The tiny shop was nestled in the historic Strand Arcade
and on every shelf, a treasured item was carefully laid.
On a gramophone, a seventy eight record was played.
Such a grand, delightfully soothing ambiance it made.
Curiosity drew me to examine everything displayed,
through piles of old clothes I could painstakingly wade.
There were wonderful period dresses of dainty brocade,
Gentleman's coats so well made of waterproof suede.
The softness of a Dior silk scarf with the edges frayed.
To be found, fine jewellery with precious gems inlaid.
There was a pendant and earings all fashioned in jade,
with a necklace that ornately allowed pearls to cascade.
Seeing the Aladdin's lamp, my joy was outweighed.
Presented in a velvet lined box, definitely first grade.
I was curious as to how much that needed to be paid.
Approached the owner, the price, hoping to persuade.
She hadn't received a violet grape purple envelope,
As the invited guests had done. It was more than she could hope.
Each guest had known for ages to expect the guilt edge invitation.
The bedraggled woman knew this wedding was way above her station.
She stood in the foyer of the church, through the window to the aisle.
Her threadbare clothes hung around her form in denial.
She watched him take her arm, as they approached the groom.
A hush was heard as the organ played in the room.
How stunning the bridesmaids, four beautiful girls,
The bride exquisite, her delicate lace gown studded with pearls.
The crowd were obviously all well to do,
Men in Versace suits, women clad in Chanel and Dior too.
She listened as they said their vows and swore to be true.
She smiled as he proclaimed to his bride “I love you”.
Marriage complete, they would all soon walk out to the street.
It was time for the haggard woman to make a hasty retreat.
He glanced at her but didn’t raise an eyebrow.
She would never be recognized the way she looked now.
It was so long since she had cried, she shed just one tear.
Her dear daughter would never know that her mother was here.
The Perfume Bottle Poetry Contest Entry
The Perfume Bottle
Lalique. Baccarat. Dior.
Crystal. Glass. Or something more.
Objets d'art in any tongue,
Be they old or be they young.
The bottle is not all, not so,
What it holds sets hearts aglow,
And rouses passion in one’s breast
Does it matter how scent is dressed?
To be sure it does my friend,
Without the bottle how would it end?
Drained upon the parlor floor,
Never to enhance amour.
What a waste that would be,
I think on this we can agree,
With the bottle there is no alarm,
Plus, it lends its own true charm.
Luxurious design in practicality,
That’s the perfume bottle to me.
So celebrate perfume’s sweet scent,
But it’s only the bottle’s… content.
A perfume bottle’s shape and size may dictate what you buy.
So pretty and so colourful all pleasing to our eye.
But then again it will depend on contents, and its smell.
A little sniff that we all take, is often how we tell.
Some perfumes that we really like, are ones we use each day.
A quirt upon our neck and wrist, is mostly where we spray.
Ensuring then we do replace the perfume bottle lid.
So, the perfume does not dry up, a crime we must forbid.
Our perfume bottles have their place, look pretty in a row.
So lovely that we feel we must, put them all on show.
But when the perfume does run out, the bottles rarely keep.
Instead, we buy another one, on special when it’s cheap!
Most perfumes cost a fortune, cannot believe their price.
Upon the shelf they beckon us, in bottles looking nice.
Designer brands, like Cartier, Lancome, Dior, Chanel
Attractive to our senses, they all have a lovely smell.
So yes, I do like perfume, many bottles I do own.
A perfume tragic I’ll remain; have even tried Cologne.
I feel complete, with a squirt, a different one each day.
Then replace the lid quite firmly, so I don't lose my spray.
Black Chador
The women of Alexandria wear a chador that
mercifully hides her bony body, she could have
fitted a Dior dress snugly, but she doesn't
know this, she has walked ten miles to buy
bread for her children
She has been to the fruit market too, where
where rib-cage mules with sores stoically wait
A rich, elderly English woman tells the mule
As the owner of it, she has never felt the pang of hunger
Nevertheless, she puts bandages on a mule's
open sores
The woman in the black chador is oblivious of this
Empathy for suffering animals is
a concern of
the wealthy, those who have time to care
Fancy dancy rooster with a cha cha cha
Strumped up like a prancy peacock, with a fah lah lah
Suit jacket was custom made by Dior himself, of course.
Daisies on the lapel are much too much said the horse.
The barnyard was messy with manure and stuff.
Fancy dancy rooster got splashed, stalked off in a huff.
Acts like a male peacock too, a peahen said.
The hens agreed that everything went straight to his head.
“Your mother’s love, the silent devotion ,the never heard prayers, the unseen care.” ~~ Shobhna Kanwar~~
She stood in the foyer of the church, through the window to the aisle.
Her threadbare clothes hung around her form in denial.
She watched him take her arm, as they approached the groom.
A hush was heard as the organ played in the room.
How stunning the bridesmaids, four beautiful girls,
The bride exquisite, her delicate lace gown studded with pearls.
The crowd were obviously all well to do,
Men in Versace suits, women clad in Channel and Dior too.
She listened as they said their vows and swore to be true.
She smiled as he proclaimed to his bride “I love you”.
Marriage complete, they would all soon walk out to the street.
It was time for the hagged woman to make a hasty retreat.
He glanced at her but didn’t raise an eyebrow.
She would never be recognized the way she looked now.
It was so long since she had cried, she shed just one tear.
Her dear daughter would never know that her mother was here.
Resolution this year…stop buying spree,
Infinite number …shoes, jewellery!
Dior purses, handbags nice,
Chanel dresses, reduced price,
Family panicks at purchase they see!
Clear the wardrobe, full of expensive clothes…
Gucci, Klein, Kors - covering head to toes,
I must donate some good stuff,
Don't I have outfits enough!
For a lifetime of posh glamour I chose!
He is a gentleman, refined and gentile.
A snappy dresser, Lord B.P.C. McBeel.
Look at his brocade suit, custom made of course.
His enormous steed is elegant for a horse.
Lord BPC McBeel did not look like a lizard at all.
He was low to the ground, but he came off tall.
His Dior fashion sense and his orange cravat tie
Showed us all that he was one GQ guy.
Trinetta was as gorgeous as her name, delicate too.
Standing on the steps, she outshone the Eiffel Tower.
Was she wearing Dior? Anyway, she looked expensive.
Elegance was her middle name; her hair was perfect.
Modeling certainly suited her, she had a flair and an air.
Her shoes were designer, she looked casually beautiful.
How do you know her? My smitten cousin asked me.
Apparently surprised that I had an elegant friend.
“Zest is the secret of all beauty.
There is no beauty that is attractive without zest.” ~ Christian Dior
I look around in wonderment
The sun is shunning bright
A feisty breeze flirts with my hair
I breathe with a rhythmic beat
My heart keeps up the tempo…
So why not I live my life zestfully!
A smile hovers around my lips
There’s a twinkle in my eyes
There’s a bounce in my step
and I am humming a tune all right…
So why not I live the day zestfully!
Lo, there’s love in the air
romance lurking in every corner
where every step has a dance
and a melody on every lips…
So why not I live the moment zestfully!
~05/12/23
~Contest: Writing Challenge 'Z' words
~Sponsor: Constance La France
He was the world’s last gun fighter
And he always worked in drag
Carrying his six shooters
In a special velvet bag.
No boots and spurs to jingle
As in to town he rode,
Just patent leather sling backs
High heeled and open toed.
He always arrived early
Before the heat of the sun
Always so very careful
His mascara didn’t run.
And when he’d done the job,
Left the body on the ground,
He always left so quickly,
Never ever hung around.
The world’s last gunfighter;
He always earned his fee,
And always in the morning so
As not to disturb his Earl Grey tea.
Then he carefully slipped back
Into his other life;
A gas fitter in Cheltenham
With two kids and a wife,
While the police of the world,
Who really didn’t know
Hunted the femme fatale
Of his alter ego.
When the next summons came
In the want ads of the Times
He’d don his Dior dresses
And kill just one more time.
Well it helped to pay the mortgage
And kept food on the table
And a mans got to do
Just what he’s really able.
He was the world’s last gun fighter
And he always worked in drag
Carrying his six shooters
In a special velvet bag
No greasy treats from chippie van;
I have my starch now au, gratin
with blasted, deconstructed bass,
petits pois, served; in Demi tasse.
No pint of best down at the pub
I drink with chums now at the club;
Prosecco, or a Chardonay
depending on the time of day.
No picking up the kids from school;
done by Au pair now; as a rule;
she turns up in our four by four
dressed top to toe in old Dior
No visits to the Home Depot
I have ten craftsmen now in tow;
who add things at my beck and call
to my enormous stately hall.
No need to visit family;
They all now want to come see me,
drink all my wine, then use the pool;
methinks they take me for some fool!
There's nothing left that I can buy;
so why, you ask, that big old sigh?
I have new friends, but here's the rub;
I miss my mates down at the pub.
Yes, being rich is such a bore!
The wails of a goddess comes with heated heat & excitement / that causes stings / a symptoms of Gonorrhea / but with the right boot "Goals no rare"
To those who long my goddess with me / i send loads of love to fall on you / I'll continue to chest your arrows for I be Drogba / no matter how skilled you're " A le ri draw gba"
They say chelsea owns the blues / you're just An Everton with stripped white lines / you can't lead the blues / i own the blues with it reggae
Every dawn comes with love / but Friday class with barrister tu / hatred - hissess - sudden projects - open test /I cheat / my babe cheat to
After the stress / I come to love the earth with a good soul / sit on the lyrics of Dior with pop smoke
I'm Ismail Junaid Oluwadamilare that's my ID / not Ìdòwú / don't call me ID
I'm a poet / i do poetry / branches bend for me when I'm tired of the summer / that's the poets tree
I return a song of tribute to father Shakespeare / i just murder lines i don't shake spears of poets /they've bars to
I've sealed all the madness of love that dwells in me
The dress
Couture Dior
Embellishment, gemstones
Rich hues, deep sexy cabernet
my fairy tale, a quest for romance, dance
a frock fantasy has gone wild
I’ve fallen madly for
“Joie de vivre”
the dress
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