in the forest of life to kill.
Remember the community begins at home.
I know you are not irresponsible like the Goat
Who has three breast but gave birth to four kids;
What will the fouth kid suck if others are sucking?
Guide the boys to stop looking at the Ladies lustfully,
The girls must bring their husband home as it is
Stated in the tradition of Africa, no under tree love.
Cover your children with your wings like
Mother Hen covers her chicks against the kites.
Do not go loose in front of the young minds;
For when mother cow is cropping giant grasses
Her calf watches her from behind the scene.
Act like the mother you are not like a child you're not.
When a child misbehaves in your presence,
Hit him with a rod of correction and bring him
Back to your side with a sweet flavoured left hand.
Educate the ladies how to close their legs while sitting, and the boys, you must not leave behind;
Teach them that Africans never pregnate a lady before they marry her and the younger ones,
Tell them that Africans don't put their trouser
on their waists.
See her in skimpy skirt and drive the skirt away from her waist, African women don't wear skimpy skirt.
Those whose wrapper always untie because of civilization, padlock the wrapper to their waists.
Those boys whose pants flip up and down publicly,
Tie their pants with ropes to their waist, Africans have a face to preserve and protect in days to come.
She lust after money when in love and lost her value, show her what love means to Africans.
Father Africa, leave all not in the hands of Mother,
Bark when you needs to bark in front of your sheep.
Roar like a wounded Lion when the sheep goes wild,
All should not be left in the hands of Mother Africa
Nature has made us two, two together, two hearts beating as one can preserve many lost dignities.
You and you can save the you that stray away in shame.
(C) John Chizoba Vincent
All Right Reserved 2016
(PROMP:[3:29am] angel!jeongin lies next to you and hugs you as you cry, telling you to stop missing him “it’s okay, I’m here” PROMPT CREDIT TO -imagineskz.tumblr.com POEM BY- Tegan Elliott)
It was tears,
Broken dreams,
Broken hearts,
And a broken body,
Towed away,
He was young,
Seventeen,
He was young,
Soon to be eighteen,
He was young,
The clock shattered,
Windscreen broken,
Crumple zone in,
In on me,
Under covers,
Hidden in beds,
My minds crumple zone in.
Tears whipped,
Crumple zone out,
The bed dipped,
It’s all folding out,
Cover moved,
cuddles ,
Wrapped around waists,
Metal wrapped around young waists,
Gone,
New tears,
Never gone,
Praying for him back,
Wanting not to miss,
But him gone now,
forever ,
Towed away,
Too young.
Angel kisses,
Pressed against cheeks,
A simple halo,
Wrapped around bodys,
Hands playing,
With mine,
Kisses against cheeks,
Only cold breezes,
A freezing drift,
But windows locked shut,
Love wrapped,
In every touch,
Praying to stop missing him,
He’s too young,
Crumple zone in,
Angels kisses,
Crumple zone out,
“it’s okay, I’m here” ,
Silent words,
Crumple zone in.