Best Shirt Poems
“I hate Mondays,” yes, I surely do,
I say aloud while folding up that shirt
which, with some other tops, I'm giving to
the Goodwill store along with an old skirt.
I think about last weekend and how fast
it went. How wonderful it was to lie
around the house! Too bad it never lasts.
To work I go and hope the hours will fly.
Weeks pass. The “I hate Monday” shirt now goes
to Africa where jeans and shirts and shoes
are given to the poor. Among the clothes,
my shirt is one a little boy will choose.
He walks a long way, then in dirt he works
each day so he can eat. Nobody pays
him money; he knows nothing about perks
or weekends. With his friends he rarely plays.
Beneath that shirt whose words he cannot read
his tummy growls, while I , so far away
across an ocean, grumble how I need
a break, and how I hate to wake on Monday!
Based on Picture #1
Written April 8,2016 for the Images that make you think Poetry Contest of S.O.
farewell notes perfumed with ink ~ white shirt that always escaped laundry
September 2, 2020
My Most Unforgettable Moment in HighSchool Poetry Contest
Sponsor: JCB Burl
Church people
in their finest threads,
rushing off to place Jesus in their heads.
Me, lying in bed
a bleach-stained purple t shirt
sunlight eating through the drapes
mind somewhat intact
bad thoughts flooding into the head
sorry Jesus...no disrespect
but I need a little more sleep
did you know did you know
what i am? well i'm a shirt, a shirt
no? can't you tell? do you see what i am yet?
or shall i tell you more what i can do, what i am
I am the thing you put on each morning for work
or for play, or for school, and every time you go out
but you take me for granted, friend
not everyone has such an advantage
some don't have more than a cloth
to cover a small portion of their skin
sin marred by the hot sun and by dirt
the next time you put me on to play
remember what i have told you today
you may always have me you may not
but you can't take things for granted
because you have minor problems now
compared to those in other countries
please stop complaining about them all
The bright orange rugby shirt I had,
When I was fourteen, fifteen, sixteen and seventeen,
Was my trophy and my pride and joy,
Never to be deprived of me,
Even if I complained to my parents or to their friend,
To have been seen to be a boy too much,
Or, in other words, mistaken as a superior person,
With other sociology to fulfil all my wishes.
I was just assertive and intelligent and all that,
A fashion icon, an example to others,
To disabled people or to church young persons,
Who were both the same to me, like each other;
They just wanted to fit into society,
To mark their case for more wheelchair rights,
Or in order to state their reason for believing in god.
I had my identity, my beliefs, and my role models,
Listened to them in respect, with amorosity:
I knew what I wanted to do in life,
And my goals were of course reasonable,
Because they could be achieved no problem, abstractly.
But that was it, and there it was,
Objectively everything sounded fine,
Doable, but what you thought about it,
The practicalities weighed you down,
Taught the string which so dangled entertainingly,
As a condition that was more of a pleasure,
To make, to work out such that your desires happened.
So my bright rugby shirt said it all really,
That I should have my desires and goals,
That I should be met and facilitated in life,
And not my parents or those church leaders,
That I was supposed to follow.
I did not ever have to state my case beforehand,
Before the meetings about my future and care needs,
Because everyone knew I was an atheist,
Able with expression and communication,
Able with much trust for other people.
I was in Germany once with my parents,
Dressed as usual in the clothes that I like,
Without hesitation, care or timidity;
My jumper may not have been bright orange,
But it was still colourful enough to attract attention.
So my parents were embarrassed, particularly my dad,
Who was a war veteran true and sensitive,
And so from then on we hid inside shops,
And even stayed longer in restaurants,
Because all the wheelchair spaces for the cafés,
Were outside those cafés at tables on the pavement;
So we shopped, visited the toilet more, went to museums,
Instead of drinking coffee in the cafés of Berlin.
Wear his T-shirt and feel him close when he‘s gone.
You stole my shirt again
The one with stains
Beneath my armpits
You lied and said
The shirt somehow fell
Into your suitcase
A dark black shadow
That hurled itself off a cliff
And landed inside your
Sad blonde soul
And when you sleep alone at night
In the naked stretch of your wine-soaked skin
Do you smell my harsh manly aroma
In the pillow of your theft?
Do you wet yourself in the taste of
The baby felons we might make?
Do you imagine yourself wearing
My body
Upon the sharp thrusts of my
Contempt
And
Love?
For a liar, a thief, a fetishist for
Fabric
That revives memories
Of lust long faded
You stole my shirt again
The one that has faint traces
Of your drool, in the way you
Drip yourself upon me
In the hot slumber of your
Babbling incoherent dreams
Give me back my shirt
It was a present from my sister
Who rarely bought me anything
Except for a blue cotton candy
Vivid blue
Like your icy sullen eyes
In the childhood
Of my lonely
Indelible
Lament
My grandson has a lot of tees
With Mario imprinted.
His sister wears her Ariels,
Her mermaid passion hinted.
Which made me think of certain shirts,
Quite popular back when
I though that Dr. Kildare
Was the handsomest of men.
They didn’t have his picture
But resembled what he wore
And how I wished I had one
Sitting in my dresser drawer!
In doctor-white, with buttons
Going neck-high up the side,
The wearer would be filled with
Fans of Dr. Kildare pride.
A classmate owned one and she wore it,
Showing off, at school.
Ironically, she found Ben Casey,*
M.D., much more cool.
Compared to tie-in clothes today,
A Dr. Kildare smock
Was rare enough that even E-Bay
Has not one in stock.
*Dr. Kildare and Ben Casey, M.D.
were two popular T.V. shows about doctors
in the 1960’s
Wear his T-shirt and feel him close when he‘s gone.
Limerick : Once a Leftist Stuffed-Shirt taught class
Once a Leftist Stuffed-Shirt taught class
He stuffed students’ drains with high-class grass
The girls during recess
Gave him ample access
Now hangs out with big-funding Top-Brass.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
After very long time, I took out my shirt
Cornered in the wardrobe on a hanger.
I found a long familiar hair in the collar
How a*beauty drew me with a single hair.
Ah! What a feel of an intoxicating smell
Of her most favored Bocheron perfume.
Bringing back the memory of the past
I wore that shirt in that memorial winter.
Relapsed in to that my fondest memory
As I was penning pretty poor poetry
The blonde with midnight black hair came
Asked me to finish my poem*March Madness.
My unfinished poem in black ink dried up
Finished and could finish my wet desire.
Those curious locks my soul so aptly twined
Whose every soft hair a soul doth bind.
Young memory of first love never fades away
Old memory is like flowers planted yesterday.
********
*Inspired by Alexander Pope
** My Poem in the Archives.
=========================================
Fourth Place win in
Contest : Fondest memory sponsored by frank Herrera
It hung in the closet
long after he was gone
the scent of his cologne
lingering there
The cuffs were worn and shabby
Colors faded from the sun
I would pack it with the other things
his watch and silver cuff links
memories from the past
I could not part with
As I started to gently fold it
the tears I had held back
now came pouring down my cheeks
like salty rain
I buried my face in the faded shirt
long after he was gone
and the scent of his cologne
still lingered there
Standing listing, leaning against the wall.
Danced lots. drank shots. Friends out having a ball.
Bud bumped bouncer, lost his shirt,
imbibed too much and chased a skirt.
Group hug. Uber call. Another good pub crawl.
-Angel Fatale-
Oh, how sublimely my hormones hurt
At the sight of you in my favorite shirt
Not once did I ever intend to share it
'Til my peepers eyed how well you wear it
Oh, my, lordy knows I've a need, devout
For the beguiling way that you fill it out
At such divine form, I've no need to scoff
Yet, you're finer, still ... when you take it ...
Off.
* FIRST PLACE in the "Epigram" Poetry Contest, Deborah Guenther Beachboard, Sponsor. *
This tee shirt is very bright
When you see it,fills you with delight
It's not extra large nor is it wide
The laundry detergent I use is tide
So whenever you see it be happy with glee
Because im the onlyone with this yellow tee