Long Frocks Poems
Long Frocks Poems. Below are the most popular long Frocks by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Frocks poems by poem length and keyword.
Oh how I do love cats.
Not rats or bats,
Spats or hats;
(although I do own a chapeau or two).
I love cats of all sizes, colors and shapes;
even though they get in a lot of scrapes.
I love calicos, tabbies, marbled too;
I really love a Persian Blue.
I love them whether they have boots or socks;
I adore all their furry frocks.
Short-haired, long-haired, cats are great;
With cats, I love to celebrate.
They bring such joy and elation;
but, when they get in an altercation,
I calm them with my guitar strings;
cats do love to hear folks sing.
They stop to listen to my songs,
but they definitely don’t like drums or gongs.
So I sing and they calm down;
quite tranquil then’s, my kitty-crowd.
A photo of the near past
The year is 19O1, a market on a muddy field
selling, God knows what, I see cattle, and children playing around
the muddy ground, it had been raining in the morning
but this does not dampen the excitement of the day; the people
back then did not bother with posh umbrellas.
The men wear suits that look like hand-me-downs from the rich
people on the hill, the women too, try to look elegant
wear hats, the children run around in long dirty frocks
they look happy living an alternative life among the adults;
not to forget the ever-present dogs.
At a farm workers' market, everyone has a half day off
before returning to work to feed and milk the cows.
On the scene rests peace of an unchanging world that will
Soon be shattered by wars, hunger and economic forces.
Nothing will be the same again as the 19th-century approaches.
I look at the photo and think, every living thing at the market
on that day is long since dead a few of them are remembered
perhaps a faded photo of great grandparents as young is found
in a cottage for workers, due to be demolished for a new road.
Forgotten is the life lived by farm workers of 1901
The whole world I can measure in this cornfield.
Why would I need
to go to Indiana or Pennsylvania
or Katmandu?
Ohio is right here, and the rattling gold of the corn is here.
Yes Indiana has its rustic temples also ~
as does Kentucky and Idaho,
all over the world the sky is wide open
and the green and yellow corn is swaying,
but why travel
when this amber upsurge is before us?
Here I can feel the hidden ramparts
of a mighty cathedral of music
here under my feet,
the songs are rough and ready,
but they are as good as any prayer.
Over there a stand of trees
where the green frocks
of summer shadow-dance.
Each stalk of corn climbs to its highest
and my spirit climbs with them,
rocking on that sea of wind-waving luster.
The mud and dirt here is as good as any,
they are just as holy as elsewhere
as are all the grubbing creatures in and upon it.
This field is a sure-enough atlas
it reaches surpassingly deep and high,
the roofs of heavens are below us
the roots of time delve and sprout here
the sky descends to breathe within each breast.
This is the land beyond the great river,
that river brings the world here,
the sun nests here, and the stars appear
reflected in our up-turned eyes.
We listen to the tilling breeze
mapping the whole of creation
in just this well formed,
well farmed forty acres
above and below
but also in Michigan and elsewhere.
I love my socks, all colours and design
The brighter the nicer, simply sublime
Socks warm feet, cosy and snug as a rug
Fabulous for dancing the jitterbug.
Many times I find there’s holes in one sock
I wonder should I keep the odd one in stock
Do I throw the odd sock away, oh no
I wear odd socks and merrily do so.
One may suggest wearing odd socks is strange
But look how one’s money would slip down drain
Getting extra wear out of an odd sock
In these days of inflation odd socks rock.
So guys and gals hold onto your odd socks
And match them up with your shirts or your frocks
Bestow quirky brightness to every day
Nevermore to throw an odd sock away.
I can still hear the rumbling and drilling sound of the machine rubbing against the trees, and the dust absorbing the penitent wisdom of the futile murder scene. The loop bends solemnly underneath the fence and the rope swinging pitifully from the mercury head. I can still hear desperate voices calling out for help as I watched the traffic parachuting a hundred miles per hour along the forbidden edge, and the music playing softly in the deep resonating a message that is very unique. I kept following the sound hoping that it would take me where nature is bound but the cloud hanging above the mystical ocean without questions has suddenly become my innate passion and discovered the hidden wealth bottled up within me.
I stood on top of the pinnacle, and watched them scrambling around tirelessly in the open dessert, and the sweltering heat hitting against their bareback and perspiration dripping from their make shift frocks. As far as the light in my eyes could reach I behold glimpses of shadows strolling in long line across the desert resting occasionally on borrowed time. As the night presses upon their head, torches of hope pushes them along relentlessly into the open bed but destiny opens is arm.
It’s not the sound that perplexed me, it is the messages that it saturated in the air round about me, and the distance sounds disseminating in the open space is preparing me for another race, and in the middle of it all
my spirit still stands tall. The wind drifts slowly along with the blind folded figure head singing a deceptive song, the drilling is in the rhythm the knocking is in the singing, and the hymn is wearing a shoe that has screws.
The chronicle has disappeared, and the hopping, and the skipping the mocking and the jeering reappeared, a decade of unused stones piled up in a sitting gown wearing a brand new crown. They come from Denmark and they come from France and in the middle of Viking spree the Norwegians, sweated in the third degree. I could have penetrated the sound from the musical clowns but the timeless music from the street ascended into the hills, and captures the moment with a sudden chill and the merciless wind arose from the ground and cover the street with human bones.
Fragrances of roses wafted throughout the garden
No idea why I had been invited, but I cherished this scent
Others milled around in fancy frocks and expensive suits
My dress was a plain blue with tiny yellow daisies
“I hear you traded silence for roses,” someone said.
Thought he was talking to me. Turned to answer.
Found myself facing two gorgeous apricot rose bushes.
Knew I would have to speak eventually, but not yet.
Did not recognize the rest of the staff, as I was new.
School had not started yet; we were at an ice breaker.
Was going to ditch this activity but my mother talked me into it.
She loved roses and asked me to take pictures.
I pulled out my camera and began to get some close ups.
Pink, peach, red, yellow and white blooms posed innocently.
“I hear you traded silence for roses,” the same voice said.
I turned and faced the speaker. a handsome young lad.
“I guess we both did,” I replied.
He had a nice smile, beautiful light blue eyes.
“I am glad I am here,” he told me. “I do adore roses.”
He made many points in my mother’s book for this.
Ohio is right here, and the rattling gold of
earth-born corn is here.
All over creation the sky is wide open
and the green and yellow stalks are swaying
right here.
Here the wind-songs are rough and ready,
yet they are as holy as any prayer.
Over there a stand of trees
where the olive frocks of summer
sway and shimmy.
The mud and dirt here is as good as any,
all just as rich as anywhere else
and the grubbing creatures in and upon it
are our wealth
These fetched-up farm fields
are sure-enough an atlas,
the roots of heaven rise below us,
time delves and sprouts here,
the sky descends to till the soil.
This is the land beyond the great river,
the sun nests here, and the stars appear
reflected in up-turned eyes.
We are the unrolled map, we are rural Ohio,
come walk over the world here,
rest on a wayside bench, linger long
or stay - right here.
Summer is the season that brings forth buds and blooms,
When every hill and vale in green livery, clad,
When the busy bee around opening flower zooms,
And stray clouds in the blue-sky roam so glad.
It is the time when grasshoppers vault on silky grass,
When every blade and leaf at dawn sparkles with dew,
When black ants move with tiny carcasses en masse,
And ladybirds dance in frocks of black and red hue.
When on breezy evenings children set out to play,
And men go for angling in babbling brooks.
When farmers after the harvest dry their hay.
And sunbeams weave patterns even in forest nooks.
But summertime pleasantly cool in the evenings can turn,
Sultry at noon when lacerating rays come down to burn!
These rugby-playing girls -
or women, should I say? -
are so rough and ready,
dashing down that field,
conveying that oval ball
from this end to that,
gritting their teeth.
Oh, what might! Such a sight!
Or do I not prefer
to behold delicate white frocks
on ladies whose fairylike fingertips
hold their tiny needles,
sewing and crocheting,
or simply sitting in silence and smiling
as we fawn on and fancy their fine, fine faces?
Yet would I not receive a slap around my head
for even daring to dawdle on such thoughts?
It is so easy to spend so much time pondering
before I wake in fright:
which sight might I hold tight in my sleeping eyes
moments before I rise - and rise some more?
(19 May 2023)
Two skinny legs dangle from hand-me-down frocks.
Elastic bands holding up her socks.
Scuffed shoes upon her feet, so small they barely fit.
Water leaks through the crack where the sole had split.
Her wheat coloured hair is pulled away from her face.
Tied back in a pony tail with a crimson lace.
Blush full lips hide a row of crooked teeth.
They are always on show when she opens her mouth to speak.
Dancing in front of the mirror, singing out loud.
She visualizes herself performing in front of a cheering crowd.
She imagined herself beautiful, her face on every magazine.
Adored by millions as they watch her perform on the screen.
Believing in her dreams, she knew she would go far.
How determined she was to become a star.
Living out her fantasy, living out her dreams.
Is her world a better place now, things are not what they seem.
Now sitting on a flight from Paris to Milan, dressed in chiffon with a beautiful tan. Immaculate makeup graces her face. Smart and elegant, not a hair out of place. The flight attendant fusses around her as she flies first class.
Always on hand with champagne to fill her glass. Men flock round her like moths to a flame. They don’t really see her, they just want the fame.
She pushes her way through the crowd, a sea of faces calling her name.
Her freedom she has sacrificed, for the price of fame.
Money cars and diamond rings she understands now, they are just things.
Living out her fantasy, living out her dreams.
Is her world a better place now? Things are not what they seem
She realizes as a child she was rich all along, singing into the mirror to her favourite song. A home filled with love is riches beyond compare, familiar voices of laughter filling the air.
Living out her fantasy, living out her dreams.
Is her world a better place now? Things are not what they seem.
Living in her past is her only escape.
The fame machine has taken over and sealed her fate.