Tag Archives: poem about clothes

Dressed to Kill the Blues

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Dressed to Kill the Blues

If you’re feeling washed out like your blossoming’s through,
feeling less than capricious and aged and blue,
why not ransack your closet to find something gaudy,
colorful, crazy, a little bit bawdy?

Don’t nurse a depression that you can dress up.
Why be a sad dog when you could be a pup?
Wilder clothes make you happy. Put joie in your vivre.
Tight clothes and stilettos—a  trick up your sleeve.

That impulse to give up is something to hide.
Folks will respond to what they see outside.
So when life deals the doldrums, why give in and mess it up?
You will feel better if only you  dress it up.

Prompts for the day are washed out, nurse, capricious, ransack and  blossoming.

 

Lest you think this is how my friends and I always dress, I’ll reveal that this was a Poor Taste party I threw one New Years Eve. Friends were to come dressed in the worst possible taste and to bring a dish that was tacky but delicious. It was a fun party!!!! 

The Hunt

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The Hunt

They primp and they posture and leave parts uncovered.
Few parts of their bodies are left undiscovered.
Pitching their assets, they rip off small parts
of their form-hugging Levis to capture the hearts
and the libido of young men in passing.
It’s part of their flirting and tongue-in-cheek sassing.
Euphoric and giggling or slightly aloof,
they are every boy’s fantasy, out on the hoof.
Equality isn’t their goal or their pleasure,
for the power they yield is more than full measure.

Their cups runneth over. With their charms, it’s a cinch.
If birds were their quarry, no more than a pinch
of salt would be needed to capture their tail.
Their fish have been caught and just writhe in their pail.
Young huntresses all, yet each young man they meet
no doubt finds them guileless–innocent and sweet.
They are slightly misguided—naive in their Dockers,
thinking that they are the ones who are stalkers.
We will not inform them that hunters they’re not.
They just follow the bait until they are caught!

Prompt words today are posture, covered, euphoric, equality and pitch. Illustration downloaded with permission from Unsplash.

New Year Greetings for a Fashionista

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New Year Greetings for a Fashionista

Can your wardrobe accommodate clothes tight and loose?
Yellow and purple and pink and chartreuse?
What say you of maroon and mustard and puce?
Have you anything velvet? Silk or charmeuse?
Do you leap to acquire the newest of fashions?
Are ripped jeans and bare midriffs your current passions?
Are clothes an impulse, a way that you play?
Do they fill up your dreams and round out your day?
If so, then my wish for two thousand twenty
is that you have closets and hangers aplenty.
May you be fully satisfied trying on clothes,
and be shrouded with fashion from shoulders to toes!!!

Prompt words today are puce, accommodate, leap, impulse and play.

Dressing for Attention

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pc310039

Dressing For Attention

Purple pedal pushers and a yellow skirt.
For a hat, a fascinator, and a tartan shirt.
A fur stole that’s a relic of another age—
when they didn’t raise them in a tiny cage.

Platform shoes to raise me up in elevation
so the band will see me during their ovation.
Great big shades to block the sunlight from my eyes
and so my date can’t see me flirting with the guys.

Bright pink polish on my nails and rhinestones on my lashes.
A girl has got to dress up right for these special bashes.
I will match the music—loud and brash and brassy.
   Bands don’t notice groupies whose style is too classy!

 

Daily Inkling asks what sort of an outfit we’d wear to a concert.  Oh oh!!!!

Cruel Question

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Cruel Question

It bothers me, I must confess.
What happens to a wedding dress
after it’s had its opening day?
Is it simply packed away?
If so, you’d think once time has passed
they’d finally reappear at last
in church bazaar or resale store
or other places where things of yore
emerge from attic, basement, closet
or other area of deposit.
(In whatever dark place they’ve all lain,
thinking they’ll be used again.)

There should be rooms filled with selections
of these nuptial confections.
Warehouses stuffed full of them,
varied in neckline, cut and hem.
Why do we not see huge barrages
of wedding gowns sold from garages
along with strollers and kiddie toys
cast off by grown up girls and boys?
Surely every aging bride
has a wedding dress inside
a trunk or closet—way up high.
What happens when their wearers die?

Garments of satin or nylon net—
what could be the etiquette
that guides a family in such matters?
If the gown is not in tatters
and worn away by age and mold,
surely it would be resold.
If so, where are the warehouses
where gowns bereft of brides and spouses
lie stockpiled awaiting chances
for other wedding vows and dances?
Where is the wedding gown museum
where we might journey to go to see ’em?

I’ll now chance being thought abrupt,
unsentimental, cold, corrupt
by saying what I have to say.
Do families throw these gowns away?
Buried under hills of trash
is there a wedding veil or sash?
Satin bodices and trains
diminished by decades of rains?
Do gowns once virginally snowy,
and spectacularly showy
now lie buried like their dreams,
slowly decaying at the seams?

These images, you might guess,
seem calculated to depress.
Who wants these pictures in her head
as her wedding vows are said?
This poem is meant for crones like me,
bent of back and stiff of knee,
who’ve run out of memories to ponder
and so must journey over yonder
to the macabre side of pondering
for their mental wandering.
That said, past brides, will you confess
what happened to your wedding dress?

The prompt today is abrupt.

Clothes Make the Man, but Women Make the Clothes

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Click on first photo to enlarge all.

Clothes Make the Man but Women Make the Clothes

In matters of both clothes and hair
we profit from the use of flair.
A scarf, a pin, a tilted hat
reveal that we are more than what

we choose to put upon our heads
or bodies, for our hats or threads
too often conceal  form or hair,
not showing what is under there.

Sometimes it’s an improvement, true:
our hair dyed an unfortunate hue
or bodies altered by midnight trips
kitchenward that spread our hips.

This gown I wear is brilliant red,
It spreads around me in my bed—
ankle-length and numinous,
free-flowing and voluminous .

I obscure my  trunk and limbs in it.
My zaftig form just swims in it.
It makes me feel petite and small.
Inside, I’m hardly there at all!

When I awaken, I’m not alert,
throw off the covers, unwind the skirt
from where it’s twisted round my legs,
I yawn and blink to expunge the dregs

of sleep from everywhere it tries
to prolong my dreams and clot my eyes.
It’s in the bathroom where I see
 I’ve made this gown uniquely me.

My reflection in the bathroom glass
shows its brilliant red en masse.
Its designer’s plan I clearly flout,
for I wear it inside out.

 

Want more hats?  Look HERE.

Again, I’ve gone shopping in my poetry closet. This one repeated from three years ago. The prompt today is blink.