Long Fedora Poems
Long Fedora Poems. Below are the most popular long Fedora by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fedora poems by poem length and keyword.
I had been driving for decades.
A yellow Buick, deluxe convertible circa '51',
the model with the three-speed manual transmission -
8 cylinder.
A deserted desert diner. The door creaks
as I enter,
green tomatoes fry on a skillet.
I throw my fedora,
feed bread into a counter toaster.
A woman appears, drying her hands.
"You've found me in my old age -
how impolite of you."
She says between disapproving lips.
She is indeed old, her face lined and
yet lovely.
"Is that your Buick"?
Before I can answer, she asks,
"is that your hat on a rack at the back"?
I answer, "I think this is our date."
"Only this time you're the pitiful figure." She interjects,
spooning tomatoes onto a plate.
I remember how badly I had treated her,
making my excuses, leaving early in the evening.
"This is it!" I exclaim.
Our second chance!."
A withering look.
"In my story," she says, "you die young on the highway,
in a ball of flames."
I imagine my black charred hand
on the big white steering wheel
as may horn honks impatiently.
Green tomatoes sizzle
as I disappear.
When we sleep we expect sweet dreams
The kind where we ride on moonbeams
Where everything is lovely and nice
Sweet dreams made of sugar and spice
So it was on Elm street that night
When children went to sleep expecting dreams of delight
Little did they know that Freddie would be there
To turn their dreams into their worst nightmares
He goes by the name of Freddie Kruger
And has claws as sharp as a cougar
Freddie has a disfigured face
On his head a brown fedora sits in place
He wears a striped sweater of green and red
And comes to steal your soul when you're asleep in bed
So the children wouldn't sleep at night
They were in a perpetual state of fright
But sooner or later some would nod off to sleep
And come the morning you wouldn't hear a peep
In the night they had screamed and screamed
But no one heard them, it was just a dream
A man in a black overcoat walks into the night.
Under a street light a circle of autumn leaves
shed their waning colors,
hues that reach just a little beyond
that electric ring of light.
The man pauses to light a cigarette
one hand cupping the flame from his lighter.
He moves on into the black night
where everything, even fallen leaves, disappear.
I watch all this from under a fedora,
my black coat tugs at me
as if wanting me to keep walking
into this movie of myself,
to watch alone as Winter rolls in
across a screen without frame or corners.
Walking blindly now
to a place where only the night watches.
He has all of the strength of Mars the God of War
His Tiger Eyes Gemstones
Were ornaments that the Romans Adorned
To protect themselves from mortal peril
and the windows to his ancient soul
raven hair that Niagara Falls over his eyes..................
what other way can I express it that he is
he is breathtakingly beautiful
Other than.. for a poets rhythmic brain to turn into Jello
He slowly saunters
Fedora on his crown he’s the king.
3,000 dollar suit fashion, Jason Derullo’s got nothing on him
His whispers make the women sway like ballerinas tempted by the wind.
He makes my heart beat faster than Ratatat's Percussion
He will make you purr louder than a playful Kitten
His laughter truly defines him, his bubble gum pink cheeks were made for kissing.
Tsunami Surfing and taking chances on the uncertain
Like Socrates he is my teacher of what it is to be Living.
Fear is only something of our human minds creation
In this war against the Cancer he will win
His Tiger Eyes forever shielding him
He sure enjoys
his life of Reilly;
lavishly living it up!
A globe-trotter.
A man-about-town.
He's a big hit
with the ladies,
and he doesn't mind
all the attention.
He's a big spender.
Did I mention
he's got style, too?
An unlit Cuban cigar
is always seen dangling
from his mouth.
He's not a smoker,
it's for the look.
He's fashion-savvy,
collecting Rolex watches,
ray ban sunglasses,
fedora hats,
and Versace suits.
He loves his cars
costly and fast;
a Porsche here,
a Lamborghini there
On weekends,
he sets sail
on his fancy yacht,
flying high
on his private jet.
He kills time
on the golf course
hitting the links
with millionaire friends,
throwing parties,
and showing off
his trophy wife
His escargot dinners
are always served
on high-end china.
He swigs champagne
from crystal.
Oh, what a life!
(Free Verse)
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Date written and posted: 01/06/2019
Bells ring through the dusk, soft and low.
Smokey eyes narrow.
Sultry pout on her lips.
Wrapped in black lace and chiffon,
she twirls in graceful circles.
Violin strums through the twilight, soft and low.
Black-shaded eyes dart.
Lips part ever so slightly.
Silver feathers cascade from her hair.
Arms open to the onyx sky.
Witchy apparition
that used to be a lady
sways on.
Breezy is the eve, song murmurs
from the deep.
A man in a fedora with a smooth walking stick
sees her through the looking glass,
reaches out.
Fingers slip through a reviled hallucination.
She morphs into a silken raven.
Head bowed in supplication,
he is besieged by an invulnerable force.
He refuses to abjure his hope that he can hold her.
A tambourine jingles lightly in her hand, soft and low.
She twirls away.
A disintegrated mirage.
Tear slides from his eye.
The music disappears.
Blinded by his sorrow,
he walks away from the glass, now stained.
Josh’s drinking days were long behind him. The three beers he drank before ordering his meal; the two beers he drank during his meal; and, the two Bailey’s he consumed after his meal had taken their effect on the middle-aged man. He talked incessantly to the bartenders, bothered the two young ladies who sat at the bar a few stools away and staggered back and forth to the men’s room a dozen times.
Finally, reluctantly, after many hours had passed, Josh paid his tab, leaving a generous, alcohol influenced tip and wobbled out the door. Not sure which direction to go to return to his hotel, Josh simply started off down the street, still thinking about his wife.
How much time passed is unclear, but he was many blocks away when he suddenly realized he was not wearing his fedora. Josh did an about-face and tried to retrace his steps to the bar and bar stool where he knew his hit sat waiting for him. Josh walked into and out of a number of bars he mistook for the one he dined in. Although he was fooled by the outside facades, once he stepped in, he knew it was the wrong bar.
When Josh finally stumbled upon the bar that he recognized as the one he had dined in, it was closed and the doors were locked. It was 3:00 am.
Tears came to Josh’s eyes. Josh felt as if losing the hat his wife had given him was a harbinger of the end and he was not ready to reach that point. Josh simply had to retrieve that hat. He had to get his wife back. Somewhere, deep down in his drunken soul, Josh mustered up the strength to lift the city trash can from the corner of the street and smash it through the large glass window in front of the bar – he was oblivious to the alarms that started blaring.
Josh managed to crawl into the bar through the broken window unaware of the glass shards cutting his wrists, stomach and throat. The moister from the blood simply mixed with the moister from his sweat. The numbness and anesthetic nature of the abundance of alcohol he was not used to masked the extent of his injuries.
When the police arrived on the scene, Josh was found in the darkness, clutching his fedora at the foot of the stool where he had eaten his dinner.
Josh’s wife received the phone call later that morning announcing his passing.
He was buried with the fedora.
Portrait of an Unknown
Written: by Tom Wright
7-18-2016
It was just an outsized oval portrait,
Dusty and washed out by time;
Always featured in the same location
During my life at home years;
Mom couldn’t retrieve his name,
Only that he was kinfolk.
It always looked out of place
On the wallpapered wall it occupied.
Perchance it was the ornate oval frame
That captured my curiosity.
Memory’s snapshot that I recall
Is of a distinguished looking man
With rosy cheeks, fedora, suit coat, and tie;
Was he a Minister, Banker or Mortician?
This face that was unknown to us,
Nonetheless induces wonderment,
Concerning many things about his life,
Primarily how his portrait found a home
On our papered bedroom wall;
Goodbye Fall with all the auburn leaves of the reddest sunset,
goodbye crackling path where I met the last songbirds,
whose melody accompained me to winter's doors;
and with deep sadness I kept on looking back.
Welcome gloomy winter with short afternoons and long evenings;
watching the advancing shadows and loudly hearing
the furious sound of the squall rampaging the stately trees,
and making them weep when the icy rain comes down with lightining.
Sitting in a rattling, rocking chair, I peruse through pages of sunny places afar,
forgetting the dreariness of this frigid season and be consoled by a warm fire;
and still nostalgia abounds...thinking of the pleasant strolls of a past season,
which thrilled me with its colors, and through delight I justified my reason.
O winter, don't linger as you always have...shorten your stay, avoid foul play;
and could I ever stand a pale sun, hardly giving off with its luminiscence,
in this house hidden among the maples and the pines of a squalid valley?
Old winter, don't mislead me with days without snow...that's utter pretense!
Goodbye explorer fedora hat keeping my dreamer's head cool,
sparing my skin another ugly wrinkle, allowing late beauty to rule;
goodbye iced coffee sipped from my Big Apple plastic cup,
which I bought along Fifth Avenue in a crowded, variety shop.
Ummerciful winter, pity the desperate state I am in,
reduce the wrath of your devastation, step inside and to tell me your amazing tales...
hoping that I will write them down for everyone to read and enjoy for immortal ages;
relentless winter, reduce the dreariness of this frigid season.
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Milieu iconography with flashing lights
Smokey gambling rooms—gang wars
Flashy suits and fedora hats in the fights
Neon signs flashing—this world is yours
Hey, get a name with the next phone call
Surely, he can’t really be all that rough
While hanging out in a flower shop stall
Like bowling pins fall he wasn’t tough
Whistling “Chi Me Frena?” surreal assassin
As Shamrock night club they all shot up
Coin flipping henchman hell risky brazen
Bang—he won’t sip St. Peter’s golden cup
Crosses on bodies from iconic gun blast
Even barking dog can’t stop the tragedy
Tony’s sister like a baby’s toy dances at last
Just seems like a wild circle of comedy
Wearing a scar as one from the war
Nation’s shame 1932 gangsters shown
Killing people to take over, what for?
Whistling assassin your life is blown
© Joseph, 5/29/08
© All Rights Reserved
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