Long Hatted Poems
Long Hatted Poems. Below are the most popular long Hatted by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hatted poems by poem length and keyword.
Enea Gets the Red Hat
Finally, he's getting somewhere.
Fifty years of age and almost crippled,
prematurely aged, but at last,
sweet recognition rains down
on the poet. Kneeling before Calixtus,
he accepts the Cardinal's hat.
Fancy that.
With every triumph, we're swept nearer Hell.
Each anthem that we sing's a kind of knell.
No matter what we get, or grab, or gain,
we're human, and our lot is death and pain.
Both Frederick and Ladislas
had to do a lot of lobbying
(Calixtus was a Borgia, after all:
and family is family.) Por fin,
esta elevado. Behold the scene.
Frederick with his back to us
and Ladislas holding on to him
(shouldn't that be the other way round?)
deserve their pride of place.
The seething swell of humans
swirls around the little altar,
but can't budge it.
The clear-cut marble doesn't give.
What is the painter telling us?
Men move, and flow, and live, and go,
but soon or later, their
energy is spent?
The Church is permanent?
Regard the four main players,
the upper crust of Mankind's many layers,
yet each one a loser clone.
Calixtus took the throne
already old, and singing one stale tune
(and that, corrupt!)
He didn't use a long spoon
when he supped.
There's Frederick, the Emperor,
a joke. Bullied by his minions,
unhappy, hapless, broke.
And Ladislas, a king without a kingdom,
a cock without a crest,
he's Frederick's long-term guest
(another kind of jest).
A prisoner -- or let's say, at home,
he and Frederick make a palindrome:
august additions to this Pleasure Dome.
Enea: worn out, homesick, ill.
Surviving now on sheer will.
Is that Nature's tonsure, or Man's?
He's kept alive by feverish plans
to mount a Great Crusade --
but we all know it won't be made.
Two rigid windows and an altarpiece.
The Trinity? (The painting is the Holy Ghost.)
Or are those plain, framed panes
the Empire and the Papacy?
You think we're reading too much in?
We point you to one subtle artist's touch.
The youth, right-centre, in the azure cloak,
who's smirking at some "only-I-know" joke:
head cocked, as if he's watching all, askance:
he finds the dainty, double-dealing dance
amusing. Isn't he Rafael?
Hatted like some crimson Cardinal,
he's watching how they rise up, how they fall.
He's waiting, calmly, to inherit all.
Gambling in the forest took on a whole new flavor today.
The princess Adrianna joined us, bringing dice to the fray.
We shook them and threw them, hoping for the big win.
Antlered deer had trouble, his hoofs are so thick, not thin.
Barn owl came to join us, he likes red apples too.
We congratulated him on his flight and the way he flew.
Antlered deer asked us to give him another roll, please.
We said okay, but the dice flipped over against the breeze.
He is cheating! The spoiled pointy-hatted princess yelled.
An arrow came by, but it was quickly diverted and felled.
Gambling in the forest is great! Said the rabbit up high.
All I want is one apple the deer said with a cough and sigh.
An absolutely truthful account... (strangely, including the contest’s mandatory ’*’)
Twas something like nineteen seventy seven
I saw a guy on a bridge gazing at heaven...
I was sat fishing, set up for the night
The night that that fella would give me a fright
A full moon aglow in an ebony sky
Permitted the sight of that very strange guy
He wore a top hat, and I’m no historian
But his wrist length cape seemed very Victorian
He had a short telescope held to his eye
And his head was turned up to that cloudless night sky
I could only think with his top hatted head
*He looked like he’d crept from the house of the dead*
What he was watching with hat and cape on
I’ll never know for soon he was gone
I didn’t see him come and I didn’t see him leave
He was there, then he wasn’t, this I believe
I’m not a proclaimer of ghosts, ghouls and spirits
Or in the concept of afterlife visits
But I checked-out that bridge right through the night
Packed up and went home at very first light.
______
I was about eighteen, night fishing alone on a canal ten miles north of London. My favourite swim (fishing position) was about a hundred yards (ninety metres) from a footbridge over the canal. That bridge was peculiar in that no-one I knew, knew why it was there. It was at least two miles from a road or pavement/sidewalk and aside from crossing the canal... it went nowhere.
It was now dark and ‘something’ caused me to look toward the bridge. He was just there... perfect silhouette, wearing a cape and top hat and gazing skyward through a telescope. I became aware of my rod thumping round to the right... I should point out that, at eighteen, landing a big fish took precedence over watching some weirdo pretending to be a ghost (you might say I was not a believer) so I landed the fish (a smashing Tench), returned him and glanced back to the weirdo. The weirdo was gone and I spent the rest of the night alone, under my fishing umbrella, pondering his whereabouts.
12 February 2021
Contest: Ghost
Sponsor: Julia Ward
My blue hair women paintings are surprisingly fun,
But the most interesting are my blue black haired combo.
I know this because I am staring at them now.
Pony-tailed, hatted, hanging, one doing the mambo.
I always thought the pink hairs would be the most “ut”.
My pink cats and dragons have them completely topped.
If I counted all the flowers and hearts on my walk.
I would laugh at my ludicrous self, that I could have never stopped.
Painting has been a most enjoyable hobby to me.
It has kept me out of relatives’ squabbles galore.
Entertaining me in every which way and wild.
Keeping me away from cleaning which I truly abhor.
My mind went for a walk, in the middle of the night,
To a place full of colourful lights.
I was having a beer with Nelson Mandela,
And we talked about our own civil rights.
He put down his drink and quietly said,
“It always seems impossible until it’s done”.
And then he just vanished, replaced by a tin hatted soldier,
Blood covered from World War 1.
He looked numb and dead, behind bleary eyes,
And didn’t really want to talk at all.
I think he wanted to weep, for the people in his mind,
When he let go a short mournful squall.
And then Jackson Pollock walked in, with a smile and a grin,
With a new paint of his crazy Blue Polls.
He shook hands with the soldier and gave him his painting,
Saying this is for all the lost souls.
My mind went for a walk, in the middle of the night,
Where everything seemed so extreme.
Can’t wait for tonight, when again, civil rights can be done,
In another profound, definitively chaotic dream.
This is for Brian Davey's "My cousin chaos" contest.
This Bumptious Poet ©
Once again dear reader,
aye strive to regale ye
with in apropos prate,
(nee inane) vain
null gibberish in order to suss stain
mine infamous reputation
with the singular word pain
in thee...online
literary milieu, where this main
stream (babbling virtual
brook call lean)
tin hatted man,
qua zee moat tow "FAKE" King
po' whit laureate selective keen
a boot (sally ling forth)
hemming and hawing,
while feigning bing
a suave hill Billy blue jean
wearing brand Levi Strauss,
(a posthumous plug)
for a savvy German
businessman hood deed glean
prospective market for
denim made easy to clean
material donned by lumpen
proletariat aye assert
would be my status
if born circa
late eighteen hundreds by
a moo their and father,
both named (Elisha) Eli
for short slaving away to feed,
and clothe this then little guy,
who whiz fain to appreciate my
(dirt poor station in life well nigh
larded with love,
and non verbal re: ply
thee above fictitious
i.e. "FAKE" parents rye
zing far and above
penury and did try
their level best
to hammer out
round the clock rockin
round the clock
nsync with the paradigm
of Abraham Maslow,
albeit modified ad hoc
accepting with humility,
poverty how to jock
key providing basic brood
of offspring and subtly mock
king bourgeoisie, re: (unpretentiously
unflattering discrete actions), while rock
king to thee western civilization
trappings of schlock,
ah and oh...no doubt
precious time, aye
did fritter and flout
away distracting sorely tendered,
kindled, and cherished attention
thus metaphorically affecting thee
with equivalent, where
yar entire body riddled with gout.
- Readers, I hope you forgive me.
I’m retracting some words I once said:
I'd planned to write just five of these tales
But I've added a sixth tale instead..
Night
The preacher was searching for Duchess
Also known as 'The Tabard Inn Cat'.
Scared by the storm she'd run out of the inn
And knocked over his drink where he sat.
That event brought an end to his chess game:
The first he had played in a while.
His worthy opponent who sipped water had said
That his comforting words made her smile.
The preacher had stood from the table.
Looking scared and somewhat distraught.
He felt for some reason there was trouble ahead
And proclaimed that the cat should be caught.
He'd opened the door of The Tabard
And was met by the sound of the rain.
A sailor pushed past him and into the bar
As the preacher limped off down the lane.
Later That Night
The last person to see him still breathing
Was sadly not sober at all.
A 'top-hatted' man who was heading for home
Thought he saw someone scaling a wall.
He swore that he saw something smiling
And eyes that stared back and looked weird.
It was all very dark and his mind wasn't right
Then the shadows he saw disappeared.
The Morning After
The preacher was found dead the next morning
He had fallen it seemed from a height.
Whispers and rumours were swirling around
Like the wind from that wet stormy night:
- "He had feelings for a woman who's taken.."
- "Their love was just dead on the shelf!"
- "He was burdened by guilt with his faith and all that"
- "That cat was the devil itself!"
Later That Week
A sermon revealed at his service
(That the whole town had turned out to see)
That the preacher was an animal lover
And had suffered with PTSD.
You see he was once a brave soldier
But lost hate when he lost his right leg.
He left to preach love and bring all things together:
..He was truly an all-round good egg.
Beach Blanket Bingo (The Fab Five)
B etty Lou, beautiful Katherine, and
E leanor, Nellie Sue and Bethany
A ll playing Bingo, on blankets in sand,
C hatted away, happy girls by the sea,
H eaven-sent sun beaming high in the sky.
B ethany said, “Girls, suck tummies in.
L ook. Over there is a really cute guy!
A lso, we really should show him some skin!”
N ellie Sue said, “And he has four friends too!”
K atherine quickly adjusted her hair.
E leanor said, “Girls, you know what to do.”
T hey took off their beach wraps and made those men stare!
B ob and his friends asked to join the game.
I n minutes each lady was paired with a guy.
N o worries. Just good times. Always the same.
G olden girls shine like the sun in the sky.
O ld ladies, still young at heart, the fab five!
by Andrea Dietrich
Inspired by Linda-Marie's
"Beach Blanket Bingo" Contest
This is one fine place for a stray....
Even if only for a one-moon stay.
No tight roping a burning fence.
No barkers belittling until I'm deaf.
The sun and shade treating me equally.
No red-hatted gnomes flicking daisies at me.
There're endless dips and nicks where I can hide.
Close my Egyptian Isis eyes and drift far away.
This is one fine place for a stray...
Oh yes.
The gray one reminds me of what I once had.
Good grub, rubber mouse, a good-hearted laugh.
A calloused hand to steady my midnight silhouette.
A wobble and sashay into that wildflower land.
Matter of fact, he once had a silky window cat.
Oh yes.
Lately he's been leaving tasty bits of food,
A rainwater bowl, a silly rubber mouse to chew.
But I'm much too gray for those kittenish games.
Maybe I'll give it a swat or two but only for his sake....
Oh yes.
Maybe, someday he'll let me in that big fancy shed.
Then I could rid myself of this purr-dicament.
Spend my final days in sweet, carefree opulence.
But trust is a precarious and most fragile thing.
Like a glass cat knickknack on the banks
of a dog-legged stream.
Oh yes. Oh yes.
Haven't seen the gray-caned one for many a day.
The raccoons cracked open my bowl of water rain.
The golden grass is bent and long overgrown.
Mr. bull thistle is kissing the Lady of the rose.
Maybe the gray one is searching both hi and low
for that mother of pearl in a forever home.
Oh no. Oh no!
Departed poems in a gray post-dated heaven
clatter wings together like hens in a jailers coop.
Words never die, they bury themselves in
heaps of dry leaves, distant laughter scatters
the sadly said.
Muse-makers wear plastic rainhats
that flutter like bats in the sunlight.
Words have to be tied together
or they sink alone in an empty fish bowl.
Japanese girls in designer Nike's
skip over words completely and we all hear.
Silk flowers in China teacups sail a deep blue ink.
The poets speak in tie-dyed riddles,
in dribbles between the loosely connected.
Atop a mountain, goats bray,
love-sick donkeys harken with their heavy hearts.
Legions of cock-hatted rhymers are born again
to confuse the world with their simplistic sounds.
Writing for all the long dead letters
is an art for baby fingers and painted opera singers.
Undertakers gather; their electronic ankle-beepers
sing within freshly dug sonnets and odes.
The deceased travel on, spinning a gray language,
they are silk moths weaving tinsel rainbows
that by chance
speak words still wet from closed lips.