Long Hats Poems
Long Hats Poems. Below are the most popular long Hats by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hats poems by poem length and keyword.
I dreamt I awoke in a 1939 Buick
as it sped into the 40’s,
a decade depleted of running boards.
I wondered
how could tommy-gun wielding
gangsters appear historically relevant
without running boards?
Running boards mark an era
the way hats do.
Then I thought, what the hell
I’m in a 1939 Buick
so every tommy gun toting punk
better watch out
running boards or not.
Some classic cars do that,
you take on their vintage persona.
The 39 is a cool car,
Humphrey Bogart drove one.
He had a 38 special also
and knew how to use it.
When you get to where Bogart has gone
(a star in a greater Hollywood story)
the right car is important.
You must drive the 39
like you’re in a movie
where monochrome fog
makes the hill roads
and their hairpins tricky.
When the road ends
stand with one foot on the running board
until a camera flash
goes off with a flare and a pop.
Pose
while you light a cigarette
tip your fedora at a slant,
and grin like a tough guy.
Wrapped in long white as if married to birth
In a plastic box, with wheels on the bottom,
There she lay, unaware of her worth
Unaware of the sheer amount of hats she’d wear topped with a pom-pom.
The taste of burger king and torn nails seeping from my lips.
Burger King? Is that seriously what I’m talking about?
First, you’ll care for princess mountaintops and intergalactic spaceships.
Fast food? On a much later date – when we first pass one on a roundabout.
You’re not my responsibly, not one bit.
Those two unfortunate buggers next to me are.
But I can say that I’d feel just slightly bad if you were to fall down a pit.
A fantastical situation but one in which I’d search for you far.
In every hole, crevice, nook, cranny, crack, in every bloody place I’d look.
Sorry for the twisted love but give me a second and I’ll read you a book.
In the hospital you lay, yes, peaceful as of yet.
Our mum, recovering (to say the least) and our dad – a bit of the same.
And this is only the first time we’ve met.
Just waiting on the nurse to send us back from where we came.
Terrified of cracking your neck, I cradled you in my arms so tense.
The nurse does her rounds and makes a pitstop at beautiful old you.
I wish I’d sat an earshot away – I would’ve if I had some sense.
She told my parents “to put a sock on it you two.”
What a way to end the visit.
Well that’s a lesson for you little sister,
With them two it’s never quite normal, is it?
Don’t worry I know it may seem like a disaster
but I promise crude jokes are worth more than Burger King
and if they ever do drive you up the wall well just give me a ring.
Perhaps it was the most unappreciative gift:
a pen and a composition book wrapped in red paper
imprinted with Santa image riding his sleight...
I expected toys I could play with after school or later.
My sisters received many gifts from leather shoes to wool hats,
and as I held that gift with perplexity, Mother asked me,
" Son, don't you like it? " " I like it, Ma " I replied disappointingly...
" One day they will make you great! She attested with eloquence.
" A teen like me was going to be great
with a pen and a composition book?
How could an ordinary mother have predicted the future so precisely? '
Only an astrologer, or medium could have guessed what was awaiting me!
A few years later, a revelation came to light:
a pen and composition book appeared in my sight,
there in a brown shoe box with old photographs they laid...
waiting for a hand to give them life without any magic wand.
I saw you.
It wasn’t like the first time I saw you
or maybe, it was?
Nothing much happened (the earth didn’t move).
You appeared no more or less,
than the lump of clay you are;
before you turned on the charm;
or I did?
Before you became the irresistible object,
and I the immoveable force,
before the dance began.
I saw you.
It wasn’t like the last time I saw you
Or maybe, it was?
Nothing much happened,
The mountainous bulk of you had been climbed,
and one too many times.
The charm was spent
you were now the immoveable force
and I no longer the irresistible object.
The hats had changed.
The clowns’ faces were rearranged.
Being no longer immoveable,
having made way,
given to you my all;
no longer was I the Holy Grail,
worthy of your desire;
Nor were you, my Everest,
worthy of drinking from my cup.
I saw you.
It was the last time I saw you
Or maybe, it wasn’t?
New city street
With the wink of an eye
and a shuffle of feet
We wandered about
down a new city street
Where vendors wore blue
with a tangerine sash
In hopes to look good
with no chance it would clash
Their carts were adorned
with ribbons and beads
And funny designs
made of cantaloupe seeds
They hollered and bellowed
and beckoned us near
And when we did stop,
they let out a loud cheer
They offered us products
like peanuts with cheese
And daffodil handkerchiefs
in case we sneeze
Belts made of feathers
with buckles in red
And weird little cones
you could wear on your head
We bid and we haggled
but always were nice
To get a good deal
and a much better price
The street lined with houses,
most two stories high
With windows like shamrocks
reflecting the sky
The balconies all featured
ribbons and bows
That hung from the railings
such colorful throws
Where women were calling
to neighbors across
For clothes pins and hampers
they hoped they would toss
They spoke in a language
so funny to hear
For what they were saying
was not always clear
The men were all mending
and tending the place
Their hats cockled sideways,
a grin on their face
The knees of their jeans
were all covered in patches
While they polished the brass
on the handles and latches
It seems they were singing
an old fashioned song
We tried to join in
as we walked right along
We laughed and we giggled
so much fun was had
But we had to leave
and that made us both sad
So we promised each other
that we both would meet
Again very soon
on this new city street
Some people have jackets.
The jackets have wrinkles from sitting in the closet.
We have been trapped in our winter coats for so long.
The afternoon creeps in.
By then,
Some people don’t have jackets at all!
Their jackets are fluttering in their stern arms.
Windy but warm.
The wind is trying to eat up everyone’s hats off their head.
Restaurants are dusting off their patio tables.
The crowd is sitting and chatting outside,
Making spring complete.
Until tomorrow when winter returns.
Until tomorrow when the snow blows back in.
But for now, we are shedding our jackets.
On this Michigan February day.
Once a week, from six till seven,
Every Wednesday, in a room down town.
I go to a meeting for big strong men,
Wearing funny hats, big boots and a gown.
We all sit in a circle and have our say,
Sharing experiences throughout the week.
Talking about the words we had to confront,
About the poems we’ve had to critique.
You see, this group is for men fearing the verse,
Fear driving them to secretive tears.
Hiding from the works of poets of the day,
They’ve hidden from poems for years.
The stanzas and rhymes, the casual lines,
The acrostic and ballad and footle.
They freak us all down to a blubbering mess,
To us, poetry’s a rough, savage brutal.
I was fortunate to see him coach his first game
at that time I didn’t know
how fortunate I really was…34 years ago.
Watching his manner, his patience, his kindness,
his calmness…his overall approach
I quickly learned this man…was much more than just a coach.
He was a teacher, a counselor a psychologist…
so many professions intertwined
He was a chauffeur, a motivational speaker
a reader of young minds.
Wearing all these hats I saw him coach my daughter,
her children…(my grandchildren too)
I watched him coach for many years
I learned from his point of view
I watched his teams win…they won often
I’m sure all his players are glad their paths have crossed
as he showed them how to be winners…even when they lost.
When they won, he praised their achievement.
When they lost he did the same.
Teaching them about the complexities of life
from a simple volleyball game
34 years ago I watched him coach his first game
but time moves on so fast
and yesterday…I found myself
watching him coach his last….
Sitting there I thought of all games I’ve watched him coach
all the time together we’ve traversed…
and I felt just as fortunate watching his last game
as I did watching his first.
The foggy snow hats the mount peaks,
The chilly wind frosts all snaky creeks.
The shelter covered by creamy layer;
Face of a pane of the wistful thinker.
The clear icicles cling from the gutter,
Like the tearing of a sadden perceiver;
The thousand drops flood within:
Reviving my mother's teaching.
Once a spoiled teen in mother's arms;
Had poetical talent with full charms.
Then flew to adore distant flowers,
Received pitiful consequences later.
The obstacles shadowed the daily life,
Just a few of them have been rectified.
The foggy days repeat over and over?
Only self-confident man can endeavor.
Even powerful mind soaked in tears,
Let the body move on without fear,
Hopefully the snow fog will cease;
The strong heart could stay at peace!
Tomorrow the weather could be fine,
Keep moving on the tough, nasty line,
Even the fuzzy way lessens the vision,
Try hard to find the right destination.
Go on to reach out the ideal flowers
That bloom in the beautiful weather;
Leave the foggy days, obstacles of life,
To pass over the foggy day and smile!
Just as days long ago, when decorum resolved,
before composure, and poise,.. were corsages, unknown
Where propriety mattered, and was favored as gold,
high society, has gathered to flavor their tea
There's a trellis, embraced by a rose climbing vine
Places are set, for dining in jade
beneath shadows that stretch under arthritic old trees
While slivers of sunshine, squeeze through the branches
of silver leafed limbs, in magnolia bloomed shade
Tea will be served, by large knuckled hands
at several round tables dressed with Swiss lace designs
Wearing lavender silk is our proper Grand Dame'
who fits her surroundings, as vintage as wine
Voices are lilting like the birds in the trees
Laughter and chatter, mingle with soft, summer breezes
A bouquet of old friends, around a few scattered tables.
Silver coifed hairdos, to make celebration
Crepe myrtle and wrinkles, beneath ashes and maples
Water cress munchies, and triangle creations
Sweet honey-suckle, tucked over the porches.…
Rose petal blossoms, are painted on china
Bridge cards, tumble by Blue Willow dishes
Biscuits from England, crumble sublimely
Large bosoms bouncing, and big floppy hats
Gossip dished up with lemon-sliced frowns
Up in the tree is the neighbor's calico cat
who catches a glance, and a chance to crawl down
Are they ladies of leisure, from a time that is lost?
Or a painting I've seen on the wall from the past?
______________________________
Inspired By the Garden Party Contest
Sponsored By Cyndi McMillan 6/6/14