Long Boots Poems
Long Boots Poems. Below are the most popular long Boots by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Boots poems by poem length and keyword.
Steel-gray clouds have filled the sky
To linger, on a cheerless day
Laying ice upon a weary world
Of rolling hills, and pastures deep
Small herds seek shelter among the trees
And flocks of geese form arrows high
To flee the wail of windmill cries
North winter winds so wet with sleet
Have buried fields, once primed for wheat
With the weight of burdens never done
A lone man works without a sun
Entrenched in white beneath his feet
Wearing overalls, boots deep in soil
And fleece upon his heart of toil
A pitchfork heaped with mounds of hay
That blanket fields of frigid gray
There's a horse drawn wagon, sunk in mud
Waiting till the master is done
He labours on, as the evening falls
It is too cold to wipe his dampened brow
His woolen hat... it glistens now
With cheeks of red, he steels his breath
Like his forefathers did, until their deaths
Humble pride, long hours to bear
Another day that he will wear
Repeating task of many years
So weary on his shoulders lay
A legacy that's long to stay
The timeless cloak of winter's day
______________________________________________________________
Enough with the weather,
The snow and the ice.
The storms we have had
Really ought to suffice.
Enough with the potholes,
The plows and the salt.
Though we’re being punished,
It isn’t our fault.
Enough with the shovels,
The scrapers, the blowers
And gutters which turn
Into icicle growers.
Enough with the mittens,
The scarves and the boots,
The problems with transit
And longer commutes.
Enough with the coughing,
The fever, the sneezes,
The outages when
Every power line freezes.
Enough with this winter
With which we’re afflicted,
But after all, it’s
What the groundhog predicted!
When Comedians Marry
Comics juggle three rings when they wed
On trampoline bed they start a circus
Keep gold bands on hand while thinking zany thoughts
The comic husband wears two condoms all the time
To find the little things in life that matter
The rubbers glow in the dark of course
With funny clown shapes and faces growing large
Expandable figurines as you might figure
There is no telling what might pop up in bed
Jokes bounce off the walls when jumping around
Sex is hard on landings
Funny partners exchange zingers all night long
Are never nude or in the raw
Wear clothes during sex to save some time
That can cause performance issues and chaffing
And applause during intermissions
He sports a hunter’s outfit with iron boots
To boost the trampoline bounce
Naturally there is a bazooka to keep things up
Fingers point in all directions while trying to score
She wears layers of winter coats, pink umbrellas, for a joke
Both swing on chandeliers with smiles
It helps them to unwind, remember lines before they mate
Comedians sometimes fake orgasms
It's not easy when you're laughing
And when married, even funnier than car crashes
Man builds pyramids and gilded cities.
Sends starry ships to haunt the moon.
My tabby frequents back-alley parties
In two pairs of orange striped boots.
Man has concocted earth-bending bombs.
Magical pills to keep us happy and beating.
My tabby just prefers a star-studded romp.
Then a long vigorous scratch and a feeding.
Man twists his mind with his purpose in life.
Tiptoes along the cliffs of a nuclear blitz.
My tabby stalks and paws at a tiny red light
Cares little about the meaning of his 9 lives.
Though quite smelly-aloof and indifferent.
He cares nothing about race, gold, or politics.
He scratched my cherry headboard to shreds.
His soul is very pure and without prejudice.
Year-round he plays a trickster saint Nick.
Leaves homemade mice upon my porch
At times he barfs up Picasso-looking things
Still, I tend to his bowl and carry his torch.
He flashes his furry bum in front of company.
His litter box is quite the opposite of sweet.
But I'd rather hang out with my orange tabby.
Than any sneaky two-faced human being.
VISITING WITH THOSE DARN SHOES
accused of goodie two shoes
“why are you so darn honest,”
a wild cousin once quipped,
as she helped her son with
cable wires as doorbells drilled
in our heads, hiding evidence.
the bells of saint mary’s church
a holy honest place, tinkling
with grace and hiding fugitives.
one shaking in her quaker boots,
leaden legs sent to deal with
the establishment, that
mental place, a quickening of
sick. and laughter ding dongs
in the rafters, quilts on
the wired clothes live lies.
later to return to the scene
where a peep is heard,
“turn me off” – a vibrating toy?
my cousin chides,
“well, at least it didn’t say
turn me on”
two shoes step lightly,
across the squeaky floorboards,
two shoes left outside,
two in trash disposal,
two feet missing from a beat,
cancer had the last laugh
boy, do i miss her!
Kim Rodrigues © 2017
In loving memory of my cousin
Old Christmas Poem Poetry Contest-Sponsored by: Constance La France
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"it is Christmas in the heart that puts Christmas in the air"-W.T.Ellis
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when santa comes down under-
he would leave behind snow and thunder.
he would cross scenic beaches of golden sand-
instead of crossing an ice and snow covered land.
he`ll would fly over dirt river beds dry-
while constantly swatting away a buzzing fly.
he`ll swap the roaring fire for an air-cooled fan-
and his white skin would become a golden tan.
would he swap his fur lined coat and boots-
for a t-shirt, shorts and thong suit.
would he exchange his sled for a holden ute-
and instead of saying ho-ho-ho would he say real beaut.
would he swap the reindeers for kangaroos-
and play christmas carols on didgeridoos.
would he exchange milk and cookies for beer-
if so, the next day his head wouldnt be so clear.
would he frolic under the warming sun-
or would it be all business, and not one bit of fun.
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interpretations for the aussie words:
.........
beaut-Aussie slang for beautiful
thong-Aussie word for flip flops
holden-Australian make of car [very popular in Australia]
The Toonerville Express disturbs a still December morn’,
Like Gabriel himself, but with a whistle, not a horn.
It fades into the distance as my hopes go down the drain.
I’m two miles from the station, but someday I’ll catch that train.
I’ll catch that train and when I do…
She rolls into Jeff. City like a rusty iron gate;
Pulls out for Topeka like a stack of China plates.
From Chula Vista’s sunset to the ragged coast of Maine
These boots have done some walkin’, but someday I’ll catch that train.
I’ll catch that train and when I do…
The engineer’s been playing locomotive on the loose.
Can’t count on the conductor ‘cause he’s drunk in the caboose
And he only punches tickets, never asks you for your name.
Might have to bribe the brakeman, but someday I’ll catch that train.
I’ll catch that train and when I do…
The Toonerville Express disturbs a still December morn’.
That last long lonesome wail was like a baby bein’ born.
I should be sleepin’ in a boxcar ‘steada standin’ in the rain.
I threw a rock and missed it, but someday I’ll catch that train.
I’ll catch that train, and when I do,
Those tracks will guide me right on through.
It just might take a while, it’s true,
But all the same, I’ll catch that train.
The marshal saddled up as dawn broke over old Dodge City.
Upon town rabble and mean hombres he took no pity!
He donned his ten-gallon hat and strapped on his gun.
On his vest the marshals' badge gleamed in the rising sun!
Sheepskin chaps and fancy boots completed his dandy outfit.
He was a handsome dude - with the ladies he made quite a hit!
He mounted his horse Woody and took a ride about the town,
Ever on the lookout for desperados of notorious renown!
He took a break for a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs,
Then continued on his rounds on the lookout for society's dregs.
Rowdy cowpokes galloped down Main Street on a toot.
Marshal Dan escorted them out of town in hot pursuit!
At high noon the peace of Dodge City was interrupted,
When a brawl at the Long Branch Saloon suddenly erupted!
Shooting began and Marshal Dan drew his peace-maker;
Two rowdy gun-slingers had a date with the undertaker!
With Marshal Dan, peace in Dodge City was guaranteed.
Danny dismounted his rocking horse Woody, his faithful steed.
It had been a tough day trying to be fair and impartial.
Now it was afternoon nap time for the little five-year old marshal!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
With my fishing vest and waders, and a found long wooden staff
I walked along the jetty, on a rock-piled curvy path
The day had grown to darkness, with no light there to be found
When something unknown had startled me, when it made a screeching sound
Afraid of it, I started walking fast, almost in run-mode pace
Scared to death, and loss of breadth, and whiteness on my face
For every step that I had taken, this thing had taken one too
So scared of it, I was, it almost made me poo
A nest of string all full of weeds, I had to laugh a hoot
To find out it was a fishing line, that was wrapped around my boot
It must have clung onto my boots, when the ocean ebbed low tide
So, I had a breath to breathe, and I laughed like hell...inside
A Funny Memories Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Natasha L Scragg
1/12/22
There was no accident.
It is an entire generation your failures have delivered to the flames.
Beneath your crumpled suits, betrayals show their seams.
You deconstructed without rebuilding,
demolished all bearings, weakened respect, dissolved hierarchy —
and now you mourn the ruins you yourselves designed.
You fantasize France as a stage for amusement,
halfway between historical folklore and reality TV.
But there are no bulls here, no masquerade —
the only deception is yours.
The true puppets sit in your palaces,
and the only clogs are your boots pressing on the necks of the defiant.
You call this chaos?
It is the purest expression of your failure,
the mirror of a State you cracked with your own indifference.
The weak did not merely surrender:
they consented, assisted, took part.
And now you expect the people to keep paying
for your faults piled high like falsified communiqués.
Look at yourselves.
Nourished by the privileges of the Republic,
incapable of shame, incapable of honor,
you defile the memory of the dead
while claiming to inherit a past you relentlessly betray.
You are not authority — you are its parody.
Society did not birth savages.
It watched children grow in forsaken outskirts
as you averted your eyes,
and your repeated abdications sculpted the edges of chaos.
Your cowardice is the true delinquent,
your decisions, the crime’s tools,
your speeches, projectiles; your silences, detonators.