Starlight stirs my coffee
the moon a soft croissant
hangs upon the painted sky
lilac or saffron my essence
new tidal ebb in accession
impassioned lyrical swells
rise as the sun surrenders
in a haze of dusty rhymes
biscuits await upon a doily
spiced rum waits for no one
breeze sways the tablecloth
silver leaves dance in the air
beach velvet awash in twilight
stars pour in porcelain cups
lingering, adrift or chaperoned
morning vow rises in steam.
lyrical swells dance until dawn.
Baby's Breath
(For my sisters and Anne)
. for public domain
For years, I found no time for tender gazes
on flowers and baby's breath in colorful vases.
My sisters, and Anne, however, could spend all the day
cultivating garden beds for the blooms of May.
My share in their floral adventures
was to tote heavy pots of soil,
dig endless holes for spots in beds.
To me it was nothing but toil.
The payment for years of sweaty labor
are whimsical looks from passing neighbors,
and wistful memories of lovely vased blooms
centered neatly on my bedside table,
resting on a clean white doily,
dressed with Baby's Breath
Cocoa kissed delight on a floral china plate.
Haute couture, or a humble local bake?
On velvet mauve, the table set
Cherries glazed, maraschino duet
Overflowing sauce, the doily collects
Layer on layer of cocoa kissed bake, made perfect
Aromatic bliss, a taste none should miss
The velvety ganache of roses, sit atop
Eat me fast, the silent call won’t stop
Cup of coffee the perfect partner
At high tea a sinful starter.
Kudos to this temptation in brown
Euphoria and drool it spreads around.
Body Soap
I’m training the liquid body soap I use to
make the least effort keeping me
clean to
distinguish who
isn’t and who is
clingy,
in manner a
cloth or
a doily should be worn on
the head when outdoors.
My muse has left me
I don’t blame her at all
I bleed peach poetry
And I rarely barely talk
My mood is melancholy
For I’ve lost inspiration
Mellow moon is calling
My muse in anticipation
Shining like a silver star
She dances with no care
Her steps hypnotic free art
Like blue breeze blowing hair
The song she sings
So beautiful like flowers
Creates in me doily dreams
And somber purple powers
Now she took music
With her when she left
As if her very movement
Curses me blind and deaf
I’ll write of her laugh
Of her smell and her voice
For she is my past
My remembrance of joy
Perhaps she will come back
When my mood is not so black
No one knew where Faerie Godmother lived, but we had our suspicions.
About a lady down the road whose taffeta skirts were always squish’n.
Pearls and whistles are on her clothes and she saunters when she moves.
There was a special essence about her, she was in a faerie kind of grove.
If you saw the house, you might also peg her as a likely suspect.
Her house was done up in doily and swirls, never circumspect.
There was an ambiance about it that made you think magic was about.
I try to follow her and see what she is doing when she ventures out.
Perusing the tea, what it brings, vitality, refreshing, or tranquility.
tea’s altruistic -
the elixir gives itself
to succor ailments
I warm leaves up when my hands and feet are icy cold. The boil arouses my expectations. The raucous kettle poured over a roomy sachet.
the tea bag’s floating -
my bobbers are on its craft
as the scent surges
My hands rejoice as they gently wrap around the cup and rebound. When the minuet knells, the unfurled dose is tossed and what remains is to be enjoyed in a calm and comfortable setting, ideally with pretty things and perhaps a nibble of treats.
lift from lace doily -
a sip of essential oils
and crumpet or two
What’s better than to sit across from special friends. The setting of a magnolia tea house or with one’s teddy bears.
little ones practice -
imagination infused
with love’s sugar cubes
Perusing the tea, what it brings, essence to our lives.
Three-Legged Table
As I drove through an old neighborhood, I spotted a garage sale sign.
I pulled off to the side of the street. With impatience, I couldn't get out
of the car quick enough. Right in front of the drive sat a vintage,
small drop-leaf, three-legged, brass lion claw Duncan Phyfe red mahogany table.
The price was outrageously cheap. I could not resist in buying this magnificent well-kept antique table. I managed to put it in the trunk and securely tied
a rope to the trunk lash so, it would slightly close and the table wouldn't fall out while I drove home.
high expectation
valuable old treasures
arouse excitement
In my living room, well-polished table sits. An old fashion crochet doily is used as a coaster for a vintage Fenton Hobnail milk glass with ruffle edge vase, filled with fresh cut gardenias, and a pair of matching candleholders.
antique possessions
constructed with great prudence
ages have long passed
waiting is my mainstay
I am a wife and mother
I do not mind
I relish waiting
I can crochet a pink hat
tat a lacy doily
draw a dragon cartoon
write a poem
design a business card
I am a Gemini
I can entertain myself and gladly
I was lying about the doily; I never learned to tat
Aves above, meadow below, secret catacomb
Scattered labyrinth accommodates as garland
Armour of thorns reborn as cordial yellow crown
Mother comfort apricot offers pleasures wafted
Mauve curled demure uncovered, velvet vortex
Birthday cake cream mingles fruit tingle hues
Morning crisp evaporation uplifts exulting heads
Flushed faces exhale, held in grateful hands
Nostalgia sends invite to nuptial rain haven
Doily draped tea table sips rosehip heavenly
29th April 2023
Contest: Rose Meadow
Sponsor: Julia Ward
Pink sixties floral design on the back of this snail so gay,
I look and ponder, wondering who owned it once upon a….
Was it an older woman, with snow white hair and wrinkles
Or a young girl wearing a pinafore whose ribbons were in crinkles
Stories parade into my head, making me smile like a mime.
This lovely snail is darling, a fashion statement of the time.
I pick it up and think about taking it home with me.
She could sit on the edge of a doily while I drink my tea.
Before I can pick it up, an older gentleman comes by.
He picks up that floral snail and gives a long earned sigh.
My granddaughter used to have one, he said, speaking to me.
I wonder if she would like this one while she drinks her tea?
The old lady down the street has passed
and left no one they could call around;
except her old cat she called Miss Sass
It will take looking before she's found.
Her friend decided on a yard sale.
Mostly junk will be all we will find:
a worn garden spade and battered pail
remnants of flower beds left behind.
A crocheted doily on arms of chair,
placed in front of an ancient TV.
With Bible on table, she took care
as she read, to have a cup of tea.
They found a small trunk just loosely bound
that contained a locket of fine gold.
and a photo that when it was found,
showed three little girls midst bits of mold.
She had three daughters, she had once said,
but they would not visit anymore.
They must not have cared; can't all be dead!
then they found the trunk's wee secret door.
There, a large diamond ring brightly shone
They decided, as they locked the trunk:
Sell, give money to those all alone.
If her girls call, say it was all junk!
March 5, 2023
for Writing Challenge--J Words
by Constance La France
Lemon scent of tea rose around the room, giving her a lift.
Incredibly dainty laced biscuits with almond filling made her salivate.
She was finally relaxing after working the midnight to six am. shift.
She admired the homemade delicate doily tatted by her cousin Kate.
This is my haven, my restful place, my nirvana, she thought to herself.
She picked one of her most favorite novels off her walnut book shelf.
A lovely breeze wafted through open window, from the meadows so deep.
Within a few chapters, our heroine was comfortably soundly asleep.
Every Sunday afternoon I was invited to Auntie's house for tea
outside where the sun shone like a thousand crystal watts
a lovely table set for two, plus two wicker chairs of white
every Sunday, we would sip and slip away the hours happily
The table was adorned with a bouquet of pink peony roses
o'er a lacey cotton doily with soft fit lace edges of beauty
As they bloomed they scented the air around us with grace
sending us coral dreams with their bright pink glow dance
Tiny social tea biscuits placed lovingly on a tray of silver
awaiting a child's excited dunk on a hot summery day
July was my favorite time of the year with its hot spell
it brought forth the memory of iced water and lemon
Auntie wore a floral perfume called Channel No Five
but of course to me it smelled like black licorice
To a young girl passing on thirteen a tea time affair
can be grand, I smiled as she read me, Baudelaire
Valentine's Day in the Fifties
valentines with glitter
candy hearts with words
be mine
I like you
you are sweet
I care
love
decorating the boxes was fantastic fun
we used tin foil, crisp white doily hearts,
we did this during school!
Valentine's Day in the Sixties
valentines for the teacher
were always the same as last year
we did not mind
a new teacher every Valentine's Day
As we left school we saw some of the boys' boxes
in the trash full of valentines we had meticulously
chosen for them.
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