Khakis Poems | Examples

John Brennan Crutchley the Vampire Rapist

they said he drained them —
not with charm
but with a syringe.

office door closed,
fake smile,
real bad smell.

the papers called him a vampire.
he was worse.

blood dripping in tubes,
dripping like old beer from busted taps
in dead bars at 2 a.m.

no bats, no castles,
just a slob in a tie,
a geek who found horror
in a bored suburb.

he worked next to you.
smiled like you.
laughed at the same bad jokes.

but inside,
a desert rat,
a hunger with no god.

they caught him,
but there are others —
thousands of others.

the real monsters wear khakis.

she is like me

They have the cutest clothes now for little granddaughters.
I cannot help but buy this outfit.

Another pink and orange thing? My daughter asks.

My granddaughter squeals and runs to her room to change.
She loves the colors I love.

Whereas her mother, my own child prefers khakis and dull browns.
“She is like me,” I say, pleased.

Nantucket 1942

I am running the Sconset bluff path.
I go past darkened houses,
black out curtains hanging,
past Linda Thomas and Jolene Baer
who are chasing rabbits into the privet hedges.
Their fathers call out to them-
“Careful girls!”-
drinks sloshing, ice tinkling
as I go by invisible,
yet sensed.
A summer later,
I will be gone.
Starched, ironed khakis
in a trunk wait ahead in my room.
The beginning and end 
of a life never started.

Benedict Donald

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)

Creative Conformity

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

Cool Dad

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.

Saved By the System In Waco

The real clues
are in the cobweb scraps
dropped by
hapless bronze birds
that will never
feed again

The children 
are all there
in little specks of
brittle hopes in
black pieces
in the dirt

Their lives were
spilt like milk
from the inside out

They lie there in
pools of sprinkler water
collected where it lay

Running down
heat bleached
wet white concrete walls
where globes of fire
all yellow and red
and hissing
danced in circles
around and around

Huddled in terror
they did not know
it was sent
so lovingly
to purify and protect
from some self-appointed
head of grace
of the fallen state

That hollow blessing
melted cosmetics
into the prom pictures
that would never
be taken

Now crisp nylon khakis
march over remnants of
pennyloafers threads and belts
over scattered salt
strewn like stars

Ah, but the young
Republicans are happy
those tales of children
are not about them
and theirs

The news stories
are not about them
the fortunate few
that are unlimited by
some well written
blessed law
to help only those
that are no
longer there

Left Hands With Purpose

From the train platform I see you
Actually - all are watching
As rap music blares from a dark blue Hyundai
All of you sing out the words with a special attitude – 
“In my Mercedes”
Four boys standing in oversized khakis – each one
His left hand clutches the zipper area of his pants- tightly
You hold them up – but to avoid what?
The falling?  – I do not think so
Each left hand has a purpose now
You are free and brave 
I envy your purpose 
And there on the train platform – I declare – in my mind only  
One day – I too will be brave and dedicate my life to holding my pants up
And giving my left hand a meaningful purpose.

Crying In the Rain

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.

Us

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

Divided We Stand

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

Blue Jeans

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

Full Moon Thugs

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

Ode To the Plastic Comb

Sing praises to the toothless grin
of the plastic, pocket comb;
who through many heads 
of boys and men
its plastic tines have flown.
Working magic in the masculine hands,
putting astray stains of hair in place,
as the holder stares into a mirror,
admiring their own face.

Carried in back pockets of
jeans, khakis and shorts;
sat upon on hard surfaces -
some tines start to abort.
Thin tines on one end
for the finest head of hair;
thicker teeth on the other
with large gaps of spaces there.

Left behind on counters,
in kitchen drawers and in bathrooms;
discarded due to some missing teeth,
but for others still worth a groom.
Looking for that perfect look
are many men and boys;
hopeful that this plastic tool
leads to future romantic joys.

Existential Emptiness

White-jacketed and stethescoped,

He clicks down the empty corridor

In his loafers and khakis.

 

The rooms of patients long gone home

To heaven or hell are dark and silent.

‘Round the corner, the janitor waves

But says nothing, noticing the fatigue

In the doctor’s eyes.

 

Another day gone by, he thinks.

How many more will go?

Too many terminal illnesses have

Crept in

Taking over.

 

Out in the lot, the Porsche is waiting.

For the first time in his life

The doctor hesitates

Then,

Realizing his sin

He walks.

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