Long Fashionably Poems
Long Fashionably Poems. Below are the most popular long Fashionably by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fashionably poems by poem length and keyword.
Splashed myself with Jovan musk..
to cover up sweat from the docks.
worked all day, back ached.,but I swear,
I'm comin' to see you bright-eyed one.
'Cause you were the best of times,
you were the worst of times, and
I swear to always love 'em both...
Quick fill up for the trusty Mercury..
picked through my favorite tapes,
while miles of curvy road fade to twilight.
Sister Fran said 'she'll be down in a minute',
I sit and talk to her and brother Tom..,
while you preen and finger the Aqua Net..
Fashionably late to the Sadie Hawkins dance.,
let it sway and twirl in your Farrah Fawcett waves,
acted bored at the tinsel covered gym,
friends in decoration committee made so fine..
And I care about you so, never want to let you go,
it's sure to break my weary mind.
Pull you close to let the street lights play..
pass my arm around elastic waist,
jean pockets were made to hook a lover
and I always love that bright eyed face.
Two fiery eyes shined in the best of times,
stormy reverie in the worst of times, and
I swear to always love 'em both...
Kick the boot
Kick the boot
Put it in the net after we shoot
Kick the boot
Kick the boot
Get a goal that would be a hoot
Kick the boot
Kick the boot
I will play my magic flute
‘Toot Toot’
This theatrical action
Conjured up a wonderful attraction
Since suddenly there
A lovely dare
Looking like a tease
We must mind our manners ‘using the words thank you and please’
Kick the boot
Kick the boot
There is a Sicilian girl who is unbelievably cute
Sporting a designer Italian business suit
“Oh boy just kick the boot”
She exclaimed
Knowing how to play the game
Blushing we, both turned red,
Over what was said
As our mouths went mute
The lady started to root
When things seemed done
Our new companion wanted to have fun
“May I ask?”
“If I do this simple task?
Kicking off my painful high heels
That boot may I steal?
The one you kick
Is the favorite that I would pick
To wear
And cover my leg that is bare.”
I quickly replied
While my buddy almost fainted and died
“Kick the boot
Kick the boot
I will play my luring flute
Encouraging that Sicilian girl who sure is cute”
It was then
I must commend
The dream did come to an end
And when I saw my dear friend
At school
I told him the nighttime vision that was cool
“We made this incredible goal score
And it was witnessed by a Sicilian who we did not ignore
Instead, we did as she request
And gave her our fashionably boots that were the best
She went home
All alone
And when she kicked off the boot
She remembered the young boys who were cute
And sincere with that romantic flute
Two that were filled with amour
Successfully managing the five and dime department store,”
Moral is
In the retail biz
Kick around a boot
While playing a magical flute
You never know when the one will arrive
Needing to buy
A boot
On display next to a flirting flute
Ah! There is nothing, nothing that adds to a gentleman's persona,
Like that of fashionably sporting and puffing a five-dollar Corona!
With a cigar in his jowls, he can socialize with disdainful pretense!
Clad in his ten-dollar Goodwill suit, he exudes tawdry opulence!
What better way at the end of a sumptuous repast,
And after the snifters of brandy have been passed,
Than to light up an aromatic Presidente' with the fellows,
All puffing to keep the fire lit as a farrier does with his bellows!
The king on his throne and the bum in his shack enjoy equal pleasure,
Each puffing his favorite stogie, blissful beyond all measure!
I'm told that even some ladies enjoy a puff now and then.
I tip my fedora to them for they are braver than some men!
The aroma of my Panetella clings to everything in the house,
And that doesn't foster good relations with my loving spouse!
She admonishes me about that constantly as she stifles a choke,
And it aggravates her to see good money going up in smoke!
For decades I have enjoyed the pleasure of a fine cigar.
Never mind that doc says my lungs are filled with tar!
He's written an apt epitaph when my existence becomes moot:
"Here smolders this old galoot! He's puffed his final Cheroot!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Does Time really run like clockwork,
True to the dictates of mankind,
Never more than a mill-second out?
Or does someone or something have a hand,
In giving some of us more time than others,
With many arriving at their destination dead on time,
And others cheating death more than once,
By being fashionably late,
With many frozen in time,
Awaiting their arrival?
And if that is so,
Do the thinkers get the most time,
And the more impulsive less?
Do we all travel through time at the same pace,
Or do some of us have more time to waste?
Can our actions speed up time,
Or is it inaction that is the time killer?
Maybe we need to take a leaf out of the good book,
And accept like Jesus did that our time here is based,
On the task we have been set,
And that we get to stay as long as that takes,
No more, no less,
And clocks will never accurately measure,
What is set in stone,
By a different set of hands?
Now is the winner of our disco tent comp
Maids glorious shimmer by
This sun on my Yorkie
Puffing clouds as Lorde plays in our house
In the deep base of the ocean eyes buried
Our brows found with sweated wreaths;
Our boozed arms
hands up for chocolate moments
Ring the alarms whoop whoop its the sound of the police
Our wayward marches due to delightful measures.
Grim has got his visa
The aged war has smoothed
And how, instead of mourning barbered heeds
Too light the soles of playful sand shoes
He rolls papers nimbly in a unisex chamber
To the languished pleasing of a Dr Dre loop
Have no shape for sport or tricks
Norwegian made dubious furniture not to last
I am that rude
Stamping on your majestic Magnum
To strut before
What you wan't man
I will cut that tail
Fair is my complexion
Cheated by the creature
Breaking is my nature
Deranged, not ends, start and not to stop
Breathing on this world, scared
your mind made up,
So tamely and in fashionably time
Take a step past my dogs that bark
It may be your last
Love’s Masquerade
Love, you old chameleon,
hiding on the edges of truth
deceiving the searching eyes
playing hide and seek with hearts.
Hidden in the doubts of self esteem’s flowers
obscured by the shades of loneliness
covered in the dust of fear’s remembrance
naked amidst the fashionably alone.
Love, you lazy purring cat,
motionless observer of your world
slowly blinking hypnotist
gently guiding stumbling fools.
Curled upon the lap of cautious time
mellowing in patient acquiescence
mewing in the background of a dream
soft catalyst of love struck conflagration.
1/18/2017
submitted to – Free Verse About Love – Poetry contest
smitten with a forsaken long lost love
*** plus years ago,
aye since didst roam'n o'er hill and dale
as one heart broken beau
twas being cow warring utter oxymoron,
whereby thy perfect match I do
frankly admit foolishly out sourcing
of (good NOT FAKE nor bad) grief emo
shun hull distress disgraceful,
which hide de lee recognize coveted prime mate,
(who shared love of playing scrabble,
and born same January 13th birthdate,
yet six orbits thy senior)
mine golden opportunity to lose,
viz ma mish mashed aggravating huff flew
vee yam this then
young asinine buck unwittingly
inflicted long forgot 'til
ear layer t'day thee spouse
showed me an photograph,
when suddenly this lix spittle
curmudgeonly bard
unexpectedly experienced
abysmal love stricken agony
(that despite pro missing to pledge -
while taking a knee -
troth Abby Robin - hoo
became thy lawful legal wife - of Jew
whoosh heritage juiced like me, and knew
instantaneously upon
setting eyes this then boyish lad -
hood bid tootle loo
at bachelorhood, when she eyed thyself
(wedded now deux plucks decades),
though no moo
nee tomb aye name,
thus har courtship rocky, hen new
idea how tubby affectionate,
hence early married life
pitched 'tween Scylla and Charybdis
fondness (albeit ex post facto) hike queue
this poetic beat (fashionably late love note)
ye, whose Capricorn astrological sign
didst bid eternal happiness
now delayed repercussions I rue!
Boy With a Skateboard.
Her heart pounds, the cup in trembling hand
The waitress assures he’ll be here soon
The minutes pass like hours
Her face doesn’t betray her anxiety
Putting herself out there
Easily hurt, another sip of time passes.
His cap is fashionably back to front
Skateboard in hand, wheels facing out
Too old to be surfing the path, surely?
His nonchalance might be a show
Her pretty eyes deserve more, but
She’ll put up with his childish
Hobby for now.
He leaves, another show of dominance
Mutters something about sitting outside
She stays, finishes the coffee. Her cup’s
Drained. Unable to fight, her phone
To her ear. In he comes and they speak
Face to face on the phone. He picks up
His skateboard, I can’t see but imagine her
Eyes rolling skyward, thinking will he
Ever grow up? Probably not, but she’ll
Carry on for now.
David Cox 23/04/22
There’s a good chance all this
pushing electrons around comes to nothing.
Odds stacked like junk mail—still, here I am,
fingers on the keyboard,
small-time criminal trying to spark
a live wire in the dark.
Guessing the radius of a hummingbird’s wingspan,
tiny engines thrumming against the wind
and chance—
sometimes it has to be enough: staying alive, curious,
sticking around on this dumb rock another day.
Every morning I scare myself sideways,
arms windmilling through the network airwaves,
patterns I'd never choose—would never wear
on a blouse, would never endorse on a ballot—
but a body in a republic needs covering.
Prudence and his counterpart need costumes.
And the pervs at the loom never stop
selling bolts of period-colored cloth,
cotton picked from whatever’s
fashionably oppressive that season.
Please forgive
the generalizations—
maybe they fail—but this
is the texture under my fingernails,
as enduring as the Giza Pyramid complex,
the grit behind my teeth. I am so disappointed.
God, I am. The boogeyman broke his mask; turns
out he’s human, only human, so human he’ll complain
about ice ratios in a fountain drink handed through a window.
And what’s one person to do
but tune intentions, clean hollow bones,
watch birds fly backward to keep their wings
from getting chewed by turbines
while the world groans forward anyway?
Meanwhile I’m shouting don’t eat that
to my mother on her birthday
as she plucks red berries
I know are poison, scrolling Facebook,
thumb poised to love an AI photo.
I keep screaming, but she doesn’t hear me.
Swears it’s fruit, swallows, says delicious.
Then asks if I’ve gotten the Sphinx’s autograph,
asks about whether
I’ve solved the riddle of existence.
The twins woke up as usual again
Waiting outside in the glowing sun
For the train to come at 8:00 am
It arrives by 8:10 every day precisely
One boy blond, one girl blonde, age 5 shimmering
Powder blue eyes with long smiles begin
With matching curly hair bending
Displaying a bag of marbles ready to toss
They positioned themselves fashionably
Between two railroad tracks on solid trestle beams
Rolling away the day to play after morning prayers
The children were astounded at the sounds approaching
A speeding train from the north roared down
Another locomotive from the south readied for a head to head
Somehow they ended up on the same doomed track
These things happen
Just before the collision occurred
By the way, both were going 90 miles per hour
People yelled out
Avert your eyes at the appropriate time kiddies
This is not going to be pretty
Adults only are permitted
8:10 am had come and gone
We all knew something was wrong
*Authors Warning: Mature and Adult content. Children under the age of 95 should be accompanied by an adult or at least by someone who can read before proceeding.