Talcum Powder Poems | Examples

Happiness Is A Distant Beach

I have a secret happy place that's deep inside my head,
It's where I like to visit every night when I'm in bed.
I travel there by boat, the sail flaps gently on the mast,
The ocean shines a million shades of blue, the sky is vast.
My happy place appears on the horizon far away.
I land my boat upon the beach, the palm trees sigh and sway.
The sand between my naked toes is talcum powder soft,
And seabirds greet me, singing loud while soaring up aloft.
I watch the ocean push its white-tipped waves toward the shore,
And listen as each wave collides with beach then is no more.
I'm quite alone on this small isle, nobody else around,
No Friday footprints in the sand to spoil what I have found.
My island paradise soothes each and every body ache,
And sweeps away the pain and angst the daytime strove to make
So I drift away, serene and calm, my body free of stress,
And off to sleep I travel filled with joy and happiness.

Miss Cartolano

"The teacher who is indeed wise does not bid you to enter the house of his wisdom but rather leads you to the threshold of your mind." Kahlil

Grade one, six years old, born to immigrant parents 
not a word of English did I speak, but I found compassion    
in a kind loving teacher who smelled like talcum powder   
and wore baby blue eyeshadow the color of the sky. 

She never married for the love of her life died at war  
each time she spoke of him her eyes shone like stars *
I will never forget that first day at school
when I began to cry, for I did not understand language. 
I walked down a corridor of oppression and gloom until  
she walked over to my desk and leaned into my ear,  
"Don't worry, I speak Italian too in case you get stuck." 
Its as if someone had just let me out of a dark suitcase. 
 
As I inhaled the scent of her talcum I suddenly knew,  
I would be fine.  Miss Cartolano was my first grade teacher,  
she was the one who taught me how to never give up.

Copyright © Mystic Rose Rose | Year Posted 2024

Portals Of My Mind

"The teacher who is indeed wise does not bid you to enter the house of his wisdom but rather leads you to the threshold of your mind." Kahlil

Grade one, six years old, born to immigrant parents 
not a word of English did I speak, but I found compassion    
in a kind loving teacher who smelled like talcum powder   
and wore baby blue eyeshadow, the color of the sky. 
She never married for the love of her life died at war  
each time she spoke about him her eyes shone like stars *
I will never forget that first day at school
when I began to cry.  Not understanding the language
I walked a dark corridor of oppression and gloom. 
 
She walked over to my desk and leaned into my ear,  
don't worry I speak Italian too in case you get stuck. 
Its as if someone had just let me out of a dark suitcase. 
I inhaled the scent of her talcum and the color of her blues. 
Everything would be fine I knew as I walked through 
the portals of my mind unafraid, I began to trust and learn.  

Miss Cartolano was my first grade teacher. 
She was the one who taught me how to never give up.

Talcum Powder Was Almost the Death of Me

talcum powder was almost the death of me
it was bathroom winter elegantly scented
blinded by the dusty seductress, and i ache to bathe again
then cocoa shea hit me like an odd sort of heat
there were so many bumpy roads and dead skin cells
there were so many speed traps and balled up and torn up tickets
what should have been clues instead came as covered comfort
yes, lou, there was, originally, always something there to remind me
now, as naked as the current version of my eyes, i put the unexpected generic on the recently renovated pedestal
yes, again, Your Highness, Mr. Radio, the Woman of today is still smarter than Man in every way
thank you, Sweets, i will now live longer

If You Have Courage Enough

I was sitting in my
     small cottage with
     a cot and a chair
    On name of furniture.
 
   The little window was
    my amazing friend
    Because it gave me
    Chance to peep through.

   The next window panes
   Always welcomes eyes
   A girl Motee(fat) was forcing
   mirror to declare herself princess.
 
  A coat of talcum powder
  followed by sun cream lotion,
  all artificial things to fool girls
  market produced for beauty.

   Nice fragrance to add ghee in fire
   From left to right, feet to head
  examined herself but not satisfied
   Once I dare to tell her truth hard.

   Beauty lies in our self not
   in things that used by you
   Wrestler brothers bad memories
   Recalled ,got on first they met.
  
   If you have courage enough
   to tell her once Motee 
   got rewards fractures on body 
   Then why not dare my buddy.

Fred Froogle Put Your Footle Out Your Mouth

PUT YOUR FOOTLE OUT YOUR MOUTH


                                    Here's Fred Froogle
                                        Bald headed
                                     Wears eyeglasses
                                  He used to wear boots
                                        Feet itch so
                                 Soaks feet in toilet bowl
                       Sprinkles talcum powder on his nose
                                  Drinks hot Coca Cola
                                     Sucks his heal
                           Spits out his foot before a meal
                                 Foot kiss ashy nights
                         Walks on shredded broken glass
                           Swollen breath toe jam dress
                                   Spitting toe nails
                                 Choking on my heals
                                Can't walk foot caught

                             Put your foot out your mouth

3/2/18
Written Words by James Edward Lee ©2018

Incarnations

I find myself drowning
in the seafoam absence that slots itself 
between the falling angel blood,
caught in the afternoon cotton breath of God
All at the edge of solidity. Rosemary eyelashes,
 I can’t see you. I don’t believe you.

The twinkle of the sky, an individual.
Where are the diamonds?
They arrive, slowly in the sinking,  and burn me blind.
A rose stem patterned heresy 
finds a home in my eyes. 
Condemn me. I can’t breathe you.
The song runs through me,
my face pallor and soft as talcum powder,
at the irregular beat that defines 
the abstract of my divine repetition.
Where have you gone?
I can’t feel you, Superior, 
Please let me come home.

Watching the ember embedded blossom of your throne,
I am reminded of  previous entities.
The grass stained cheeks of the dirt-bellied dreamers,
the mud mush of their hearts, in carnations,
brings the true digression of my disintegrating odyssey.
Chopping sharply,
I take it off piece by piece
My chameleon  hair, changing hues.
Please forgive me. I don't remember you.
Disgraceful, I find no issue.

The Four Horsemen

I saw the Four Horsemen -
the famous apocalypse guys.
They rode silently past neatly folded laundry,

They approached me in silence,
their breathe a rye and meadow wind.
Each of them in turn,

gliding ghostlike past where I sat,
watching steam on the mirror
grow cold.

War had no use for me,
past my prime, bum knee.
Not even as cannon fodder.

Famine had little to work with,
I had known hunger, want, poverty,
nothing he had could scare me.

Pestilence likewise dismissed me out of turn,
for which I’ll be forever grateful,
probably too sedentary to spread the touch.

And Death, well, we all must dance,
but today is not the day, now not the hour,
Death merely bid me good day.

And then they were gone, their vacancy tangible,
while I decided to look up embolisms or strokes,
trying to close this doorway into myself.

Until I saw the tracks in the talcum powder,
heard the soft whicker of horse,
and tasted their life on my tongue.

For the Want of Two Small Words

I rolled over in bed last night
Nothing stopped me on my way
When I grabbed the other pillow
No other head made it stay
I tugged at the sheets
And they easily came loose
I hoped it was a dream
But I knew it was the truth

I took a nice long, hot shower
No need to conserve the hot water
I knew no one would complain
If I used the talcum powder that I bought her
There was no fighting 
For a position in front of the mirror
I didn’t wipe the steam away
I didn’t want to see any clearer

Empty hangers hung in the closet
The shoe tree had shed its leaves
No one was there to guilt me into
Ironing the wrinkles out of my sleeves
I missed the disgusting smell of coffee
While sipping my orange juice
There was no one there to straighten up my tie
So it just hung around my neck loose

There was no haggling over the paper
That I didn’t feel much like reading
All for the want of two small words
I didn’t use to stop the bleeding
You waited a long time for me to say them
They just wouldn’t work their way out
Now only echoes return the words to me
When, “I’m sorry”, I finally shout

Snap, Crackle and Pop

Snap, Crackle and Pop


I woke up this morning loving you and it was all Marshmallow and Jalapeño
Such a fine day... such a gloriously feather duster sort of day
For loving you
And feeling like everything is made of Christmas tinsel

There's a scatter of sequins in my heart
Not like stars but rather giant spotlights 
But they're made of trampolines and the bouncy giddy wobbly  
Better for the cup of coffee poings itself
A delirious twang.

Such Madorexable dreams I had ! 
Phew !
I didn't know that swimming through champagne cream could feel like that

Ah, but its a splendiferous breakfast 
A mango monsoon of loving you
A sweet lilac talcum powder of a dawn giggling behind the curtains drawn
I love to hear you giggle

A temptingly ticklish rock n roll 
An orchestrated HOLY TOMATO ! 
Such a finesse of total disarray
Watch out honey knees I'm heading your way
With a whole sloppy bowl of caramel love
and I want to spill it all on your lips
you'll be my replacement for cornflakes

A Tender Touch

Dimpled cheeks tearless eyes
pouting lips beguiling smile
the scent of talcum powder blue
 breath as fresh as the morning dew.

Tiny hands  open up to light
warm and soft a baby's eyes 
a single curl around  fingers  mother twirls
and wonders at this mystery untold.
  
Blessed is one who receives this gift
a child a love so tender and rich
filling  hearts with wonder and joy
of fathers and mothers___be it girl or boy

Chaise-Longe Indian Rug

The long corridors of our University
Spring is in the air Crimson flushed
Reflect   fresher  happier  memories 
Sewing table Black  and white photo
Beam  of sunlight  back high window 
Cocktails seem much nicer than  tea
Stimulating contacts literary ambition
Beautiful  hair  thick  strong  catching
the  sun  bringing  the gold  out  in  it.
Scent  of  honeysuckle  contentment
Feeding chickens playing with kitten
Wicker  basket  full of coloured wool
Lovely bunch of  flowers  Pink ribbon
Talcum powder Making tea  together
Icing buns Christmas crackers Hats

An Orange Glow Filled Sky Crackling Energy

Fields on hills a patchwork of colour Green gold rice barley prairies
The sun filtering through the lace curtains danced  on  the  tabletop
The cats  unblinking yellow eyes exuded  an air of quiet confidence
Square cut emerald ring perfectly bobbed red hair Table untouched
Spanish shawl embroidered in red blue+gold Freshly  baked cakes
Incredible dishes  innovative  old receipes delightful establishment
Lavender, rose, aromatic coffee, talcum powder with a hint of lemon
The Chef tradition of  long robes High headwear and  flowing habits
Overhead speakers piped the singing of the sacred maidens songs
Wavy  greying hair   Family  of  baby  ducklings   Dying  mans wishes
The air moist and heavy with sweet living scents of  the  woody forest
Lions leopards diamond pythons toucans cooed sidled and preened

The Crossing

Cresting the rise, a glare in his eyes.
Squinting as sharp shards of sun
reflect off the river.
His gloved hand instinctively shadows his face.

Dust in the wind, talcum powder thin
coating, caressing, coloring
grass, leaves, cowboys and cattle
all shades of sepia and cocoa brown.

The river is low, the current slow.
A turtle shell mound of mud, mid-stream,
rutted by thousands of hooves.
Punchers pause, stirrup deep,
the Cimarron soaking up through their souls.

Memories flood without warning
just like this river,
Swollen and swift, it sends cattle
crashing, thrashing, slashing.
The kid, that’s all anyone knew him as, just “The Kid”,
hung up under his longhorn-punctured pony,
was buried amidst those sycamores.
He never did see the Kansas plains.

Shifting in his saddle, blinking away the vision,
the rider’s breath catches in his chest.
A daydream?  Mirage?
Or shadows of the past, lingering,
where once they crossed the Cimarron on the Chisholm Trail?

Mopping the dust from his forehead, he rides on,
leaving the past to itself.

Jeff Hildebrandt  © 2005

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