.
yesss
hern purty sat nimbly
in hern
sky blue strapless
tube
az mine eyne
tip-toe'd to thuh
edge
Disco Music
Strobe light looks like moon-sun.
Halo lights of red, blue, yellow, green.
He wears classic Saturday Night Fever white.
She has a white flower in her hair,
head and hips swivel;
one-strapped red dress.
He points with hands over head.
Ballroom floor bittersweet-blue.
Celebration of disco music.
I was dressed in strapless purple.
Burned my bra.
This stamp doesn’t nearly catch
the falderal - not the nasal and falsetto
of the Bee Gees, nor the confident swagger
of Tony Manero. I will survive, my motto.
The couple on this stamp look too happy,
too peppy, maybe preppy, almost ‘50’s.
I remember the crowds, the loudness,
the vulnerability, the period; that Mom
had me ask Dad for money to go.
They let me. Strobe light shadows
of chiaroscuro amidst flashy night.
The stamp is too clean cut.
Crown of gold curls in rainbow wrappers.
Girly-girl, at two, favored to be beautiful.
Eyelids delight to be painted baby-girl green.
Dolly’s lascivious lashes soaked in black ink.
Innocent strawberries dot baby-blue sleeveless top.
Soon, she’ll be strapless, primping at the vanity.
For now, she holds a mirror with her eyes closed;
her reflection not quite perfected; a natural blush
of lips, cherub-cheeks and baby-fat skin. Shedding
the green, pink, yellow rollers with angel hair bouncing
off her shoulders, and rolling out the hourglass figure
with a perfect pout and hips that shout ‘look at me.’
Indeed, at two years old, she looks in the mirror,
smiles, as her mother approves, and daddy sits
in his easy chair, not knowing to be bothered by
the impending storm of unsuitable guys at the door.
.
for my
convenance
leopard
fundament wink's
skirt
tuh die for
'blue'
strapless bikini top
(((pop)))
pardon mine
verbosity
yet
she wait'd
at thuh basin uv
hern hang
sea's edge
for
mine
excite
tap
Please don’t make a big deal about my birthday she said.
When you get to a certain age, you don’t want recognition.
She was wearing a pointed hat at the time.
I like to be incognito she lied.
Her six bracelets and fourteen rings begged to differ.
She was wearing a navy-blue strapless gown.
At her age it was remarkable, no one her age does this.
Of course, we do not know what age it is.
The necklace around her neck was a signature piece.
Louder and prouder than any necklace I have ever seen.
Her dangling earrings were fashioned from a designer.
Right, her sons said. “No attention tor you, Mom.”
Her daughters-in-law could not wait to get to the garden to discuss her.
Bubble gum? Nay, methinks a box of dark chocolates, 'tis best,
A daisy? Nay, methinks a bouquet of velvet red roses, 'tis best,
Pants outfit? Nay, methinks a full-length strapless white silk dress, 'tis best,
Brown coat? Nay, methinks a Chinchilla fur coat, 'tis best,
Taxi? Nay, methinks a chauffeured limousine, 'tis best,
Queens? Nay, methinks an Ace, 'tis best,
Twelve? Nay, methinks a seven, 'tis best,
Craps Table? Nay, methinks a Baccarat Table, 'tis best,
Restaurant? Nay, methinks a Fine Dining Cuisine, 'tis best,
Fish? Nay, methinks a lobster, 'tis best,
White wine? Nay, methinks a Magnum of Champagne, 'tis best,
After dinner mints? Nay, methinks a bit more, 'tis best,
I still have some gum?
{KISS}
05/27/2019
Nature ages like Youth,
a bougainvillea wrapped
around a strapless watch.
Youth doesn’t look at the clock
but ignores passing hours unknowing,
innocent of the melting water.
It leaps and lunges without fear of a fading silhouette,
it smiles with missing teeth,
gaps filled with dreams that will change.
Youth giggles at the simplest of movements,
it blanches under praise -
it drifts along shores, feeling hearing holding then
abandoning the flotsam and jetsam of aging. It is a bundle of
yesterday’s plans
ostracised by calendars,
unaware that friends will leave, as
trenches are dug by
hands, wrinkled.
Youth is a promise milked into creams,
it is a sweating desire to return, rediscover the
suppleness of joints, of bones, of possibility.
Youth has not yet become a mouth that sighs,
is bougainvillea still free from being entwined, twisted and tied.
It is not yet conscious of time as an intangible abstract
forever
I light a candle and in its flutter
open envelopes,
each one holds a piece of your past
I make old stories fly.
A child's ringlets
bounce in a mirror
new shoes skip
ten to two
eleven
three
Lip-gloss, eye-liner, braided hair
strapless dress, stilettos
brisk kisses in low-lit alleys.
Recorded memories
for your eager ears
And I see your freedom dance
in a last flicker.
Copyright © Darren White
Shades of Grey
Happiness can fade away
I change the way I feel today
These Shades of Grey in yesterday
These Shades of Grey in yesterday
Her echoes "Take this madness"
Soft and silly sick with sadness
Sickened sadness painted Blackness
Tethered strapless
Choked and breathless
-Wicked lies list
Lust for you
Kindness
You shattered me
Lifeless
So "Can't find you", nice, Miss
Gagged and bound
'Not scared to die'- kiss
I dream
My dream missed
Sick with sadness
Paint my Blackness
Silly sad list
Echoes Madness
Staring silent
scary Silence
Whispered to me
"I feel you through me"
Happiness can fade away
I change the way I feel today
These Shades of Grey in yesterday
These Shades of Grey in yesterday.
"I'll paint the sky for you if you move the world for me~"
Upcountry sky gloomed darker, charcoal
as the end of summer sparking fall.
Any ridgetop beckons lightning –
distant thunder – or was it applause?
For she was strapless, bride-white lily
dancing past us
as they silhouetted into sunset,
sparkling rosé sunflare below clouds.
Hanging is too good for them,
Should cut their danglies off.
Use a rusty jigsaw blade,
They’d be afraid to cough.
Our great Judicial system,
with infinite foresight,
Ignores these sound suggestions,
That you and I think right.
For Judges and the legal type,
at our expense guffaw,
believing that like
God and Queen,
they are above the Law.
It is often intimated,
that despite this regal pose,
they wear peepholes bras
and stockings underneath their
Chamber robes.
No underpants to interfere,
restrict ,affect or stay
thus keeping verdicts
cool and poised
for any courtroom play.
So when Chief Justice
leans or frowns
or shuffles on his throne
Its probably suspenders
that are causing him to moan
Or just perhaps
his strapless bra,
Is chaffing on his back,
perchance his basque’s
laced up too tight,
or his g-strings up his crack.
Some trials that end surpisingly,
the verdict gone askew,
Owe more to misplaced
leather thong,
than legal point of view.
Perhaps the nuts that
need cut off,
are not from pervert kind,
but rather leading Legal ones,
No longer sound of mind.
Oscars
Oscars night is here again,beautiful women and gorgeous men.
Play acting is what they do on the silver screen for me and you.
Some will win some will lose,the film academy will chose
Fasion statements galore with Gucci armani,and Christian dior
Rubies and diamonds shining bright,bringing sparkle to the night
Backless,strapless and shoulder less gowns some worn with a frown
Helen mirren as the queen looking quite pristine
Penelope Cruz in her Jimmy choo's
What a spectacle what a show and when they won wow
defeated Cassandra
sackcloth gown
strapless sultry shoulders
wish bone
anorexic dorsals
damp
limp lipstick
stained smoke
juts just
hanging
and little worry lines
(cracks in clay)
stretch sketch etching
frownward down eyelines
anxiety
drips
her panic flutter plied forearms
those frantic butter flied forearms
hair fidgets
digits on arial visits
cigarette
the clock watching fidgets
Movement, you see
draws your eye
from black eye
Yesterday I found myself slumped
into the saddest of trenches,
for no particular reason
other than a new moon cycle.
Instead of flopping myself
in my studio’s armchair to write,
I drove to the mall for an outing
probably more expensive than
what a therapist would charge
for an hour in his armchair.
I wandered into the shoe store—
something about leather
which grounds me, whether
the flimsy strapless heels
or the closed-toed pumps or walkers.
Already lugging two bags, I meander
into the lingerie store for silk
to accentuate my only remaining
middle-age curves, skipping over the thongs
and hesitating at the push-up section.
I try on four or five pairs of underwear
to accentuate my butt area,
the part of a woman which shares the
secret of her fitness, that I work on
each morning at seven.
I arrive at the boutique who sells my favorite
blouses, gather some more bags, walking out
with an almost terminal case of rope burn,
until I finally decide it’s time to head back to my car.
On my way I stop, smile, and realize
there’s no better way to fight trench warfare.
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