Long Blue jeans Poems
Long Blue jeans Poems. Below are the most popular long Blue jeans by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Blue jeans poems by poem length and keyword.
My grandparents lived on farms – both sides of my family.
My mother’s parents and my father’s parents.
Overalls and button down shirts with pockets
Work boots for grandpas
Except my single grandpa did get dressed up fancy
For Saturday night dancing with his girlfriend.
He smelled wonderful too, wore a lariat with a turquoise stone
Shined his shoes as if he was going to church
My maternal grandmother was the only one I knew.
She wore a navy dress with large white polka dots
When we had weddings or funerals, and low heel shoes
The rest of the time I remember her wearing aprons over dresses
My mother was the first woman I saw who wore pants.
She preferred them to dresses, and took to polyester in a big way.
Remember the pantsuits of the seventies? I swear she invented those.
Matching tunics with wide legged pants.
My father wore plaid shirts or camouflage jackets
Unless he was going to work; then he wore a dark suit.
He was a salesman with a skinny tie.
He always looked crisp and clean; mom used starch on his clothes.
My style was wide bell bottom blue jeans that we called hip huggers.
When I was younger, and tops that looked maternity in the seventies.
This was the real style which horrified me in 1974, as I had to wear these blousy tops two years in a row
because I had a baby at twenty and twenty-one.
My new style is comfort. I am sixty-eight. I wear tennis shoes.
Elastic waists, soft clothes that are not tight, I love feeling free.
My husband is the same way – comfort clothes, elastic waists.
We like eating tasty foods; no blue jeans for us now.
We have three children. They dress according to their lives.
One has six children, but she dresses fancy and so do they.
Another has no children, she’s a professional. She dresses in suits.
Third child alternates between casual and fancy; working mom of three.
Our grandchildren are eclectic fashion displayers also.
Super controlled grandchildren wear traditional clothing,
Approved by mom or they do not leave the house.
The ones who are wild like our middle daughter have pink and blue hair.
I see dresses that are too short - the same as I wore in middle school.
I see pants that are too tight on boys, like we saw in the eighties.
I see boots not as cute as Nancy Sinatras or or go-go-boots.
Masks are the new fashion statement for the younger generation sadly.
Ponytails and blue jeans
Sat at Papaw's knee,
Watching as he whittled
On old branches from a tree.
And while he talked of cowboys
And big old Texas ranches,
He trimmed away the rough spots,
While I dreamed of pony dances.
A wild stick horse remuda
Began to run and play,
With every loving stroke,
As he peeled the bark away.
Using his "Old Timer"
And carving in my brand,
The best that he could find
And cut and shape with his own hand.
Now, each one of them was special,
And I felt I was too,
As they kicked up dust behind
This cowgirl buckaroo.
With reins of pink hair ribbon,
Shoe strings and baling twine,
There was "Buckin' Birch" and "Oakie,"
And "Ole Sticky" made of pine,
"Sassafras," and "Blackjack,"
"Willow," "Blaze," and "Scat,"
I never did corral 'em --
I just left 'em where they sat.
But next mornin', on the front porch,
'stead of roamin' wild and free,
They'd found their hitchin' rail,
‘cause Papaw lined 'em up for me.
Along our trails together
There were many lessons learned,
Like bein' a cowboy through and through
Is something that you earn
We'd partner up together,
And team up in cahoots,
Once he defied my Mama,
Bought me red cowboy boots.
And often, when I wondered
What to do on down the road,
He'd always tell me, "little girl,
When you get there you will know,"
Sometimes you have to let things go,
Sometimes you stand and fight,
And anything worth doin',
Is still worth doin' right.
With my wild stick horse remuda,
We rode the range for miles,
I knew I'd won my Papaw's heart
By the way he'd laugh and smile,
I still have his sweat-stained Stetson,
His boots, and his old knife,
Sometimes I take them out
Just to measure up my life.
And hold him closer to my heart,
And know I have to try,
To live up to the honor
Of the wonder-days gone by.
On my stick horse remuda,
I learned the cowboy way,
I’d give up everything I own
To ride with him today.
My wild stick horse remuda
Was quite the varied band,
Born and bred with me in mind
And trained by his own hand.
I’m longing for the legends,
And the way we used to roam,
With my wild stick horse remuda,
And the man that we called "Home."
She bares the marks of a life lived hard, her face the giveaway. Faint scar above her brow, chipped tooth, deep furrows that should be gentle crow feet to compliment her gorgeous eyes. She used to be pretty, now a concrete blonde of fading beauty. Named Roberta as a baby, but the few, privy to this information have since taken it to the grave, to all who ebb and flow from her life, simply Bobby.
Bobby wandered into town, who knows when. Her faded blue jeans slid forward on the weathered wooden bench outside the general store. From the recesses of her mind, she could recall only one occasion from her childhood when a dress draped her lanky frame. She hated it so much it was unceremoniously discarded, playing outside in her nickers at a 10th birthday party. From that day forward, only jeans. She never wore jewellery, her only adornment was a tarnished belt buckle sitting over the top of her Buckskin shirt. Bobby’s battered hat sat propped over her knee, she held a Coke as she waited on the bench.
It had been more than half a century since he saw Bobby. The pained, memory of her hair swaying, catching the golden sunlight on her back as he watched her walk away. Now, as he climbed the veranda, he knew it was her, faded, like his memories, but the, ever young, eyes, danced with life and he was drawn to them once again. Neither spoke as he eased his body onto the bench, their legs pinched together. A light breeze filtered through the thoroughfare, causing the rusty sandwich sign to creak and grown. He pulled his blues harp from the top pocket of his shirt and his breath eased across the chords. Bobby chuckled before she sang.
His lips stopped moving, he smiled with the realisation that at 78 years, he was trading what was left of his tomorrows for this moment in time. He slid his hand over Bobby’s and went still. Bobby held him for a long time, she sobbed. Tears flowed for a misspent life, sobbed for what could have been, sobbed at the cost of her freedom as it dawned on her that It wasn’t just another word for nothing else to lose. The floodgates opened as she truly lost.
Bobby stood on the highway, thumb out. The horizon held the ominous sign of approaching rain. An old diesel truck pulled up and she climbed aboard, she lifted the harmonica and said, “Do you want me to play?”
"That's a dead triangle" the boy proclaimed without even a mention of his good name.
"Gotta smoke...?" the old man asked as he unlatched his case at hand. Pulling out sticks.
His time at the table to challenge the band, was upon him soon. His pinkie ring has an
onyx moon.
"You shoot lefty.... and a bridge is the quarter turn of a One"
"Seven sees four eyes of a sun....! You're good to move on."
What? There's a quarter turn on the horizon?
"The Angel isn't dead and the Dead aren't done...."
How many games have you played I asked him. His blue jeans were dirty and his hair was
thin. His hands were shaking as he drew one in... a long and steady breath, full of smoke
while his eyes sat firm. The hall was dim and around me I could hear the echoing players
call. I could hear clashing of the solidly striped balls.
Then without a reply, the old man turned his back to the wall. Removed his eyes from my
questioning stare and lifting his arm, took a shot through the air.
"Why am I here...." with the angels again...
Hey little girl, did you watch me play? I won that game the red head said. All I could do
was smile. Not knowing yet why once in a while, I'm confronted with strange realities, not
especially mine, but yours you see?
In her face with just seconds to spare I saw her life in a flash of red.... bloodshot.
Eyes in her head were not the kind I'm used to. Something about her ruby lips too.... the
elevator moved ever so slow as we stood there. Her towering height became quite,
apparent, my eyes to roll from my sight as I'm staring. Click please! Let the elevator
floor ding, I'm praying. I see her knees am I shrinking? I start blinking and breathing,
just waiting for the door to start dinging.
And then it did.
And the air finally came.
"Love an Angle and be quick on your game!"... her ruby lips flapping.
Then the red head was gone and I was still.Left standing.
76 tables in the den remaining...I'm exhausted when came
the first of a dawning while driving away in the morning, I realized...
I was called to the table, in play for their lives.
"But I'm not a man..." a whisper cried....
"Only sLight of a human inside...."
A fractal of Light now....
As homeward I drive, wondering how can it be?
As they're not alive. So what exactly, does that mean about me?
Form:
And I can just see him there by the wind chimes chiming their morning song smiling at us
outside along with the orange juice and apple, and apple butter set up beside the grits
and raisin toast in the toaster. Maple syrup ready for heating in the microwave with many
funny, grand events circumstances questions of the day already being proposed to you in
all seriousness.
Running up and down the spine and belly really wrestling with your patience. Answered
swiftly with light chuckling laughter. As I think wisely and answer saying "as you and I
are set to bed at night, we all too need God's peace in the morning". Stomping on the
floor with a rugged click clack clack... saying "overt, wisdom is not patient to fond
reflection of itself alone. So is the way of the chopstick. Lying there so defined ... .
Hands sick. Hear their plea. They
cry mercy, use me ... !"
Remembering when she was younger their Mothers' Mother our other kitten Precious of
memory's past yes her kittens many antics with my Wife and children and me.
As one of Blue Jeans our oldest Daughters' new Mother Kitten, or I should say Cat now,
with her first little litter of kitten, as we found her pregnant now some time ago and now
her three, no two kittens -- the one little fuzzball I forget her name. They both jumped
me this morning.
One climbing up "my spine right now" one my shoulder scooting down my belly on to my knee
as I stick it out so it can jump onto my broken down dark brown leather Lazy Boy flip back
Daddy chair as I'm leaning myself back, with one hand for the other. As I change their
bowls so they may have food and water. As they play with one another over who in the
process gets my big toe. They haven't figured quite yet it being quite stinky. There being
two, connected to me there is another protruding shell toy of a fleshy
distraction for both of them.
Like the simple spontaneity of my little one, jawing away on a pickle slurping it down
wiping his mouth on my coat shirt pocket, as with a big grunt the youngster looks at me,
then cuts a wet one in its diaper, just as I'm wanting to go to the restroom myself, and
reaching, needing, a paper towel.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JBfjU3_XOaA
Simon – the protagonist.
18 – year old kid who just graduated from high school.
Lives in middle class suburbia, no designated town, and an every-town sort of feel.
Lives with his mother, his older brother. (Father has recently passed away...a year ago)
Have a small number of friends, most of them through service groups.
Very active in community service, volunteers for church organizations.
Enthusiastically participates in highway clean-ups.
Loves helping old ladies to their cars with groceries.
Brings in stray pets from the street, he’s currently the unofficial caretaker of 7 dogs and 5
cats.
A steady “B” student in school, would be an A student if he didn’t spend so much time with
community service.
Doesn’t date at all, has almost no free time, although he does sometimes feel like he’s
missing out.
Drives a brown station wagon.
Has never put any type of hair product in his hair before, wears a T-shirt and blue jeans 80%
of the time, 20% he is in church wearing something nicer.
Earns most of his money during school at a part-time job at an old folk’s home, taking walks
with them, listening to their stories.
The kids at school have nicknamed him “Simon Theresa.”
He sometimes gets frustrated at other people, that they’re not doing enough for the
community.
In church when he was 13 he stood up and demanded more people donate money into the
basket being passed around.
He is sometimes too passionate about what he does.
He is not very athletic, or interested in playing sports, yet he is ridiculously good at table
games (ping-pong, air hockey, pool, etc.)
He has a hard time socializing with people his age, and fears he is too different from
everyone else.
He has always been the antithesis of his brother and father, who are very much the All-
American male: athletic, sports fans, cigar toting, car lovers, beer buddies, etc.
The only alcohol Simon consumes is the teaspoon mass.
Despite how opposite they are, he gets along fine with his brother, as their personalities
seem to compliment each other.
His father on other hand, he feels like he failed somehow, ever since his death, he never felt
he got his acceptance from him.
And I can't help him.
After taking a shot of claret wine
Thackray on a mission to find
And she was not going to be declined
With a blade in hand getting a goal
Thackray did not look old
Spirits very high
Headed to the new castle in the sky
Deciding to meet and give a good try
Seeing Antonio no longer bitter
“I remember you were my movie costume fitter”
Laughing Antonio had a goal
And an honest soul
“Thackray I made you look good
As you should”
Hearing the remark she flashed a smile
And that image is still in her professional file
“That is right we are West Ham United
Ready to handle modern day fighting”
Letting her go through
Hoping today’s royals are cool
She stood before them
Ready to defend
Her influence on men
“You are no longer seventeen
In those dreamy
Blue jeans”
Royals stated
Then waited
For the answer
From the dancer
“I still got the look
Credibility in the modeling book
Relegating zone is following me around
Trying to take me down
A source I was able to contact
Said I still have a contract
I as a West Ham can still get another goal
And would be favorable to the modern royal public poll"
Modern royals looked at each other
Wondering if they were Thackray’s Mother
“We royals truly listen
And concluded you do not need our permission”
Thackray thanked them for their two pences
Accepted this draw ‘as making senses’
Later in the day
Aston was challenged to stay
With a point would be made
Receiving a nice grade
Went to Anfield
To check on a deal
“We are still number one
Writing paperbacks for fun”
Hosts did comment
Hotel rented Aston got it
Drama did unfold
Aston was still very bold
Yet Reds put one in
Stayed back for the win
“Mommy” Aston did say
“I need to talk to you about the Villa today!”
While Aston began to leave
Reality started to breath
When another one went in
Securing the Liverpool win
It was a civil ending
Honesty pending
Modern royals still nice
Gave the West hammy some advice
“You never stalk alone
Just answer the text or phone
Paperback writers are still out there
Needing west ham united to give audiences a scare”
When morning breaks in shades of wine...
with claret skies to blush the dawn...
I will stretch and yawn, and thank the night
for this polished, apple day
I will wait until the sun is high, where dew upon the rose is dry
I'll have my cup, .. with toast and jam...
then, make escape, ..........the quest begins,
to seek my small reward
It happens slowly...
gathering reason from an untamed mind
Up into the meadow where the brambles climb
twisted and tangled, through burgandy vines
while deftly my fingers, will probe the maze
and reach for wild berries,.....warm from the haze
Then, thumping their goodness, one after one
into the bucket, dented and worn
A search through thorns, a prick on my thumb
till my back is ripe, and wet in the sun
Finger painting my faded blue jeans
Knowing my cheeks are flushing in pink
Sucking sweet juice from two crimson thumbs
Who cares a lick, of the thorns or a bee?
I am a bee, buzzing serenity...
plucking small bits of reason and sanity
taking home goodness in a battered tin pail
feeling alive, on a wild-flowered hill
Tonight's sweet delight, is warm berry cobbler,
oozing with goodness of juicy red gems
staining my tongue, and turning lips scarlet
dripping blood droplots onto my chin
Yet never as splendid, or tasting as fine,
as warmed by my smile, straight from the vine
Picking red berries, and freeing my mind
* *
* *
* *
*
*
counting vermillion clouds that are spun
then heading back home, with the red crimson sun
_____________________________________
For Shadow Hamilton's Contest: "Colours"
5/4/13
Resubmitted to Skat's contest:
Destination,
Tampa
a college party
we arrive
Finally!!
Carrying
Coors Light 30 pack
cans
already,
my mind is far from right
USF
a theme party
throwback middle school
dance
I'm focused
WOW
standing in front of me
"hey"
"I really like those pants."
having to remember
what i wore in eighth
grade
came with such difficulty
i wore something home made
A
knitted
pullover
vest
black
over a
Fruit Of the Loom
white tee
white gold,
rested
on my chest
and Ralph Lauren
blue jeans
beer pong,
card games
bikinis galore
pink, white thongs
crazy insane
what was in store
staggeringly
Drunk,
half naked
colligiates dancing
with intoxicated grace
inhibitions
not tonight
I stayed
all through
the night
danced with
many females
Alright
my next destination,
Naples
i must leave
at first light
While living in Florida i ventured to beaches, resorts, college dorm parties, and all out
mayhem.. this is just one of many tales....... This was definitely a VIVA Vacation....
I remember him as if it
were yesterday, picking black
berries for his mom’s cobbler pie.
He was bare foot with a dirty
shirt and frayed blue jeans;
if you want to call them blue.
His hair dingy red, the color
of southern red clay.
He never saw me; I was sitting
in the water oak, over looking
the creek running between our
houses.
The creek was our playground
for fishing and swimming.
We strung a kudzu vine over a
limb, hanging straight over the
creek; for swinging into the
deepest part of the water.
Down in the shallows was
where his family bathed on
the warm days.
Today was not bath day, it was
food gathering day.
After placing all of the berries
into a big bowl, he would eat
a handful before taking them to
the house.
As a routine, his mother always
lathered him up with bacon grease
to kill any chiggers, she said it
smothered them, it was a wonder
it didn’t smother him.
I wonder if that was why he
always looked unkempt, plus he
had wild animals following him
quite a lot.
It seems as though it was just the
other day, he had a skunk run
him up a tree.
I don’t know who smelt better,
him or the skunk.
In school he would always sit in
the back next to the window.
Some of the other boys nick
named him Bacon; he didn’t mind,
it made him feel important.
Me, I gradually got use to the
way he smelled like a side of pork.
That’s how I always knew when
he picked berries for his mom.
It was as if the bacon grease
tattooed his pores.
She did make the best black
berry cobbler in town;
always taking first place in the
county fair.
This year, the cash prize would
be larger plus the recipe would
be published in the state journal
and eligible for contest winnings
of five thousand dollars.
I knew that they could use the
money, they were desperately
in need of a big wash tub.
If it wasn’t for all of his friends
at school, his mom would have
never won the state prize money
and I surely wouldn’t have married
him,
as I remember…
Copyright © 2008 By Caryl S. Muzzey