Long Corduroy Poems
Long Corduroy Poems. Below are the most popular long Corduroy by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Corduroy poems by poem length and keyword.
Peter is joining us for lunch in the cafeteria. I met him on a crowded Saturday morning at a coffee shop. He’s from the flammable, paper-dry, sagebrush hills of Malibu and grew up overlooking the hazy blue Pacific Ocean. He says Mel Gibson’s drunken Nazi rant, when a cop pulled him over for a DUI, put them on the map.
Poor Peter is fashion challenged. He’s 25, too tall, and too thin. Reading glasses hang around his neck. His too loose-fitting clothes are all variations of brown, like tawny, penny and wenge. He’s wearing a battered tweed coat, brown corduroy slacks and tortilla colored mock turtleneck. He’s adorably shabby-fancy. If he fell in the dormant, straw-yellow grass, we probably couldn’t find him.
Peter has a serious aura of experience about him. His cheek bones are sharp, his hair is an explosion of uncombed black, his skin is pale - bleached - by over exposure to library lighting.
He lives in a different world - the prosaic, laissez-faire universe of research - where students are left to their own devices and expected to self-manage.
Right now, he’s being vetted by one of my roommates, Leong. His student lanyard marks him, but she wants specifics if he’s going to hang around. “What’s your major?” she asks, her eyes squinting like the Chinese lie detectors they are. “I’m a doctoral student in applied physics,” he says.
I pat his knee, “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” I say, reassuringly.
On freezing days, I turn to fleece
To wear beneath my down;
And wool or corduroy might work
When traipsing through the town.
But there’s an oft-forgotten cloth
That also can perform
By keeping those who use it,
Day or nighttime, snug and warm.
Yes, flannel is of what I speak;
It’s great for shirts and sheets,
Yet no one touts its virtues –
Not in odes or texts or tweets.
So let me be the first to write
Of flannel’s cozy charms.
It’s comfortable enveloping
Or underneath my arms.
If winter were a TV show,
We’d likely change the channel;
But since we’re stuck with it for now,
To help us, we’ve got flannel!
study period
It’s December and my roommates and I are deeply into Christmas. We’ve got a little 3ft tall Christmas tree with about fifty-thousand little multicolor LED lights on it (LEDs because we ARE saving the planet). We’re in the ‘study period’ right before finals and It’s a lowkey Saturday night.
Lisa and I were pajama’d and gelaxing in our suite’s common room. She was in a tan easy chair and I was slouched on our red corduroy couch and my slippered feet up on a white coffee table. We had a Christmas playlist playing throughout the suite, a ‘Christmas lights of Paris’ Youtube video streaming silently on our TV and cups of Keurig brewed hot-chocolate with little marshmallows.
Leong came out of her room and joined us, taking a seat on the far side of the couch with me. After a moment she stretched-out, putting her head in my lap. I love her jet-black, cornsilk hair and it wasn’t long before I found myself stroking it, a gesture primates have been making since the pleistocene period. When Lisa glanced over at us and smiled, I started making gestures like I was looking for fleas in her hair and eating them - in a silly, momentary comedy lost on Leong.
We got back from November recess a few days ago. After three years together, it was easy, almost automatic, for us to fall back in our rhythms as roommates. On arrival, I glanced through my drawers, dirty clothes and shelves, taking a casual inventory. Everything was as I remembered it but still, everything had the feel of trivial leftovers from some lost civilization.
I got a new M3-iMac, it’s really the best platform for putting docs side by side. The first thing I did was hit ‘restore my setup’ from the cloud. I love futzing with tech - I can remember when that kind of restoration would have taken all day - but fifteen minutes later I could tell from the files on my desktop that everything was restoring nicely.
As I sat back on my office chair watching the restoration, I felt myself relax. THIS was real life, this was how life should be done. No matter what else I’d done or where else I’d gone - this was how my life should be - at school, with friends, facing those challenges. It was a peek-moment.
It was an illusion that my little iMac welcomed me back, like an old friend, as it finished restoring - wasn’t it?
.
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jelaxing = gelling & relaxing
I Remember You
Yes, I remember you,
the dark-skinned girl,
dressed in tight corduroy,
unzipped on the floor there.
You were my lover that night in 1970;
We were wrestling
so smoothly, so passionately,
in the old brick house on Hoover street.
Remember honey? Just you and me
alone in the darkness,
kissing like kids crazy about each other,
listening to Hendrix on the oak console,
Electric Merman on axe in 1983,
Playing like a god from beneath
the fiery pinnacles of the Styx.
Remember? We were 18 and
wild with wordless desire.
I kissed you often that night
in the grey bluesy shadows,
embracing intensely
your perfumed, unbuttoned body,
on beige thick shag
by the open screen door,
with that benign breeze blowing in
softly and silently,
like the breath of whispering ghosts,
watching there, as we groped and licked,
two kneading felines, quivering,
insecure in the darkness,
our lips, slickered and lathered
in strawberry paste and love spit,
and our reaching tongues,
seared and slithering like caught tunas,
found electric connections
in the heaving nets
of aching fleshly onslaughts,
of mad touching embraces,
with esoteric teenage sweatings
at silent midnight, in June,
when the jacarandas are in bloom.
Yes, I remember you,
The girl with the brown perfumed skin,
and those kissing smacking sucking lips
that spoke so loudly,
without ever saying a word.
You were leaning over the rustic, wooden bridge.
Elements of a cold autumn eve approaching.
I just was entranced by the sea of you.
Black full hair, corduroy pants, tweed jacket.
Book of our favored poet, rested on the bridge lustily.
~ ee Cummings, his poetry blessed our union, for eternity.
That magnificent, modern poetry, not meant to be in any form.
Still lights my soul and will for all eternity!
"Kisses are a better fate than wisdom." ee Cummings
"Life is not a paragraph, and death, I think, is no parenthesis."
ee Cummings
These words upon my heart, then and now......
And for the brilliance of eternity.......
11-8-2020
It is over sixty degrees today
Unusually warm for pre-March Kansas
I sit on my porch, sunbathing
Wearing corduroy slacks, a jacket and tennis shoes
A swift breeze gives my face a bit of a chill
My fingernails are black, so I do a little grooming
What did I get into? The black comes out as crumbles.
My dogs are overjoyed that I am out here.
They run up and down the length of the porch, showing off.
Every time I think I will shake the rug, a dog lands on it.
There is a siren sound in the distance, it has desperation
Our ears go up, but none of us bark
We are as respectful of that siren as a soldier could be
I look at the remnants of woebegone snow
It looks sad, knowing its days are numbered
A late February day in Kansas
Porch sitting and listening
Curiously no bird sounds
I hear a neighbor for a brief second, only a few words
Advantage of living in the country
A Passing Prayer
Unneeded invites for Thanksgiving Day,
Drafts packed table orbs family buffet,
All arranged for this harmonious time,
Relations grace this exalted pastime.
Year after year, the newborns multiply,
Added tables, chairs, and appended rooms,
Through Heaven's wings, beloved souls now fly,
Shifts to calm talks, those gone and baby booms.
Unique for me, banqueting my household,
My siblings too, host their own family,
Further apart, we feast separately,
Heir's hearts warm of those passed, tears swell unfold.
My children phones, traditions express joy,
The Home food tray cools, o'er my corduroy.
2019 November 12
*3rd Place*
Thanksgiving Memory
~~Regina McIntosh
‘Get the motor running head out on the highway looking for adventure’
Well it is only the council road with potholes but Oliver races his pushbike
Walkman headphones sound ‘Born to be wild’ or Attention Deficit Disorder
But there is no doubt in the bikers’ mind that winter is recycling fast time
Orange banana saddle ape hanger handle bars and Che Guevara bandana
Another day for many revolutions as the wheels keep turning in tandem
He abhors bicycle clips as Oliver needs torn jeans to be one of the gang
No leather jacket so the hand me down brown corduroy one takes its place
Pedals turning downhill at full speed hard breaks and sharp swerve to the left
Another 360 degree circle wonderful skid marks adorn his pride and the road
It was easy today because morning dew and pink purple petals greased the path
For once the corroded chain has not come off after that creaking gear change
Countenance smirks on his face because has done it again and he feels so much
More achievement than if he was doing his homework left pathetically languorous
At home where his goody two shoes brother calculates tangents and radius
Oliver is an action boy full of mettle and metal and his scent is lubricant oil
‘Take the world in a love embrace and explode into space’ and dear emotions
Run high almost octane fuelled while his well-behaved sisters play octaves
From Amadeus on Bechstein or Steinway pined to bored ebony and ivory keys
Oliver hammers down wildly as the way forward beckons driven by freedom
He is oblivious to fragrances blossoms and bloom and the sweet scent of nature
Could not care less about chirping birds and the warm temperature resides only
In his teenage blood and guts as he rides through a pile of litter in which rusty
Debris mingles with pneumatic tyres and a very loose spring punctures the air
16th March 2019
Spring Is In the Air contest
Sponsored by Emile Pinet
What is Red and what is Black ?
and where is the Pink ?
Kettle clicks towards vacant
coffee jar, social laddering
futile ~ Red revelling in
Illusion he cannot comprehend
It shall be tea…
then pineal opens for
Sananda’s whispers
He died because of mobbing
they followed Crows of first degrees ...Love
uncharted
He visited Guatama in his golden
grove, bodhi trees beckoning ...Love missioned
Cold fog clearing with Avalon images
spine asks to curl once more
knitting collagen cables with
spirit frequencies : Black Silence
solitude transmutes into white clot
damp kitchen slip-slops anticipate
so Red climbs a social ladder
revels in mimetic behaviours ... Love kindergarten
I sit Black towards Pink
Father prays then rosary memorises
Mother hibernates into King Tut’s tomb
will pumpkin seeds shoot dreaming
her dreams, copying ever copying
neighbour opens sighing, desiring
corduroy curtains watchful, copying
Should she collect her
state pension today ?
Poverty remains in the Unconscious
mimicking patterns
dissolve the matrixed mind !
Slowly Love rises (...)
Mahasatipatthana sutta filters into
claustrum cells ~ Pink growing
middle ground flowing —
I ask about winter flipping to spring
in a yin-yang swing to remove
Black garb so hard
to bleak peak an infant bud ...Love rises
Voracious winter’s cacophony
cape starlings, turtle doves, pigeons
conductor Black Crow, on wet corrugated
stage, beak battling for bun crumbs
earth wrapped worms ……Love instinctive
Droplets of night-rain decorate
fairy tightrope washing line
phone battery recharges dead dots
a memory too full of autumn
leaves crackle
Valentine missing winter’s breath
he is Red rising
I am Black silent ——
walking towards Pink ... Love intuitive
The Crown whispers, ‘winter is only a prudence of waiting ~~Black, Red and Pink is One
the Red shall flow like your
warm blood…as mine did…
the Black holding roots
Pink is the Core’
A dude, I replied, ‘ Keep warm’,
a trickle down my cheek
________________________
[HONORABLE MENTION WINNER
ALLPOETRY CONTEST : April 26 :
Inspired by : The Red and the Black by
Henri Beyle Stendhal ]
My Bicycle of Imagination
The day and I are hand in hand,
brimming with a zippety-whippity-do.
I sit atop my saddle, my bicycle, my hill;
the morning mist is ragged like candy floss
on barbed wire, waggled fences.
Below a liquorice-tarmacked road
elbows through a mosaicked landscape;
churned fields sitting either side,
serrated into channels of earth;
suited and rooted in browned corduroy.
Then further on and along,
the sky sits sedately on the sea,
resting on a blue, rippled settee,
just out of close reach
of a mustard scarf of a beach.
Clouds rear - wild, white stallions;
they settle, then away at a gallop,
racing, chasing the prize in
the finishing line, the horizon.
Watch out, speedy swallow,
now, it’s my time to follow!!
I sense my bicycle’s stalled frustration,
so my body engine sets it free;
muscles tighten, pedals spin,
it’s time to fly, time to check in.
Off we go…wind pushing at my heels,
sunlight splashing off the wheels
down I swoop, a dance of balance;
the bike glides, the road slides.
Watch me come, watch me go
connecting, perfecting with nature’s flow;
sky, land and sea…………WEEEEEEEEEEE!