Long Breeches Poems
Long Breeches Poems. Below are the most popular long Breeches by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Breeches poems by poem length and keyword.
Many years ago,
Before yours or my time,
When the only way to
Travel to and fro
Was not with automobiles,
Or cars or trains,
Or even planes.
But with a horse or a donkey.
This happened in the villages
In Greece, donkeys were a
Cheap mode of transport,
But stubbornly would sit
On their paunches and snarl
Showing yellow teeth,
There was no way,
The donkey would budge
Another step, on that day
The aristocracy from
Athens With horses,
And their breeches and braces,
Made fun of the peasants
And donkeys, what monkeys!
But one Athenian
Stopped by the old
Man with his donkey
The poor donkey was saddled,
With so much,
His walking was wonky!
Hey my friend,
Said the city man,
To the old peasant
Would you sell me
A pheasant,
And your donkey
Would he carry the same
load for me?
Of course he would but
There is one thing you should know
He don’t look so good!
Said the honest old man!
But the buyer ignored this
And put a bridle
On the poor animal, and
Tied him with rope to his saddle!
A week passed, and there
Suddenly appeared the Athenian
Who had bought the donkey.
Hey mister he said,
Did you know your donkey was blind,
Yes, but told you,
It was you who misunderstood
“He don’t look so good!’
How beautiful this world is
How charming everything seems
Oceans, deserts, breeches
mountains, Forests and fields
Every bit is so pleasing
At peace
Air, water, fruit and all our food
So yummy, so tasty
We live together
With everybody
We are so content
But earth is only half lit
Each day is followed by Night
We live in fears
Fear of losing a loved one
Fear of losing health or wealth
Fear of winter
Fear of death
Or of being left alone
Fear of going too far
And forgetting our way back
Or fear of them going away
Fear of rain, and of earthquakes
Of scorpions and snake
And of an enemy whose integrity is at stake
Look with an eagle eye
And world is beautiful
But look closely with a discerning eye
It is nothing but we live in fears and worries
May it never gets dark
May sun shine on every side
Paghunda
Pants
I battle with frustration.
Sometimes I want to quit.
In my never-ending effort
To find some pants that fit.
I begin with optimism
But my poor head soon is spinning,
Unhappily I discover,
They don't make pants for real women.
I don't know what they're thinking,
These makers of our toys.
Who should be making Blue Jeans.
For adolescent boys.
A woman is like a flower,
Who blooms in her own way,
And continues on to blossom
Until her dying day.
My pants are never long enough
Unless they are to long.
No matter what size I get,
They seem to fit me wrong.
I don't want breeches tight enough
To make a sailor blush.
The dogs all bark when I walk by,
But the singing birdies hush.
So many kinds to choose from,
Could make a Bishop cuss
I don't know why buying pants,
Should stir up such a fuss.
I ask but little of this life.
And take what I can get.
But I desire this little thing,
A pair of pants that fit.
This man was a laborer, and in vacuum cleaner sales.
He came a long way from Pontypridd in South Wales.
From humble beginnings as Thomas Jones Woodward,
Tom Jones has been one of the greatest singers heard.
With the early sixties British Invasion,
he became an entertainment sensation.
With his Edwardian billowing shirts and tight breeches on stage,
among his fans, Jones has been quite the rage.
Hit songs “It’s Not Unusual” and “Green Green Grass of Home” brought success.
Other hits include “Delilah”, “Love Me Tonight”, and “Daughter of Darkness”.
Jones once had his own television show.
He became a star millions of people would know.
He has always been a prominent man on the scene.
His career was topped with knighthood by the Queen.
Tom Jones has set a fine example in his day.
His fabulous career continues up to today.
Thanks to Tom Jones' website and wikipedia.org for the information I obtained to write this poem.
Don (ta) Ask Me 'Bout Exacerbation Of Trumpeted "FAKE" News
written September 19th, 2018, and following words still ring (more true) today – exactly six years later.
The then forty fifth prez
of United States of America
best get sent packing
to Lake woebegone
forced to coexist amidst University
of Pennsylvania Dutch
men in breeches
(May Apple lie)
swampy netherlands awash
with bipedal hominid
sucker punching leeches
where within every
whirled wide webbed
nook and cranny
Nietzscheism reaches,
and survival of fittest
iz basic credo,
and dogmatic ethos,
analogous to an apprentice teaches
a most frightful distortion of facts
and make up mistruths
indiscriminately bandied about
said alarmist blatant LIES
blithely stated with dangerous clout
appearing oblivious and totally
clueless without a doubt
punctuating with doubt Thomas
pettifogging questionable details
FALSE exclamations
generating fear with mindless
ignorance exaggerating protocols
as he doth emphatically flout
begetting, engendering,
and inflicting emotional gout
nothing accomplished by
hash tagging him a "LOUT"
and more opprobrious affect
would ensue anew
undeservedly praising him,
whose animus toward
Democrats would brew
but no matter what (tick)
tack toe taken,
he got nary a blue's clue
about vital issues,
which lack of insight
even Scooby Doo
would agree, heck the Americans
may as well install an emu
with more positive
forthcoming results,
cuz dis dope head like hellacious,
ludicrous, pernicious evils
in Pandora's box flew
his every actions
destroying essential glue
that sets this country apart
approximating Democracy, where hue
mans comprise melting pot,
whether Eskimos (er...
rather Inuits) in their
(fast melting) igloo
gentile, heathen, or Jew
experience limitless
pasta billet teas
applying their new
dill (aptitude) reaching
titular status of parvenu,
especially trumping proper, "P's"
and most every "Q"
before Wharton peer review.
Too many questions, way too few answers
Why would an egg wear blue pants, sir? And
Wherefore his fall? Perchance he was struck with a lance, sir
Or could it be he keeled over from cancer?
But these answers are foolish, silly as can be
Let us seek precision, yea clarity -- just you and me
First let us consider Humpty's engimatic egghood
Whence he came, his origins, his neighborhood.
Humpty hailed, sure, from the finest of breeding's nests
His pedigree indubitably the crest of the West
Why else would "King's Men" strive to aid him so?
Inconceivable then, that he be hatched not from Royal Dough
And yet, and yet -- that last name strikes hard at this theory
The name "Dumpty" denoting 'dumpy,' connoting 'weary'
The overall effect on eyes perspicacious, quite bleary
A name bestowing tidings negative -- never cheery
So where does that leave us, O intrepid fellow-seeker?
Let us push past the thorns and the thistles, those sticklers
That wreak havoc on curiosity so fragile as it peeks
Back into the matter of Humpty's breeches, heretofore piqued
Observing their color oft rendered blue
Though on occasion brown or purple, and even striped too
--Why, friend, I think I've got it, by Jove!
The answer to Humpty's mystery, for which we mightily strove
Brown is an outlier, not worthy of consideration
Purple represents Royalty, the Crown's Coronation
But Blue, validly, veritably, and verifiably, is a color so True
The King's Man who wears it can fend off every attempt at a coup!
July 01, 2018
I comport myself with quiet pridefulness,
plus intellectual whimsy
aware that "FAKE" pretentiousness,
could be mistaken foreign egotistical vitae
furthering, feathering and figuratively
undermining jestingly,
poetically, and zealously
oozing, gushing, bubbling over
with faux snobbish suave re:
pulse sieve literary fatuous
haughtiness, and ludicrous narcissistic pre
ning all the while chuckling to me
self, and indifferent if
some anonymous browser
with Dutchman's breeches rolled up
upon cresting wave over Zyder Zee
disparages mine harmless
badinage, hence if ye
might qualify as such nitpicker,
who doth cavil - dee
crying wading thru
quagmire of verbiage,
a gentle reply to thee
might be more wise to turn energy
toward, how in many another country
the village people haint so free
spouting, sporting, and spoiling,
vis a vis intellectual sparring
(albeit innocent) black
barbs hatch chee
ving, and raising urgent
attention against he
(who whiz squelching
constitutional rights) re:
pressing, rescinding, reviling,
et cetera access toward key
underpinnings within these fifty
constituent United States
of America beckon alacrity
for obliging citizens across
all points of the compass to alee
v8 his indiscriminate flee
sing, sans bedrock nation could tee
tear on the brink of calamity,
which political plug quite inadequate
to staunch hemorrhaging, viz upending
many a sacred liberty,
and foo to you reprimanding
against any agree
gee us objection to pen about polly lee
ticks and/or religion!
Joseph Pujol, Flatulist
1/6/1857 - 8/8/1945
He started working as a baker
And ended up being the same
But for nearly thirty years he
Enjoyed international fame.
Using his natural talent
For quite a long while
He entertained the elite
In his own unique style.
He could break wind at will
With superb sound control
Wore a special pair of breeches
With an appropriately placed hole
And, with a series of tubes
Could play tunes on a flute
Blow out a distant candle
Imitate a duck or coot.
He gave delight to millions
With his travelling show
Cheered and feted wherever
He was invited to go
He couldn’t compete with
The noise of the first Great War
So he retired back to his shop
To become a baker once more.
So, All hail le Petomane
The man who made of it an art,
And added respectability to,
The discreetly dropped fart.
Before crowned heads of Europe
At the height of his glory
Sadly the modern world has
Almost forgotten his story.
The wind is blowing,
Blowing strong and boisterous
It's the wind of change
Tiffany truffles truncation.
Gale winds bowing to the
Prayer called by the Muezzin
The wind gauge is fixated
To the North's polarity.
Algorithms has altered its course.
All runing away from the curse
Of the dying whale marooned
In the shallow waters of the lagoon
Sneaky slithering snakes
In the hub of damnation.
Dooms days gong sounding.
Gloomy reverberations all over,
Cheering jeers from the crowd.
Breeches from the leeches of Gbongbon.
Having been ditched by the es of Ab...
Orphaned by their loss
Enters the blame game
Characterised by sore losers
Winner's have many friends
But woe to you if you are a loser
That is the nature of the game.
(Written on the 10th April, 2015)
Blue it is, when turquoise sparkles its thoughts,
Blue are the skies of romance, when lovers walk, hand in hand.
Blue, though in vivid contrast and saturation is the ocean,
Blue, very blue: forget-me-nots and periwinkles too.
Blue skies so bright, warm and welcoming, behind the sun’s guiding light.
Blue are the skies that glow in a little child’s dream,
Blue are oceans that roar their stories of power,
Blue, still it glows over the bright red sunset when lovers kiss.
Blue is the velvet of the breeches of royal footmen, glowing all its different hues.
Blue is solemnity, colour of sadness and despair…
Blue, through all its breathtaking hues...
Colours our lives with its own radiance.
01/05/2019
Blue contest
Sponsored by Craig Cornish