Best Khakis Poems
The White House harbors an orange traitor
Benedict Donald, science-hater
He never met a fact
He didn't try to whack
This prick puts the 'dick' in Dictator!
The obtuse ogre of petty poses
Has imposed on the City of Roses
His troops of lackeys
In unmarked khakis
Masking free speech with tear gas and hoses
Anyone who does not tongue-kiss his shoes
Is fired, or conspired to be 'Fake News'
He has little use
For reason, or truth
Come November, this deadbeat pays his dues!
7/22/20
(the 'City of Roses' refers to Portland, OR, where I live)
Crying in the Rain
Lurking behind the curtain of world war ;
You cheer to a Monday Night Raw;
Dancing to the melody of anarchy;
You close your senses to impending waterloo,
Completely deaf to the screams of mother earth
Who is subdued by industrial rape; she echoes dearth...
Forlorn sky weeps on; threatening oxygen depletion at the detriment of ocean life.
Father sun rages on; amidst earth's strife...
Refugee camps replace loving homes;
And mats replace comforting foams
Chibok continues to wail for her missing daughters;
As valiant khakis rummage the forest of Sambisa...
The mantra of change echoes on amidst chains:
As a fraction of the world cry in the rain...
Flora and fauna looks on in docility,
As humanity continue to dance to the melodies of calamity.
I have a lovely daughter, who is a lovely mess,
for every rule you give her, she will have to test.
She’s always just inside the lines or balanced on the top.
She loves to challenge all the rules to see how they will flop.
My favorite of her hurdles was the school uniform,
and she was delighted to best this strict form of norm.
A uniform would be an insult to her fashion sense.
As her mother, I suspected the rules would soon be mince.
She wore exactly what they said: khakis, belt, white top.
You've probably guessed, though thusly dressed she did not stop.
Smiling like an actress in a play,
she wore a striped scarf with red beret.
Her belt was wide and trendy,
her shoes, black boots to knee.
A voguish olive blazer was her “coat.”
Stylishly outfitted
and with the rules outwitted,
the books she carried seemed a lighter tote...
The "book bag," after all, was a fabulous new purse!
and...
Her creative conformity sent the principal to the nurse.
There is something to be learned here, as I reflect on this bright girl.
Without the rules before them, there’d be no rebels in the world.
11/2/2018
Time- a measurement done in the labs at the University--
We two, young, immortal, vibrant felt no time.
Grasping each other tightly as the world spun in space
We floated into the future
You-me as one- reassuring who we were
You drifted into a world I never could know
I remained in that space familiar to me-
Now, we are not we but you and I
Without thoughts of immortality-
I in khakis lost in a desert stung by an unknown
Fall into the sand reaching for you
Can you hear me?
Do you remember me?
I have never left you
Bring me home and do not mourn
For our love is like that river moving to a greater place
Into a future time of you/me
Strutting down York Avenue,
Appearing in a hurry,
His face is beatific,
Showing not a drop of worry.
With one child in his hand grasp
And another at his chest,
He seems a modern father
But he stands out from the rest.
It isn’t for his man-bun,
Rather for the clothes he wears –
Not jeans or sweats or khakis,
For it’s leggings earning stares.
Today’s had printed donuts
Looking fattening and sweet,
While yesterday’s were swirled
With every color you might meet.
I wonder as his kids grow up
If they’ll think he looks cool
Or, as I perceived when others gaped,
More like a kingdom’s fool.
Inspired by a tremendously bold & powerful track, “Who we are” by Machinehead
Once upon a misery call
Deception broke bread with diabetic circumstances
Sugar
Coating
Half-assed smiles
Phantoms of a listless fortitude
Haunting today’s unfulfilled promise
As they wear silken layered Khakis
With African cotton dreams
And unclaimed pocket protectors to share their wealth
Amongst other wealthy failures
They ask to make “change”
While folding up heroin-laced $50s under Cabernet bodies of Christ
Once, twice, three times a deceiver
Who dares draws irradiated chalk upon broken billboards
Not the educated teacher
Satisfying extra-curricular agendas
Grading heat-stroked ovulations
On jezebel’s curve
Nightmare of the philanthropist
Giving unto others’ unexplained wishes
The “hungry”, fed
The lonely, shed
S
h
e
d
Shedding retinal rejections
Over misguided wisdoms
As they listen for audible sanity
Wandering within the bellows of an insatiable burden
(Cricket sounds)
©Drake J. Eszes
I would love to visit Africa
I would love to visit the heart of Africa
there's no doubt it would have my heartbeat
my ancestry, my love, my wide open eyes
dad told me long ago
as i scooted close to his campfire
that his families namesake
traced to towns, rivers, counties in Africa
i was overwhelmed
really, really
me a white guy, somewhat
and Japanese, Polish
but it's true when you see my last name
maybe the roots traced back to the beginning of time
really, really
who knows, but it's true
it's true, i say
someday, when the sunshine's on me
and the weathers fine
i would love to go to Africa, and visit
... hopefully
with the black bear, the one here
or the one in my imagination ...
the one that always loves to get her nose stuck
in the honey jar,
i love that ... it's so her
okay that was a joke
because i love to joke
because i'm a funny bunny, too
i dream, does it hurt to dream?
i dream of that day
and opportunity
for a bouquet of flowers,
black bear's name on it or not,
i would love to ride the Congo river
the breeze in my face, riding the look,
khakis, a Congo hat, her in my arms
man, how i dream
the look would be fine
is that bad,
can it get any better?
i dream of riding an elephant
the biggest and wildest elephant
okay that was an exaggeration
because i'd be scared
give me a baby elephant that's fine
and visiting the lion and tiger safaris
and mingling with the natives
and buying a sari for her, especially for her
i dream of checking into the hotel
in Africa, a nice hotel overlooking a lake
with Congo trees dancing to my presence
... see how i dream, i told you
and having the front desk do a double take
of my last name
and then ...
i would just roll my eyes, for effect, maybe to impress
... only her
connie pachecho
3/8/17
I'm a country boy who needs you
The first time you're washed you bleed blue
You go with all of my T-shirts
If I rip you I will be hurt
As crisp as Mississippi's air
I still will wear you with a tear
You are something I'll never share
Got four or five favorite pair
Something I won't trade khakis for
Brown as bags from the package store
Since my favorite color's blue
I want you in every hue
From the stonewashed to rigid you
When I can't buy I visit you
I'm hoping that they give me you
'Cause your fit I'm addicted to
I’ve seen black sheep set in Pongola grass
Within pallid seas, differed,
Like black buttons on a white cotton suit;
Sheep are color blind.
A bee is fine-looking,
But there’s fire in its ass.
Can the wild goat trust
The adder with inviting pelt?
Did Emmitt Till paint changes
With his blood in cotton picking towns;
The blood that called from Mississippi,
Like Abel’s blood calling from the ground.
Death had a voice, a voice in the wind,
The wind that walked north-west
And brought a microscope
For John Public to see
How inferior to dogs we are.
As a child, I played
Ring-around-the-roses
Until I saw “Rosewood”
And heard the drums
Beaten like Rodney King,
And the heartbeat of Cojoe
And Nanny racing
Towards the mountain of the devil,
To escape the cotton fields.
The drums are always talking.
The old south is alive and kicking high.
This is no Elvis tale. Exhume the body,
See with your own eyeballs.
No DNA can confirm
That Jim Crow is dead.
Jim Crow has a roost on Fox News.
He’s always crowing,
Whipped up by the “boy”
In the WHITE house.
How much can you see
If you look from the outside?
I’ve seen it even in REM sleep,
Even when I dream of roasted breadfruit,
Jockato in coconut milk, and Chinese geisha;
Willie Lynch is a man breathing
The smog-filled air in Washington.
In 1955, Money was the root of the evil,
And ’68 Memphis was the cross
Of the sacrificial lamb,
But these days men are lynched
In broad day light.
String up, dangling
Like papa's khakis floating
In breeze walking the orange glen.
All eyes should see our opinion of them.
Today we’re civilize,
And Catholicism is not voodoo.
We no longer use rope,
Our tongues do a fine job.
Like Mutabaruka,
I have no color problem;
Everything is black to me,
As black as Sarah’s view of the motherland
(It’s not too vital for her to learn).
If blue skies
Cried acid,
And wash the dark color
From this portrait,
I would still be black,
As black as tar.
It’s in my blood.
Longing to go to Africa
Babe I know this is spontaneous
and we're just coming off a good food fight
but listen, not to the paradox,
let's go to Africa.
Wouldn't that be a poke in the night,
a dip in the Nile,
a sweet roll in the oven,
a swing in the jungle?
Listen babe
... think babe of all the fun
... we'll be having.
You'll see,
I promise.
We'll leave the hotel occasionally
and when we do
let's ...
let's please
see the safaris and rivers.
You must promise
... and
to let me ride a tiger,
deal?
Good.
I must ride a tiger.
We'll do the Serengeti,
I heard that's the beast,
home of the tigers
... for brave tiger riders like me
... hence I'll be your hero.
Can you see the cameras clicking on us?
We'll be quite the item
and get this, babe
we'll get you up there
on an elephant.
Doesn't that sound exciting?
I can see us now
in matching khakis and bandannas,
hair breezing in the wind,
out there on the grasslands
with the blue wildebeests, gazelles, zebras,
riding in tandem
under the African sunflower,
baking our busybody.
... And get this babe we'll be bonding
that's the main thing,
us catching jungle fever,
swinging from tree to tree,
branch to branch,
uncorking champagne under starlight.
... And
I would love to see you smile
longer than the Tanzania
and happy like a giraffe,
longing to go,
longing to go to Africa.
4/18/17
10 placements-nothing again. A person can write so
indigenous to the topic, paint it vivid with color ... fun, humor,
excitement, and I'll even go so far as to say, more so than
others-and the results, yes the results ... sniff of crap again.
punk kids sagging pants
no belt needed tonight guys
gonna be a full moon bright
fools showing off jewels
khakis fall past crack of Don
wave of cops demand "PANTS UP"
*this poem was
written for Russell
Sivey's
Contest--- What
Happens During A
Full Moon?
and is a special ode
to all the
youngsters who feel
the need to express
themselves by
wearing pants 3
times too large that
sag around the crest
of their buttocks in
public*----by~ JSLAMBERT
i doubt i could be that girl,
smiling on the cover,
with crooked teeth and khakis.
shes never tasted cum,
or smoked a joint before christmas dinner.
because her parents have money,
thats why she lies on a manicured lawn.
thats why she needs to work.
to be a pharmasist.
a teacher.
another drone in morning traffic,
sipping midpriced coffee
and talking on a motorola.
living a mid-priced life,
i doubt i could act as well as she can.
Timidity ran all over me,
I got frightened for the day
Corpers march out of the camp
Bidding service to their homeland bye
A compulsory year for “ajuwaya”.
Of waste to many
Of hilarious time out to some
Of acculturation to others
Of enslavement in a glorified den.
With the inscription NYSC on white top
Brownish khaki below
Para-force orange boot to march
Ajuwaya’s hope dashed after 365 days
Dream killed for future seeds
Aspirations in korper’s khaki cut off
As they are unleashed to joblessness
Scattered into hopelessness of labour market
Here comes the “korpersion”
In search of future in confusion
Outside the very den after gyration
In a kingdom with no future.
Alayande Stephen. T
2.55pm
17th August 2006
Ajuwaya- a term used for fresh undergraduate who are
Undergoing one year compulsory service to their father land.
Still on my way, but back to IPC from Apagbon in Lagos on
The behest of IPC Chairman, Lanre Arogundade.
Significantly, it was the pass out day for corpers as they don
the streets in their Khakis.
The jaws sing
As the drip, drip, drip,
Of the petroleum chorus
Dances across
The inverted aluminum
And the hissing starts
And the hissing stays
Its smell a warning
A final omen
Like the last rose
Of summer
Or the fragrance she wore
For that final goodbye
The teeth tear inward
Like the regret for today
And the regret for yesterday
And the lament for tomorrow
Its promise broken
And your khakis red
And baptized
A stigmata
To self infliction
As the music plays constant
And the rushing you feel
An emptying of sorrow
Onto the crushed ceiling
Of a dream in reverse
Of all life in reverse
Until two arms grab you
And you fall from the sky
And you fall from the sky
Waiting
For the ground
To coronate the outcome
And for one more answer
To a ‘why’ unquestioned
And to love you one more time
But the lights are now dim
And the voices muffled
As an organ can be heard
And store bought flowers smelled
And an old woman cries…
As a young woman cries…
And a stranger pronounces
What you feared the most
They didn’t know you
And couldn’t know you
The exit sign flashing
But there is no door
“There is no door”
—and then the music stops
(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2016)
I thought one day to play my part and I was sent
Now I’m in a strange land but not a stranger in the land
We’re gathered here, bearing one purpose in mind
And looking gaily, bright faces, fresh from home
I have been camped here for eighteen days now
I have been equipped and armed to the teeth
With great arms needed for this bloodless war
The nation may not observe what we do today
Our tasks is not to please any, but be just corpers
Dressed in khakis, crested vests and oversized boots
Marching to and fro, under sun’s scorch, like soldiers
Bridging the gaps between villages and government
Preaching the sermon of a better Nigeria to everyone
And just within the spheres of our influence to act
But ask just this one thing from our great nation
The support of our government as it seems right.
If the government too, shall lead by example
In the supreme campaign towards a better Nigeria
We hope to follow each step with all our hearts
And be faithful, loyal and honest
To make a reality, the essence of this scheme.
Though our footsteps make only a light impression on this soil
We shall do our best and wish the government does too
For each small step is a giant leap of growth
And we would fight as true patriots of our dear nation
To defend her unity, uphold her honour and glory
So help us God.