Newspapers can be logs for the fire
or non-functional rolling pins
Obsolete as white-stockinged town criers
along with typewriters ~ has-beens
In a church where hymns soar high and free,
A mouse embarked on a daring spree,
Up the stockinged leg, it did dare,
Past the congregation's wide-eyed stare.
The preacher's wife felt a tickle, then a squirm,
Her face turned red, as it rounded a turn,
She jiggled and wiggled trying not to shout,
As the mouse explored, in and out, and about.
"Dear Lord," she prayed, "keep my composure tight,"
While the mouse ascended in silent flight,
A sermon on chastity, unintended yet wise,
Unfolds with a mouse, in disguise.
The congregation gasped, chuckled, then roared,
As the mouse's adventure became church folklore,
A tale of a climb, so bold and so high,
A mouse and a lady, under God's watchful eye.
Papery feathers strain to take wing.
Frills ruffle, mythic masks gnash at the air
beautifully belligerent.
Plucked, they dally daily
between the surfaces of legend,
and the finery of a silk-stockinged
sentience.
Diaphanous stems are necks-laced
below an open-mouth in full quaff
pastel beaks
revealing a mute floral clamor.
Flame refined dragon-hearted blooms
they consume the oxygen of our
domestic awe. Pepper us with a
salty serpent presence.
Lightweight and splashily bearded
we see them gambol
on the tippy-toe of a metaphor.
When within a circle of sunlight
we place them,
they may fire-dance
with a scolding snippiness
goading all and sundry
with a dragons gimlet gaze.
After twilight around that corner
City Lights show an alternative way
Sipping sour whiskey from chipped cups
In low sweaty cellars where frothy cats play
Shades under tilted black beat berry hats
And Charlie's beat sounds out over his steady rap
Snyder slumps iodine in the doorway queue
Waiting for a tired Bird's wings to flap
Onstage another rhythmic rant from Jack
Sets shapely dark stockinged table legs to tap
Smoke haze from unfiltered thin street rolls
As cool closed eyes dig that lonely wail horn blow
All youth Zen style sharing jazz and blues
And I'm thinking
We gotta go and make our own poems Babe
Cause I always want to- anywhere with you
Tableaus’
An elderly television speaks to her
in a deaf condominium.
Her garden is a cluster of cobwebs,
it rattles and spins as stiff
as the skeletons of the sun.
Her ears listen to the world
as it ascends into a fairy tale.
The dragons are back,
the good knights and the bad,
she recalls their fictitious deeds,
they ride again in her garden of bones;
those lovers that have succumbed
knit together more daylight dreams.
Outside her window
anxious gangs of newborn brawlers
via for the earths attention.
The clatter of arms
and the crush of concurrence
are hardly noticed at all.
From time to time,
F.D.R calls but his fireside chats
are a dusty furnace long unlit.
The condominium cools
inside a dark-stockinged twilight
then she, unseen and younger,
slips into another
of her timeworn party dresses.
THE ELEGANT ECHO
On the busy walkway of the city shopping center
In the air of elegance ruffling her well-set auburn hair
She walks in style on her stockinged slender legs
With delicately encased feet reclined on the golden stilettos
The beat of high heels echoes in the throb of many hearts.
June 6, 2018.
Oh, Youth—naïve days lost,
Just learning life
In baseball cleats,
With soccer balls,
Days school bells rang
And girls, girls, girls:
Light lilting laughs,
Smooth budding curves
In sweaters tight,
Lean stockinged legs,
And perfumed air
Enshrouding each …
Oh, Youth—long, restless nights
When life knocked hard—
Those turned-down dates,
My anxious heart,
A stolen glimpse,
Small hand in mine
And, then, that night
Soft lips I kissed,
A boob I touched:
First teasing love,
My spirits soared;
Oh, Youth—where have you gone?
I walk a knife the sharp side,
With stockinged feet.
My soles meet
The bloody shark, my bride.
Cut deep, spread the wound,
Find the sick in here;
Heal the fear;
Keep my fleeting mind tuned.
Find the illness, cut it all out.
Give me solid ground
All year 'round.
Give me my blood, without
Knives, without trees and rope,
Without adding pain.
I cry in vain:
"I cannot cope, I cannot cope."
The poor man on the street
With threadbare dress and blistered feet
'Tis his slogan, he howls,
"I feel hungry, my stomach growls."
The rich man sits to eat
With silken dress and stockinged feet
Tells after his plateful,
"I'm not hungry, my stomach's full."
The poor man sits and begs
For some leftover food and dregs
In his poor broken bowls,
"I feel hungry, my stomach growls."
The rich man's enjoying,
He's had his three course meal full swing,
Says, "I've had plentiful,
I'm not hungry, my stomach's full."
He'll never understand
(He's not hungry, his stomach's crammed)
Why that poor weak man yowls,
"I feel hungry, my stomach growls."
---------------
19.11.16
Ladies leather shoes
adorning stockinged feet
Clip clop
upon the catwalk
of the city streets.
Tired and aching after a long day
I bath them
then pamper and massage
to sooth those aches away.
The smell of those shoes
and her stocking feet
A feminine alluring treat
my tender loving lips
and warm mouth
find so wonderfully
sweet.
Bare feet
Another special treat.
Peter Dome.copyright.2014. Jan.
Trod softly with stockinged feet
hallways of righteousness
echo the sound of
mendacity
Ringing hollow on hallowed walls
the brides of yesterday
cry out in mourning
their excuses
Wed in white their vows falling
sweetly through lips tarnished
with lies overflowing
in laughter
While purity longs to be gleaned
on the morning of truth
passing in beauty
everlasting
© Mar 01 2010 Charles Henderson
Inspired by "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof" with Burl Ives decrying "Mendacity". This is a light slap
at second chance marriages that are done in white. Although I understand a white wedding
does not mean the same now as it once did.
rock and roll beat
our stockinged feet
slipping on the kitchen tile
moving to the rhythm
sometimes we miss the spin
join hands as we try again
just like I imagined it would be
Red bulb
casts sultry shadow
across the
room
spilling onto the
street
air heavy with
illicit
night scent
rain smog weed and
jack
clinging
along for the ride
blurry eyed
distorted reflection dares you
“look up”
shoes
high with painted toes
pulse quickens
stockinged legs the
pathway to shapely hips and
white lace panties
silk
skims navel and
cups breasts
dark
hair spills
tense anticipation
fear
molten lava veins
palms
sweat
heart pounds in ears
feet carry forward
musty
perfume envelopes and
draws into her
realm
cash binds
the deal
one night of
passion
for your
probity
In 1950 the boy's world
was mostly populated by women.
Men were there as well
but they were like forces of nature
dark, incomprehensible, moving around
making deep sounds.
Women had red painted nails,
they had permed hair,
they had bosoms
smelling of babies.
They spoke often, mostly pleasantly,
their words left a dryish lipstick taste
on the boy's lips.
When they kicked off their high heels
the damp odour
of their nylon stockinged feet
had a strange allure.
There were little girls,
small feral things
with glittering, gathering eyes
and they sometimes bit.
The boy wanted one of these
but did not know how to acquire her.
So he touched her hair
and she slapped him away.
That night he slept with the sting
of her eyes
cuddled in his arms.
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