Long Collar Poems
Long Collar Poems. Below are the most popular long Collar by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Collar poems by poem length and keyword.
Valentine rhapsody spins in a box of delectable chocolates
Melting in sweetheart’s love dreams, keeping romanticism alive.
Delicate heartfelt mission. Delivered on an angel’s prayer.
Vulnerability waltzing in glorious amounts of faux confidence.
Sensuality imagined by a shy reticent man, who imagined
She was his dream woman. She was surprised, having no idea
And never really noticing him for he was a blue collar after all.
The chocolates were a great start and she soon discovered
Blue collars are exactly her type. By then, he was pushing away
For his fantasy woman was nothing like the woman inside the package
So now he was the one being pursued, and she was the pursuer.
Life really is like a box of chocolates, Forrest Gump pun intended.
Form:
I don’t know why I fell into that hole.
It was a very unique way
I was feeling it.
I followed a master
who had saved several soft people
from falling into that hole.
Why did he push me into it?
I tried to grab his collar.
I tried to grab every stone I could,
but how could I
if I wasn’t ready for my life?
Maybe it’s my fault.
I shouldn’t have committed those things
that weren’t listed in humanity
and weren’t accepted in society.
That teacher taught me
how to be a human,
but never told me
how to understand one.
And I think that could have been
more beneficial for me—
because it’s better to talk
to the people inside the body,
not on the other side of the hole.
I once made a man see stars, read the state
of his synthetic, wrinkled suit back to him,
I watched as it melted.
Served him the world on a mirror—
Cracker Barrel plate of desire, he said.
It was just crispy bacon with sides of himself,
I didn’t even mention I was a constellation.
He called it love when I gave him the check,
named his myth, grown boy’s story
common as milk teeth on breakfast meat.
In the end, I held his face and called him
broken, lonely, afraid,
tired of being too much and too little,
gave him his change.
They’re all broken and lonely,
like dropped eggs are useful breakfast
in the right setting; murdered bird in another.
Sometimes, they’ll marry you—
just for discretion, if you’re good at it.
Even Sisyphus took a wife,
perhaps anticipating
base needs at seventh inning stretches,
fifth amendment opportunities
in front of elders.
It’s the same eternal story.
When the tally’s off, or the ham has unspiraled
it’s best to shoot straight into the chafe,
a breast pocket underneath the collar bone,
there’s always room to talk in half-truths until
you find the trigger that stabs them, right
in the detail,
see the blood pumping from plate to vein,
though it was the sausage that was raw
and they ordered the bacon,
it’s best to play it safe, and direct attention
to the source wound—
blame the eggs, stay in the kitchen and live
to see the cockerels cosplay as roosters, save
the frying pan for another day.
The Old Man and the Snowman
the old snowman looks weary
yellow light showing its many flaws
faded hat, straw-less broom
hard aging sting of countless thaws
the old man smiles, places him there,
yellow light showing on his teeth
resists the urge to update history
adjust a crooked, faded wreath
the old snowman chuckles
the old man sings “Frosty”
adjusts his hat and collar
whispers “Merry Christmas” softly
the old man and the snowman
await another Christmas eve
alone amid the snowflakes
in a world that won’t believe
©12/15/2017
submitted to – Christmas Story – Poetry contest
'Tis well known that mules are a very stubborn breed,
So 'tis well to keep that point in mind ere you proceed!
They've been known to bite and they have a mighty hefty kick.
(So, how to harness a mule? Very carefully and you must be quick!)
First, you should tie the mule to a sturdy post in an open area.
This will provide you room to move about and lessen his hysteria!
Grab the collar and slide the wider open end over the mule's ears.
(While doin' this, whisper sweet nothin's to him to calm his fears!)
Fasten the hames to the collar and drape the traces over his back.
Tuck the crupper under his tail makin' sure it is somewhat slack.
Tighten the girth ensurin' it's tight, then, fasten the bellyband.
(Take a break to bind the wound where he nipped you on the hand!)
The reins are carefully threaded through the saddle and collar guides.
(You're forgiven when he steps on your foot and you holler naughty asides!)
Now, slip the halter and bridle over his ears and place the bit in his mouth.
Walla! You're ready to hitch him to the plow to turn those forty acres south!
Well, so what you may ask? Why all this fuss about harnessin' a mule?
Because you may be required to harness one someday and not look the fool!
Furthermore, with the price of gasoline risin' at the pump nowadays,
You may need to get a mule and buggy and change your gas-guzzlin' ways!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
There's a stash of swag and bling in Lady Liberty's lamp.
If you look closely enough, her tablet says:
"To succeed, you can grind along or just be a tramp.
You could spin cycle the system -be another government lamb.
Pick your @ss up and become your own woman or man."
There are the privileged, but they're rarer than one might think.
It's not a good fit for 300 million blue-collar workers you see on the street.
Hate is thriving in the darkest and brightest corners of society.
But in no way is it just a triple K or white supremacy thing.
It's crept into black and brown hearts and is gathering steam.
The media makes a lot of green from spinning on our misery.
Crime-gangs and poverty run ablaze in every big city,
Addiction painted on every pillar of low and high society.
Laws are lax, and punishments are getting a little too breezy.
Taxes go to the ogres who get perfume dabbed on the wrist.
Three squares- free medical, recreation, education, meditation.
Access to the internet to torment their victims again and again.
Freedom is never for free, but pursuit of happiness just may be.
Darkness wants to bend the barrel of the Second Amendment.
Chainsaw liberty-pull the tongue from the mouth of free speech.
Tear down every nativity scene while buffing up the pentagram.
Treating the black book and starry flag like back-alley snot rags.
Without doubt, a second civil war is stirring in the soil.
The blood is filling the pot and coming to a rolling boil
The desperately wise are hoarding caliber-scripture and bread.
Painting a winking bull's-eye on the soon-to-be dead...
Where in the he!! is our wayward God in all this mess?
Her tears fall like rain on a borrowed shore,
A quiet deluge, seeping through seams,
Staining the fabric of a life not hers—
His shirt, his collar, his cuffs worn thin,
Drenched in the salt of a love forbidden.
She weeps for him, the man she holds
In the hollow of her chest, a stolen flame,
A fire that warms her, yet chars her soul.
Each drop a confession, a mute apology,
To a heart that beats for what it cannot claim.
She traces the threads with trembling hands,
His scent a tether, his warmth a ghost,
Her love a river with no mouth to run,
Pooling in silence, drowning her slow.
The wrong woman, they call her—
A thief of glances, a beggar of time,
Yet she gives all, her tears the proof,
A currency spent on a debt unpaid,
Soaking his clothes with her breaking truth.
And then the wife, the keeper of vows,
Lifts the sodden cloth from the basket’s weight,
Her fingers brush the damp of grief not hers,
A stain she cannot name, yet feels too well.
She washes the shirts in a rhythm old,
A ritual of care turned bitter with knowing—
The tears of other women weave through the warp,
Heartbreak stitched into the weft of his wear,
A tapestry of sorrow she scrubs in vain,
For the water runs clear, but the pain remains.
The wife’s hands pause, the suds grow still,
She senses the echo of a stranger’s ache,
A chorus of fractures pressed into his skin—
How many tears have kissed these sleeves?
How many hearts have wept their claim?
She wrings the cloth, and with it, her peace,
The laundry a shroud for a marriage worn thin,
Each tear a thread unraveling trust,
A silent war waged in soap and rust.
The wrong woman cries, the wife washes on,
Two souls bound by the man between,
His clothes a battlefield, soaked and cleansed,
A map of longing, a ledger of loss.
One loves in shadow, one in light,
Yet both bleed red beneath the strain—
Tears that fall, and hands that mend,
A cycle of hurt with no clean end.
For love, unshared, is a wound too deep,
And the shirts he wears bear all they weep.
Father toils in unproductive land
To meet both the ends,
Uneducated, he has no other option
But to cling to the last straw frail
He got from his father.
He now wants to pass it on
To his educated son,
Exposed to the world by TV
Caught in the web of the internet
Who won’t soil his hands
Drip with sweat the land
For he sees urban dreams in rural eyes
For he carves modern ambition in rustic fingers.
Hope of turning his blue collar into white
Crashes in the concrete of urban discontent
For the dream job he doesn’t get.
Losing the race in stiff competition
He is broken, stuck in confusion
Between discarded root and denied refuge.
Bereft of the sense of belonging
To the society divided
He turns a destemmed leaf in cross-wind
Rustling aimless to nowhere
Destiny tragically obscure.
April 1, 2018.
Beauty of the African women
Not just the eyes lens
It's colour;
Her lips
Regal neck
Fragile collar bone...
Stunning
Breath taking
Beauty is in the eyes of thy beholder
If you let me
I'll hold you Aries
My eyes will be your mirror
Words can't express
A mere "I love you"
You are much more than I have heard
Much more than you see
A magnificent diamond indeed
Let me hold you ?
Comfort your cheek with my palm
Breaths intertwined
Bodies warmest
Tie me to your tongue my love
Nma my love
Aries black
An ancient beauty
Africa's black woman
The absolute love of my life
Rhythm to my words
Blues in my voice
Words made
Words to come
Words I want to say
Words can't describe you
Words can't show them
Nmasinachi
My Aries black
I'm playing a role,
Just part of a whole,
I roll with the flow,
Improvising as I go,
The star of my own show,
Growing an audience,
A claire audient experience,
Chance being the big event,
Getting bent and sent into chaos,
Entertaining an invisible mass,
A real class act in fact,
Tactfully assembled,
Resembling a fool as a tool,
In the school of life learning,
Earning my degree in duality,
An individual making decrees,
With a relationship to the trees,
The breeze flows through my lungs,
My tongue holds the power to devour,
I scour the land for a dollar,
Feeling the collar around my neck,
Checking for the chain again,
Maintaining the best I can,
Remaining true to the plan,
Commanding with intention,
My attention spanning all,
Falling right into place,
Ending the chase for money,
My Honey by my side,
Riding into the sunset,
Deciding the future we get.