Quotes about dolly, page 8
Grandma
Knots and tangles in my hair,
grandma sitting on her chair,
me in front on a stool so low,
brushes and combs all in a row.
Grandma would wash it every day,
Saying 'We do this first, then you play.'
Waiting for the feel of every pull,
this became our ritual.
I anticipated every tug.
When we finished we would hug.
But before I'd leave she'd make a bow,
all different colors she'd use to show
that my hair was something she loved to see.
It was long and shiny black, like ebony.
I treasure her looks and the moments spent,
the combs, the brushes and her looks of content.
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poem by Edwina Reizer
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Dolly Is Queen
Dolly is queen
Such kind of beauty is never seen
As if carved out from wood
And considered as thought for food
Lovely smile
To take you for ride meanwhile
Joy and only joy
With her you can always enjoy,
Exchange pleasantry
That is all necessary
Makes everybody happy
Always in good mood and ready
Combination of art and skill
She is rich by her strong will
She has made great impact
By skillful presentation in the poetical act
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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Tikki
Met her in a record store in Downey
in 1963,
she was fourteen.
A coy smile and a round pretty face
golden hair and a yellow bow
over her ear.
she was quiet, shy, crossed her arms
and her chubby bare feet when she spoke
causing bedlam,
churning sensations, heart flutter
Miserlou pounding in my forehead.
Tikkis and coca mattes and “Angry Sea, ” Barefoot Adventure” “ Golden Breed”
posters next to a cut out of
Sammy Lee and his cannon ball wipeout,
pinned on sea green paisley wallpaper
In her surfer den bedroom.
Mindful to put my feet down
When her dad passed the open door
Or her mom came in with sandwiches
I had no idea what I was doing then,
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poem by George Murdock
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Polly
Brown eyes,
Straight nose;
Dirt pies,
Rumpled clothes;
Torn books,
Spoilt toys;
Arch looks,
Unlike a boy's;
Little rages,
Obvious arts;
(Three her age is,)
Cakes, tarts;
Falling down
Off chairs;
Breaking crown
Down stairs;
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poem by William Brighty Rands
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Questions Unanswered
Ah those days of starched shirts
Of water boiling in the copper,
And soap-flakes snow-white
And the mangle in the corner
Like a medieval implement of torture
Waiting to grind and squeeze.
And granny's hair wrapped in cloth
The goodly housewife at work
Hands red, hot water immersed,
Sweated in the washing room.
Each Mondays Herculean task
The stringing on lines for all to see
Of pure white sheets rinsed in Dolly Blue.
To wash the families dirty linen clean.
But never speak of the true dirty secrets
That scrubbing could not undo,
That gallons of bleach could not erase
Nor boiling water wipe out.
The lies told to protect
Which ended up hurting.
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poem by Paul Brookes
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A dolls eye view
Dolls sit among the cushions in her bedroom
as though they are all waiting for her.
Their porcelain faces in fixed smiles,
their eyes wide, cobalt blue
and their pretty dresses have lace collars.
Little tea cups, all in miniature are on saucers,
arranged on a small table.
There is a pot with yellow flowers,
it holds centre place and is surrounded
by plastic cakes and pastries.
On her bed is a huge rag doll,
it's flopped over and lies there helpless.
Her nightie is on the floor
covering her slippers but the toes peep out.
Soon she will return.
She will run into her bedroom, daintily,
go straight to the corner where I sit,
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poem by Ruth Walters
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Today a Windy Monday
Today a windy Monday,
brisk, businesslike north wind,
I would make a great altar
and pile it high as heaven
with washing straight off the line
shirts like roly-poly hunchback
astronauts like human kites
a sharp flapping of hemmed edges
the squawk of hens surprised
laundry baskets full of the smell
of Spring and freshness and new beginnings
laundry baskets that smell as if
a walk along the shores of love
all Your wind and air and water, and
sunlight soap, soapy sunlight making
iridescent bubbles in the washtub
the squeak of the mangle,
dripping into the sink
stained heavenly with Dolly Blue
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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What Do Women Want?
I want a red dress.
I want it flimsy and cheap,
I want it too tight, I want to wear it
until someone tears it off me.
I want it sleeveless and backless,
this dress, so no one has to guess
what's underneath. I want to walk down
the street past Thrifty's and the hardware store
with all those keys glittering in the window,
past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old
donuts in their café, past the Guerra brothers
slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly,
hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders.
I want to walk like I'm the only
woman on earth and I can have my pick.
I want that red dress bad.
I want it to confirm
your worst fears about me,
to show you how little I care about you
or anything except what
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poem by Kim Addonizio
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Memory
Late, late last night, when the whole world slept,
Along to the garden of dreams I crept.
And I pulled the bell of an old, old house
Where the moon dipped down like a little white mouse.
I tapped the door and I tossed my head:
"Are you in, little girl? Are you in?" I said.
And while I waited and shook with cold
Through the door tripped me---just eight years old.
I looked so sweet with my pigtails down,
Tied up with a ribbon of dusky brown,
With a dimpled chin full of childish charme,
And my old black dolly asleep in my arms.
I sat me down when I saw myself,
And I told little tales of a moonland elf.
I laughed and sang as I used to do
When the world was ruled by Little Boy Blue.
Then I danced with a toss and a twirl
And said: "Now have you been a good, good girl?
Have you had much spanking since you were Me?
And does it feel fine to be twenty-three?"
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poem by Zora Bernice May Cross
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The Petit Vieux
"Sow your wild oats in your youth," so we're always told;
But I say with deeper sooth: "Sow them when you're old."
I'll be wise till I'm about seventy or so:
Then, by Gad! I'll blossom out as an ancient beau.
I'll assume a dashing air, laugh with loud Ha! ha! . . .
How my grandchildren will stare at their grandpapa!
Their perfection aureoled I will scandalize:
Won't I be a hoary old sinner in their eyes!
Watch me, how I'll learn to chaff barmaids in a bar;
Scotches daily, gayly quaff, puff a fierce cigar.
I will haunt the Tango teas, at the stage-door stand;
Wait for Dolly Dimpleknees, bouquet in my hand.
Then at seventy I'll take flutters at roulette;
While at eighty hope I'll make good at poker yet;
And in fashionable togs to the races go,
Gayest of the gay old dogs, ninety years or so.
"Sow your wild oats while you're young," that's what you are told;
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poem by Robert William Service
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