Short Pleats Poems

Premiere of Persimmon Pureblood
Pennsylvania’s premiere debutante
prettier than a Parisian parasol
persnickety and powdery
poufy, perfumed, perfectly petite
Persimmon practiced her pirouette
pleats parading petals in a perfect circle...

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Murder of crows
Murder of crows
Ornithologists hate it
Wanting to rename it

Murder of crows
Murder of crows
The black scavengers earned it
Not caring in the least

Murder of crows
Murder of crows
I would like to retain it
It fits in their pleats...

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Majestic river tumbles down
gleaming glorious in dawn's rise.
Herons surface glossed in onyx
sprayed by cascades of polished jade,
and I curl boughs in pleats canopied wild
on bank of prayers rolling to meet sea.



Written 2/26/17 for the River Line Contest...

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Anatomy of human structure
Poetry of nerves and impulses enrapture
Temple of parietal bone that beats
Carpal bone pleats
Integumentary system perspires
Nervous system inspires
Circulatory system pumps
Digestive system lumps
All other systems function
When poetry is not in sanction...

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Silky
turquoise blue veil
flowing with ruffles and
rolling with pleats as it's tucked in
golden
border
embellished with 
sparkling silver sequins.
Chunks of dark gems haphazardly
adorned.


Date : 10/20/2016

Published in an anthology 'Along The Shore' by Lost Tower Publications....

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Cheyenne sold Sue six sets of sheets
and cute matching curtains with pleats.
When Sue sealed the deal,
she said, “Such a steal,
especially those sh_ _ted feets!”


October 19, 2017, entered in Line Gauthier's Funny Limerick Contest

July 2, 2019, entered in Brian Strand's Alliteration Contest...

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Breeze
Makes her
Feel fine when
Curtains swell in
Air.


Breeze
Is like
The blissful
Love when you are
Blown

Wind
Gentle
Lifts her off
In land of dreams
Rush

Air
Nifty
Nestles skin
Pleats her dress in
flow
+++++++++++++++++++

19-1-14
Dr. Ram Mehta
Form: Lanterne
Contest: Breeze by The Poet Undetaker...

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plaid announces self
variety of colors
speaks rather clearly

in children’s jumpers
or fanciest Scottish kilt
keen stability


plaid fosters feelings
upon arrival
saying blue collar

working mans fodder
powerful in every way
plaid picks up a rake

plaid is confident
marching in pleats and jackets
generational...

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perfectly-placed pleats
admirable rear
other interests
wandering eyes hurt
understandably
potential problems


THIRD PLACE WINNER
Written 3/26/2021
(Inspired by Picture #3)
For "Tableau 2" Contest 
Sponsored by Joseph May
Composed using PS "Syllable Counter"...

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pink hair ribbons
pasted on baby’s bald head
flashy pretend girly

replaced by red ribbons
prancing up and down in five-year-old’s locks
at Christmas program, delighting oldsters

ribbons of white 
displays of chastity 
on bridal ground, next to pearls and roses

satin ribbon pleats in grandma’s coffin
she looks tiny and pretty 
with her girly bald head...

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Sitting in the darkness
We stare at the technique harlot screen
Where a see-through celluloid sex symbol
Stands, hands thrust crotchward,
The air tearing at her pleats.

She is spread wide upon the silver screen
Her flesh still there
Her breasts still inviting 
The lie sensuous dream.
Shattered as the credits fall.
No curtain call
Yet still she will be back for more....

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A tooth from a mouth 
 An eye from a socket 
 Plucked in a drought 
 Rot in a pocket 

 An empty space
 Where a throat might have been
 The caul of a face 
 The trace of a chin 

 A clasp and a brace 
 Fold like a grin
 Clot like a cake 
 Grate like a whim

 As ago meets afar 
 In the here and now
 In the crease of a scar
 And the pleats of a brow

 Written by © Raven Drake...

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After Burying a Wife


Were she here with me now, 
by the waist I would raise her, 
a chalice of wonder.

I’d bellow hosannas 
and whirl her around,
tell her again that I love her, 

press my face moist
in the pleats of her skirt,
ask her to sprinkle

phlox on the curls
of our children 
if they are with her,

ask her to stay a while longer
while I do so much more
were she here with me now.


Donal Mahoney...

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Afterglow of purple passion beneath silk sheets.
Cordial cherry crimson of their cheeks taste sweet.
Blue veins like the Parisian Riviera - a lover’s retreat.
Bodies, turned left and right with twining finger pleats,

Sizzling after fronts combine, nescient of Winter’s sleet.
Her flaming strands askew on his chest. Pounding beat.
His loins stir once more. Full lips, like the dawn, he greets.
Her eyes like the morning sky, no longer shy, repeats....

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Showers gag the trees,
May shuttles pleats in the sky.
There are towel-drying winds.
Parks grow soggy with small dogs;

May is an old man riding a bike backwards.
It is oil for the broken engine in the barn.
Wetness folds this way and that.
We see nestlings in reservoirs of dew.

Bubbles pop in puddles,
could it be new Life? 
Could it be May, hands in its pockets
like a small boy, whistling and waiting
for something green 
and tufted to happen?...

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