Best Gabardine Poems
Mi have a serious problem with you young people that have no clue about our history or our culture.
"Mi nuh wear tablecloth like Miss Lou".... Dear Lord help the clueless... Send help father God if yuh nuh busy
Miss lady... Yes, you... how yuh fi call up the mother of our culture, Miss Lou name like yuh can walk in a her shoes?
Louise Simone Bennett-Coverley or Miss Lou, Jamaican poet, folklorist, writer, and educator
Miss Lou a national treasure and you are yesterday gone out of style fabric... "Gabardine" ... Here today, gone tomorrow... No one will remember you...no one will care... Kiss mi teeth... Get some knowledge... Only a dunce would touch an icon like our great poet, our first lady of our culture ... Classless... You need to come out of the Kardashian and Bling, Bling culture and understand your history
Pretty and dunce is not a qualification... History lesson 101... Miss Lou took our language to the world and made it acceptable so you and I could speak "Patois"...You classless girl
The fabric she wore is a symbol of Jamaica, our National Costume a part of our festival, a celebration of our culture... Yuh uninformed and classless girl... Pretty is not a qualification... Get a clue then remember to say the Honorable Louise Simone Bennett-Coverley you don't call her Miss Lou because you don't have "NO "clue.
Veteran's Day
Tattered uniforms washed with borax and sunrays
still house the bulging proud chests of older youth
Who uncompromisingly gave away their modeled freedom
For un-apathetic ideals buried deep within the gabardine
Many found unknown treasures beneath their teenage joints
Some gave all and the deep rest welcomed them sweetly
With calloused arms that slowly softly laid them to honor
Many tears made a stream to heaven’s well and soul Lover
From a mystic distance He too opened His compassionate arms
As a divided earth tautly offered up her commended spirits
There are virgin rooms in His pure inn for principled patriots
They prepaid in advance with pierced pounds of flesh and blood
“Home, home; welcome to your true home” my master said.
“Don’t rob my heart of untested epiphanies,” my Lover cried
The silence of war has spoken loudly through rising spirits
Taps throws her nocturnal blanket over the faithful servants
Those beneath our soles know only peace and freedom
Never alone in birth, battle, bruises and brokenness
A family of integritites woven together in un-brokenness
Far above the man made divisions of cloaked legalites
Cold humanity sitting on the cuff of a slow moving rotator
The Godly green grass grows gently as it greets the great giant garden...
The green giant garden generously gives gifts of gazing glimpses glistening...
The green goblin guilty gawking garnishes the gamma rays...
The green geometrical leaves gather gangly galore...
The glittering glossy green gem glows glamorously...
The green gabardine greets her gorgeous gentlemen...
Goodbye Green...
March.02.2016 For contest
Captain MacEvoy
Did hunt in corduroy
But the zipping kept on tipping off the game.
He never bagged a deer
For they could plainly hear
His trousers, loud and clear, as he took aim.
He never understood,
While hiding in the wood,
How deer could tell whenever he was nearing.
And they would jump for joy
That Captain MacEvoy
Was either daft or maybe hard of hearing.
It always was the same:
First he'd sight the game,
Then he'd nock the arrow on the string.
But when he drew the bow
The game would up and go
Before he could release the wretched thing.
Not one who surrenders,
He would wear suspenders
To keep his corduroys from falling down
For he was skin and bones,
The advertising tones
Having warned the prey for miles around
Till, starving half to death,
He put his bow to rest,
Pursuing agriculture to survive.
As a substitute
For his lifelong pursuit,
MacEvoy ate fruit to stay alive.
Yes, tired of being tortured,
The Captain bought an orchard
With every fruit and berry known to man.
But word soon got around
Of the harvest to be found
By every deer and hare throughout the land.
MacEvoy, defeated,
His skinny frame depleted,
Was more than his companion dog could bear.
Though God had designated
The canine voice abated,
The dog communicated, then and there:
“Unlike a bow and arrow,
Corduroy apparel
Has no business being in the thicket.
Perhaps a gabardine,
Preferably in green,
Silent and unseen would be the ticket.”
As his companion coached,
MacEvoy approached
The dining deer that grazed there, unaware,
And finally shot the menace
So with a pint of Guinness
The two of them ate venison and pear.
Form:
What’s going on at the Co op
Its been cordoned off, with some tape
The police have a ten strong contingent
Was it robbery, murder or rape ?
We telephoned Lynn cos she works there
But it turned out she’d had the day off
She wasn’t too well, by her voice you could tell
And every so often she’d cough
The policemen were not very helpful
As they stood and they guarded the door
But looking between, their two legs, gabardine
I could swear there was blood on the floor
The rumours were rife “ someone stabbed with a knife”
A robbery, someone got shot
A terrorist gang, going out with a bang
Was there truth in these tales, there was not
For fact is far stranger than fiction
There’s no murderer, on the rampage
Just a poor little beast enjoying a feast
A small creature, escaped from its cage
It was just after two when the men
From the Zoo, arrived in a van with a gun
Said “ we’ve been ‘ere before, hold open the door
We’ll soon put an end to his fun”
Going down with a thump and a dart in his rump
Spread-eagled he lay on the deck
No one thought that this ape would ever escape
Or would be such a pain in the neck
Now he’s back in the great ape enclosure
He’s a hero of cunning and guile
Regaled by the others, both sisters and brothers
On his face, fixed, a permanent smile
© John W Fenn 07-09-2009
Brexit Sonnet No.20
‘No More Hell-Broth’
Our Brexit bringers are cross with their leader ‘tis said,
Confidence lost with their gabardine dream of last year.
The model’s moved on, but distress on how they are led
Is causing them angst, with some pain; even fear.
Kindness is due to the man in the eye of the storm,
Well served his country with arms; OBE from our Queen.
Unseated by hurdle in midst of one’s life is the norm,
For a man who selects, or elects, a questionable team.
Now confidence escapes our Brexit bearers,
As wobbly Brexit cauldron boils and bakes,
It’s toxic mix of economic errors.
We suffer, whilst fools of all, it makes.
So eye of newt and toe of frog be gone!
We’ll drink no more hell-broth to Brexit’s song.
©Keith Murphy
Bully me you, I exemplified archetypal scapegoat
Even as old curmudgeon, aye pucker
and raspily suction toothless mouth
drawing reminiscent guffaws affecting
attempt impersonating plumber
(think unclogging toilet)
please support your local bummer
back in the day one
long haired pencil neck geeks palled
around with another
hirsute nerd - Roger Kummerer,
(who both of us graduated Methacton
High School class of 1977),
and yours truly readily
admitting, alluding, and attesting
without shadow of doubt
representing the dumber
than rocks of said beastie boys
bandits, donning particolored pachyderm
gabardine garb getup trumpeting,
especially as Mummer
on each New Year's Day
with bare ass tuchus
excellently imitating courtesy said orifice
(as chief motormouth) sound
of combo motorboat hummer.
Ah... the joys of amazingly aging gracefully
happily recalling never being beat into pulp dully
imagining dimming sense and sensibility
before (appearing gratefully dead)
lifeless body dumped into gully
nonetheless all the while fully
maintaining conscious, and forcefully
summoning forth latent powers gleefully
choking living daylights masterfully
delivering just desserts upon Tom Viglione,
whose plaintive laments truthfully
resonate as blessed music
to ears unaccustomed hearing pitifully
sounding long overdue comeuppance
forever disbelieving wrongfully
perpetrated injustice witnessed impossible mission
fueling an ordinarily meek lad
only in his dreams, he envisions zestfully.
Pugnacious thuggish hooligans... although
decades long since elapsed, whereby hoodlums
jockeyed to rain one after another verbal blow
threatening introverted diminutive boy
who, no surprise did eventually,
albeit (stuntedly) grow
(as an aside resembled anorexic
Santa Claus ho... ho... ho...)
still wracked, impacted, affected...,
this punster, he haint Joe
King, but upholds valuable humor less or mo'
feebly, lamely, and quirkily aspires toward po'
whit tree linkedin with infusing,
(no matter ex post facto)
freeing mine unsung hero.
Adding black to light the green
above the swirl of scale
Talons bare in shining sheen
Accentuate the curl of tail
Half open eye of iris red
Flat wings of gabardine
Brush holds in sudden Elvish dread
The artist has been seen
Form:
HERRINGBONE HEMMED
Surely she was a tailor born
Altering me with her alluring nature
And silken thread coaxed through the eye of a needle
Each stitch rich in rewards of grandeur
Every inch sewn by a hand with instinctual care
And woven when the woman willed it so
I stood before her as she measured my frame
Precision was of primary concern
As her amber eyes scanned the canvas of a man
The way an artist falls upon a scene he feels compelled to duplicate
Be it a landscape, a lake, or the loveliness of Lucerne
I was to become her masterpiece signed by a master
Prepared with prismatic proficiency
And painted with pristine probabilities
While she brushed my torso with her cheek
Hemming my herringbone while heightening my hopes
A pin placed properly where cloth kissed leather
A reminder of where to lay her thread
As thoughts of second nature filled my head
I became hers to adore and adorn
For surely she was a tailor born
But too often a model rebels against the stitch
And points the pin to providence
A fate that prohibits precision
And dulls the needle with which she sews
While the cloth she claimed was cashmere frays
An unrecognizable remnant of ruin
As silken fabric becomes gabardine
While twill lays tattered and torn
Because surely she was a tailor to mourn
© 2006.…free cee!
HERRINGBONE HEMMED
Surely she was a tailor born
Altering me with her alluring nature
And silken thread coaxed through the eye of a needle
Each stitch rich in rewards of grandeur
Every inch sewn by a hand with instinctual care
And woven when the woman willed it so
I stood before her as she measured my frame
Precision was of her primary concern
As her amber eyes scanned the canvas of a man
The way an artist falls upon a scene he feels compelled to duplicate
Be it a landscape, a lake, or the loveliness of Lucerne
I was to become her masterpiece signed by a master
Prepared with prismatic proficiency
And painted with pristine probabilities
While she brushed my torso with her cheek
Hemming my herringbone while heightening my hopes
A pin placed properly where cloth kissed leather
A reminder of where to lay her thread
As thoughts of second nature filled my head
I became hers to adore and adorn
For surely she was a tailor born
But too often a model rebels against the stitch
And points the pin to providence
A fate that prohibits precision
And dulls the needle with which she sews
While the cloth she claimed was cashmere frays
An unrecognizable remnant of ruin
As silken fabric becomes gabardine
While twill lays tattered and torn
Because surely she was a tailor to mourn
© 2012 copyright PHREEPOETREE ~free cee!~
Cloaked in Their Untruths
By Sy Roth
Behind a cloak their little secrets roved,
Like silent, swishing vagrants eluding the truth
The darkness so thick,
A wall of impenetrable secrets built around it.
Leaving the unclosing to callow youth
Senseless in their wasteful trepidation,
They took no time to explore their truths
Dressed in slim, tight gabardine their desires arrested.
They had no need to validate,
No desires to explore.
Lost opportunities heaped into a morass of speculation
Until the voices of the antecedents were silenced.
Screams of loss as the span between life and death widen
They find in their own selves no validity
Only a vacuity in a tale filled with inconsistencies
That are bungee cords flipping them hither and yon unbound.
No way to make whole the person in a sere fabric
When the stories are filled with imagined realities.
They erect their own corpus on a land of falsities
Left only with mislaid dreams of not taking time with the whole cloth.
Bully me you, I exemplified archetypal scapegoat
Even as old (dish) married
(spooning) curmudgeon,
who receives social security disability
linkedin with social anxiety)
chose the fork less traveled
aye pucker with sunken cheeks,
(especially without dentures)
and raspily suction toothless mouth
drawing reminiscent guffaws affecting
attempt impersonating plumber
(think unclogging toilet)
please support your local bummer
back in the day one
long haired pencil neck geeks palled
around with another
hirsute nerd - Roger Kummerer,
(who both of us graduated Methacton
High School class of 1977),
and yours truly readily
admitting, alluding, and attesting
without shadow of doubt
representing the dumber
than rocks of said beastie boys
bandits, donning particolored pachyderm
gabardine garb getup trumpeting,
especially as Mummer
on each New Year's Day
with bare ass tuchus
excellently imitating courtesy said orifice
(as chief motormouth) sound
of combo motorboat hummer.
Ah... the joys of amazingly aging gracefully
happily recalling never being
beat into bloody pulp dully
imagining dimming sense and sensibility
before (appearing gratefully dead)
lifeless body dumped into gully
nonetheless all the while fully
maintaining conscious, and forcefully
summoning forth latent powers gleefully
choking living daylights masterfully
delivering just desserts upon Tom Viglione,
whose plaintive laments truthfully
resonate as blessed music
to ears unaccustomed hearing pitifully
sounding long overdue comeuppance
forever disbelieving wrongfully
perpetrated injustice
witnessed impossible mission
fueling an ordinarily meek lad
only in his dreams, he envisions zestfully.
Pugnacious thuggish hooligans... although
decades long since elapsed, whereby hoodlums
jockeyed to rain one after another verbal blow
threatening introverted diminutive boy
who, no surprise did eventually,
albeit (stuntedly) grow
(as an aside resembled anorexic
Santa Claus ho... ho... ho...)
still wracked, impacted, affected...,
this punster, he haint Joe
King, but upholds valuable humor less or mo'
feebly, lamely, and quirkily aspires toward po'
whit tree linkedin with infusing,
(no matter ex post facto)
freeing mine unsung hero.
The latest news about the Chess Grand master told the web space
That he joined the Independent University.
It took me to the referral of Time “Epoch,”
As the time travels through the walls of Jerusalem that boasted about
God chosen people and Godforsaken people
As the power club that boasted that they are the grammar book of ruling
That will be decisive in ruling the border wall and ruling the ordered paul
Are they not transitory after the longest day, for a long forgotten gown
That never took me to any convocation, or any place other than
Howls, growls or a frowning town?
As they too, understood I yearn sometimes, for an incomplete poem
To cast in situ in wrinkle free attire and casual gabardine pants.
Is it too hard to let the past go? Or, that too, falls in the category of fornication?
After all they never had to toil like elders for a non graduated school dress
To avoid a Kaplan failure , eternally to sit there in Baton Rouge!
Preening poetess you amaze me
Your glowing speckled freckled face
As you quilt a lilt of melodies
With not even a hair out of place
Well caped and draped in shimmering light
Soft gabardine all in tangerine
You muster a bluster of eloquence
A vision the world has so seldom seen
Your eyes the prize that shames the sunrise
Those rings and bling at your fingertips
And whenever heard the spoken word
Sounds so much sweeter upon your lips