With two left feet
he's clod-hoppery
tho' her little white porkies
are quite whoppery
as he thinks aloud
she's merely frippery
meanwhile she knows
he's really foppery
but slinking around
slippery-sloppery
in sandals she found
flippery-floppery
she came a-croppery
a total eye-poppery
yet flummoxed
gob-stoppery
he refrained
from quippery-flippery
remained on toppery
and maintained
ever chippery
Push me in the door once more.
Scrub me for the alter.
Return me to the sacraments,
the rituals,
the wafer and wine.
Place me, dazzled
among votive candles,
that are such fat bones
for the weak flesh.
To each Holy Sister, a token,
a little lingerie kept secretly-
a sign, that love
with all its depths, frippery and frills,
will prevail.
On a Sunday,
we will lower Him,
from the cross of our guilt.
Chant: enough, enough. enough.
Who says I am small
to lead and reach a Goal,
rain or shine, I walk tall
by my actions led by my Soul.
I carry no frippery
yet I shelter the tall,
even in paths slippery
I tread with no fear at all.
Life may seem to have its slant
miss not the higher Goals it shows,
be not lost in your own rant
Life is not all about one’s woes.
9/Sep/2023
Pierre Édouard Frère French Painter - Under My Umbrella
picture 2. You are the little girl.
A really wrong place for who must hide,
All the roads leading to center wide…
Where the sociable prays to be dumped,
As he would never be skipped nor jumped…
The opposite of periphery
Of many things their territory:
The consistent and the slippery
Absolute substance and frippery…
Center is the place to meet a king,
But around one they form a ring;
To do a king harm pretty hard:
The watched from all sides by Good Guard…
Far from the center you are fainter:
To be noticed, then, trust some painter;
That’s why a center one should enter,
What’s more! At the center men gentler…
Still, the place one needs shrewd mentors
Against frivolities and banters:
Fanciful reflections on centaurs
And chains-hating. full freedom chanters…
Where Nations’ Capitals are cited
To foes strain before they are sighted.
He avoided florists,
those over-cultivated blooms
in their overheated shops
seemed to be a perversion of nature.
He shunned all those floral gangsters;
the vainglorious gladioli,
eugenically forced greenhouse geraniums
with their large Shar-Pei heads.
Garish claustrophobic hosts of peonies
pressing-in and crowding his mind
with a ballooning menace.
His stomach trembled when confronted
with petulant Pelargonium
or the silent perfumed farts of the deadly Dahlia.
Charles Darwin, thought these latter-day
angiosperms as, “an abominable mystery.”
They are life-forms born of missing links,
genetically modified to eat oxygen
out of human brains.
They are the epitome of those hard drugs
that invade our senses.
For him, the Day Lily
was a pall-bearing pale monstrosity.
Seemingly innocuous bunches of Mums
are well known to gather in smug mobs
at a time of year
when our greatest need
is for fresh air.
Passing all flower shops
he cringes away,
and will not pay a penny
for any kind of noxious poesy
or floral frippery.
Who needs words of description?!
Those are mere fillers of space,
They are poets' addiction
When they have nothing else to say.
Adjectives just make me shiver -
Shudder me with creeps and chills,
Should be banned from poets’ quiver -
As font of frippery and frills!
July 2, 2021
That is a tongue in cheek for a non-adjective contest. Treat it lightly please!
Sponsor: Jack Webster
Push me in the door once more,
scrub me for the alter.
Return me to the sacraments,
the rituals,
the wafer and wine.
Place me, dazzled
among votive candles
that are such fat bones
for the weak flesh.
To each Holy Sister a token,
a little lingerie kept secretly -
a sign that love
with all its depths, frippery and frills,
will prevail.
On a Sunday,
we will lower Him
from the cross of our guilt,
chant:
enough, enough, enough!
Upon my museum walls, pastiche you are,
Pseudo piece of art dredging old memories;
Where I hang now, a fine authentic painting—
Love of my sweet dreams.
You claim I once bloomed your ardent reveries
Yet, I recall your dreamworld quite illusive
When you pulsed my heart in your glory within
Phantasm of deceit.
There I was with you in your place of conceit
Where you waltzed in my life sparkling like gemstone
But soon you were unmasked as spurious clone--
An unwanted stone.
Don't come now, pretending it was real love,
When you still are, frowning face of frippery;
You've no place in temple of divine worship
Where my goddess lives.
June 22, 2020
Pick-A-Title, Vol 19 - 4 Sapphic Stanzas – Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
Title chosen: Simulacrum
Each stanza: 11,11,11,5 (howmanysyllables.com)
Push me in the door once more.
Scrub me for the alter.
Return me to the sacraments,
the rituals,
the wafer and wine.
Place me, dazzled
among votive candles,
that are such fat bones
for the weak flesh.
To each Sister, a token,
a little lingerie kept secretly-
a sign, that love
with all its depths, frippery and frills,
will prevail.
On a Sunday,
we will lower Him
from the cross of our guilt.
Chant: enough, enough. enough.
Ah
Autumn
icy wisps
curling, twisting
seek gnarly branches
impatient winds flurry
brown, red, yellow leaves gusting
frippery off quivering trees
stark proud beauty, naked, unadorned
Entered: Autumn or September or October Nonet Poetry Contest
Caren Krutsinger
Dated 23/08/2019
Placed 2nd with thanks
Inside an inkwell, lives a fairy tale
A classic, filled with love and misery
Where," Once upon a time" has long set sail
And "happy ever after's" yet to be
It's plot, a knight, once schooled in chivalry
His quest for love, the dragons he has slain
From Crusades 'round the world to frippery
The jousts with Father Time who drew disdain
Yet deep inside is where brave knight remains
A lifetime of adventures, good and bad
The love he searches for, still unobtained
Still finding peace, his "grail" this Gallahad
Perhaps, I'll buy a quill one of these days
Release Sir Knight and legends of his ways
by Daniel Turner
Spenserian sonnet abab bcbc cdcd ee
Hugs for you
And hugs for me
Hugged is what
I want to be.
Hug a slug
All slippery
Sliming up
Your frippery.
Hug a bug
And hug a bee
Lucky in
The lottery.
Surrounded by the glitz and frippery
the ribbons, bells and stars all meant to warm you,
on the mantelpiece, parading with the cards
the one that silently ' regrets to inform you'.
Muffled merriment, jaded joy
from those who gently tiptoe round your loss,
they turn their heads to gaze up at the tree
as you turn yours to gaze down at the cross.
How many times a century ago
was this scene playing out from street to street,
as far away in muddied bloodied fields
the unknown sank beneath their comrade's feet?
You walked those trenches, too, not long ago,
at Ypres bowed our heads for the last post,
stood speechless at Tyne Cot in rows of stone,
raised a glass to those that fell and drank a toast.
Then only yesterday the word came through
you'd lost a bitter battle of your own,
this time the only casualty was you,
and so I raise this glass to you alone.
Sleep well, my friend
At first glance I thought
It was a toy, a ragged thing,
perhaps dropped by a small boy.
Lost or abandoned?
Either way
it was being trampled on today
The pavement pushers,
marching through the high street
with shopping on their minds,
they didn’t see it,
Flat and grey,
matching this abysmal rainy day
Against the grain I knelt
To rescue this sodden and
forlorn, forgotten friend.
Its edges revealed,
I knew then
It was not the frippery I had thought
Lurching back, retching,
I tumbled through legs, bags,
Away from the abhorrence.
I didn’t grieve it
that dead rat
I just left it there, all grey and flat.
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