Best Corduroy Poems
You were leaning over the rustic, wooden bridge.
Elements of a cold autumn eve approaching.
I just was entranced by the sea of you.
Black full hair, corduroy pants, tweed jacket.
Book of our favored poet, rested on the bridge lustily.
~ ee Cummings, his poetry blessed our union, for eternity.
That magnificent, modern poetry, not meant to be in any form.
Still lights my soul and will for all eternity!
"Kisses are a better fate than wisdom." ee Cummings
"Life is not a paragraph, and death, I think, is no parenthesis."
ee Cummings
These words upon my heart, then and now......
And for the brilliance of eternity.......
11-8-2020
Sure, I own a denim jacket
And, of course, a bunch of jeans.
All my closets have held denim
Since the time I hit my teens.
Back in high school and in college
There was little else to wear;
Maybe corduroy or khaki’d
Show up on my derriere.
Though my wardrobe’s now more varied
(There’s no denim skirt or vest),
Jeans are still among the choices
Every day when I get dressed.
So I owe a debt to Davis*
And his partner, Levi Strauss,
For providing me with bottoms
I can match with top or blouse.
*Jacob W. Davis
No one in particular (in the wake of our dreams)
We don’t look like they do,
graphic replicas of a life in tatters,
drifting on lonesome clouds
Dove’s wing spread
capturing the wind,
waving goodbye to an existence
that dreams in black and white,
fashioning commercials
like chip and salsa dispensers
Camouflaged by sadness,
greens and browns woven in corduroy overalls
Contemplating the loss
before the beginning creates a title
and words have only meaning
for others who chose to read
and believe that each day
is a jewel in the crown of the month
Floating on seas of discontent
even though heart shaped sails
reflect on horizons
much closer than they appear
but still so far away
that silhouettes resemble unmentionables
as others keep a watchful eye
for anything that even seems
like a tide fueled rumor,
just because they can
Still, we don’t look like they do,
maybe because our visions come through
a brilliant sunrise and we realize
we do need somebody
and we won’t hesitate to cherish,
quietly of course,
those who come to touch us
in the wake of our dreams,
hiding in plain sight,
disguised as no one
in particular
My loved ones gone
visit dreams of
cyan fields and
pixie cloud skies.
Is it a cruel trick
of the mind?
Or moments, out
of space and time;
caught in the weft
of our corduroy lives;
a small gift granted
to our past or
future selves?
As I look back
failure was never
an option…
destined
to repeat until the lesson
learned –
As I look back,
I have been schooled
and graded for life
by death --
------------------------------
The soul skips and bumps
a corduroy road – these often
alter pass vehicles we call the
Human Body And Currier --
I transport no angel messages
nor devils to lament --
no convictions other than
my time profitably spent --
Profitably Spent, not meaning an
accumulation of victories...but a
process of divining, sinking – drawing
out of the earth more than I ever put in….
-- Re: Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas, Rue de Fleurus #27, Paris --
What would Gertrude. What, Gertrude.What, Gertie?Have thought.Have thought what thought?Thought thought driving,forward,remorselessly.Remorseless Remorse? Forward.Never reverse;no reverse.No.No remorse.
Remorseless,spurning reverse,seated.High!Seated high in Auntie.Then in Godiva seated. Looming.Enormous.
Looming enormous.Unsinister presence. Certain presence.Definite.Definitely not sinister. Positively looming;enormous in brown. Brown,
in brown corduroy,driving Paris.
In Paris,through Paris.Looming high in Paris in Godiva.With Alice,
quiet beside her. Quiet; always, Alice. Alice always.
And zipping, about -- coming to Rue de Fleurus 27.
Zipping to Rue de Fleurus.To 27. And Alice so able.
Able Alice, each a.m. transcribing.Able Alice typing.Automatic Gertrude.
Typing Gertrude.Great Gertrude.GeniusGertrude.Talking Gertrude.
Genius talking.Great brown Gertrude; Gertie, to Alice.
Absorbing, talking, buying art --- buying Matisse.
Absorbing Matisse.Showing Matisse.Banishing Matisse.
Selling Matisse,collecting Picasso.Great Gertrude -- genius Gertrude
at court, holding court at Rue de Fleurus 27.
And Leo.Gone Leo.No Leo at Rue de Fleurus. Not at 27
After Leo, after Mr. Stein, after brother Leo. But there was Alice.
Alice was there Among Braques.And Cezanne.
(Not Matisse.)No longer Matisse, but Picasso.
And Picassos, Picassos, Picassos!
And Alice; alongside, was Alice.Next to, was Alice.
Alice next Gertrude,Gertie, G. --- Gertrude, Miss Stein.
Genius Gertrude Stein Quiet Alice always.
And a great Gertrude. A great brown Gertrude. A leviathan.
A passing ship; a great leviathan.Gertie, a genius.
A hugeness.A shibboleth.But to Alice,
just Gertie.
Don't get a bug in your butt because I like to eat
So it's none of your business if I can't see my feet
My tee shirt on the line looks like a sheet
While driving, my right hip's in the passenger seat
One serving of ice cream just won't do
So I buy a half gallon, it contains two
I'd tie my laces but I can't reach my shoe
I bought a diet book and I ate that too
Really, I think I should take some weight off soon
When I bend over the neighbor sings Allegheny Moon
When I start breakfast at eight, I finish by noon
When I wear corduroy pants, they play their own tune
I'm sick of TV shows saying I gotta be thin
I'm very well rounded for the shape that I'm in
When I touch my knees I display a horizontal grin
If there's a pie eating contest in town, you know I'd win
Really, I ordered a pizza because pizza is great
I told him to slice it in six because I couldn't eat eight
Really, don't call me names, that's something I hate
But if you call me for dinner, I'll never be late
On scarred green corduroy couches, lined with age, sighing under my weight-
Like bearded old men, releasing ages of wearied wisdom,
Slipping in their sleep-
In rooms wreathed in smoke, wafting between breaths of laughter and exhale
And somehow beautiful, electricity in the music that shallows me out
And haunts.
I see the wooden floor, again, as you lead me, my feet moving to their own beat
Pound, pound, my heart and my shoes,
Do I know what’s happening?
And the rhythm I have is my own, but you don’t mind. Two hands grasp mine, warm with
sweat
Restraining, I have no escape, I breathe but I don’t know how.
Can I meet your eyes?
Two black holes, a vortex, pulling me into the tornado and the storm,
And the calmness in the middle, intense as it sparkles and shimmers in clarity,
Fading out cat-calls and undertones of despair.
Fading me into you, dissolving me through layers of dermis and epidermis
soaking silently through cotton and fear
A puddle on your now-closed eyelids, wrinkly in determination
smoothing out in waves of hope.
And then –you’re here, I feel
Shaky confusion, slippery thrill, wet and winsome glory
Searching, and finding -so I thought-
And sudden twists and turns
Do you know where you’re going?
And then I feel it, the smile, maybe you won’t
It grows inside of me and gives birth, to a tiny laugh
In high falsetto, notes dancing across a page
Barred inside snow-white fields, but exploding with mirthful mischief just the same.
So am I, and you may imprison me,
But I sing “in my chains like the sea”.*
*from Dylan Thomas’s “Fern Hill”
remember these rich kids
who moved from downtown
Manhattan,
after the towers fell,
out into the uncharted territories of
Bushwick & those regions of
Brooklyn, which had once been
lined with 3 story houses (or fewer)
& whose skyline one could
see over,
when stores, music venues &
cheeseball clubs were
closer to the exception than the rule,
when there were genuine poor people
who dressed the way that they could
afford,
when these mungo hipsters
didn’t plague the land like the
rats that come squealing out from
beneath the garbage bags piled up
outside their loft buildings,
remade factories, which now serve
as high income palaces
with the guise of low income &
the sprawl of fake-poor in the land of
the
cool.
these hipsters would bump from
thrift store to thrift store,
shopping with mommy & daddy’s money
(now safe from the downtown “terrorist
threats”)
in order to look like they were straight from
the 1970’s, like corduroy everything
was somehow a part of the 21st century,
like sideburns were the way of the
future---
parading with pocketbooks full of cash
which would allow them to frequent the
sushi bars that had sprung up or
pop from expensive café to expensive café
without a second thought
about the same exact dream that they all had
followed,
from the white picket fences in the suburbs of
bumble**** wherever,
to transplant themselves into the
dumpster diving
“soul” searching
snot nosed brats
that lit the fuse for gentrification
all over what used to be
Brooklyn.
Silken seduction
Corduroy like going home
Denim desires
Satin swish swirling
Velvet voluptuousness
Lace laughing lightly
The clothes that I'll describe, my age I'll surely reveal.
Recalling clothes worn to school back then now seems surreal!
Not to sport the latest fad, you weren't one of the 'ins'.
Your were a social outcast committing beau monde sins!
The gals wore saddle shoes and fancy poodle skirts,
And instead of a blouse, one of dad's old cast-off shirts.
Girls had to take sewing classes in home economics.
The feed-sack outfits they made were fit only for the comics!
Boys wore loathsome knickers or shapeless overalls,
Or squeaky corduroy trousers slinking along the halls.
High-top boots with a knife were worn by lads off the farm.
Nowadays, the knife would cause the principal some alarm!
Girls couldn't wear jeans regardless of weather conditions.
Dresses and itchy stockings were worn to maintain traditions.
Seniors wore corduroy skirts and pants colored gold,
With pithy notes scribbled all over - a sight to behold!
Today, boys wear droopy pants, the seat nigh the ankles.
Girls wear low-slung jeans baring navels that really rankles.
They say they're just expressing their individualities.
(I suppose we did the same, expressing our personalities!)
The door to the bookstore creaks complaining
Books for new and old customers
a small bookstore since 1937
I get symptoms of claustrophobia,
mouse droppings and dust
but, definitely has its charm
Then the smell comes and slaps me in the nose
Mothballs, a strange sweet air
The books are not old, they are vintage
The owner is about 80 years,
an apathetic man with glasses
Little by little, the room slowly fills up
Some buddies with 4-wheel walker
overly tight braces and corduroy trousers
When they nod their heads
it even flies dust out of their hair
They should not buy books,
but have a little coffee break
in the bookstore's back room
10/03/2021
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
On freezing days, I turn to fleece
To wear beneath my down;
And wool or corduroy might work
When traipsing through the town.
But there’s an oft-forgotten cloth
That also can perform
By keeping those who use it,
Day or nighttime, snug and warm.
Yes, flannel is of what I speak;
It’s great for shirts and sheets,
Yet no one touts its virtues –
Not in odes or texts or tweets.
So let me be the first to write
Of flannel’s cozy charms.
It’s comfortable enveloping
Or underneath my arms.
If winter were a TV show,
We’d likely change the channel;
But since we’re stuck with it for now,
To help us, we’ve got flannel!
beat, bellow and decay,
is there nothing more,
cold liquid crimson,
colorful tainting,
fallen from within,
down dark corduroy,
to the bridge's end,
descending stairway,
plunge into the abyss,
baptism by fire,
cauterized spirit,
fresh wounds pass away,
clear the dross,
to set the stage,
away with held breathe,
how it kills us,
to learn, to listen,
freedom within dependence,
the scent of melon,
the night fragrant,
senses awakened,
memories lead on,
through velvet poetry,
softly sleep soothes,
lines drawn with the shades,
where sand buries lies,
these translucent chameleons,
change like water,
the cages weaken,
relinquish their quarry
The animals know better than us. The rain has never poured so loudly in a key so soft.
To the front, the sailing of city buses and mini vans cruising across in this weather makes the water underneath their tires sound like the street is crying out for 5 more minutes of sleep. Up above, the trees are protecting a nest of baby blue jays before they get washed away by the silence of their mother not being there. But with sky blue young spirits, and small empty stomachs, they keep hope alive in the fact that even children know storms and struggles don’t last forever.
Below the trees, nature has found a name to call it’s own. From the hole dug by the little boy next door, a family of three foxes have named human nature sanctuary, and burrowed their problems into the sediment to rest for a while.
To the side of the hole, a flock of ducks are swimming in the water with eyes open wide enough to where you can see their loyalty to love one another rushes wild.
To the right of the pond, caged up in a man made blanket, and lost in his own mind, is the boy. From what he remembers, last night was like a train accident; A head on collision of two people he could’ve sworn he saw holding hands just the other day. He hears the sound of plates shattering in C-minor, and the chorus of words that his parents screamed in F-sharp, so he imprisoned himself in his own bed sheets, accompanied by the courageous corduroy bear who he swears keeps hearing whisper “everything will be okay.”
It’s raining outside, and the crescendos of screams have been silenced by it’s peaceful security.
The boy, sleeps soundly now. The rain has protected his ears, and guarded his heart from being washed away by all of his nightmares.
He doesn’t care whether he wakes up. The baby blue jay, the resourceful fox and the brave little duck are all he wants to keep dreaming about.
Maybe he’ll run away into the rain? Or maybe into the arms if his mother?, whom he prays he can still recognize. To the left of his bed, he picked up the blank page of his coloring book and a crayon, and became a life long poet in that moment that morning. Taking a deep breath in, and giving a soft breath out, his first sentence was
“The animals know better than us.”