Long Khakis Poems
Long Khakis Poems. Below are the most popular long Khakis by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Khakis poems by poem length and keyword.
The jaws sing
As the drip, drip, drip,
Of the petroleum chorus
Dances across
The inverted aluminum
And the hissing starts
And the hissing stays
Its smell a warning
A final omen
Like the last rose
Of summer
Or the fragrance she wore
For that final goodbye
The teeth tear inward
Like the regret for today
And the regret for yesterday
And the lament for tomorrow
Its promise broken
And your khakis red
And baptized
A stigmata
To self infliction
As the music plays constant
And the rushing you feel
An emptying of sorrow
Onto the crushed ceiling
Of a dream in reverse
Of all life in reverse
Until two arms grab you
And you fall from the sky
And you fall from the sky
Waiting
For the ground
To coronate the outcome
And for one more answer
To a ‘why’ unquestioned
And to love you one more time
But the lights are now dim
And the voices muffled
As an organ can be heard
And store bought flowers smelled
As an old woman cries…
And a young woman cries…
And a stranger pronounces
What you feared the most
They didn’t know you
And couldn’t know you
The exit sign flashing
But there is no door
“There is no door”
—and then the music stops
(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2016)
The jaws sing
As the drip, drip, drip,
Of the petroleum chorus
Dances across
The inverted aluminum
And the hissing starts
And the hissing stays
Its smell a warning
A final omen
Like the last rose
Of summer
Or the fragrance she wore
For that final goodbye
The teeth tear inward
Like the regret for today
And the regret for yesterday
And the lament for tomorrow
Its promise broken
And your khakis red
And baptized
A stigmata
To self-infliction
As the music plays constant
And the rushing you feel
An emptying of sorrow
Onto the crushed ceiling
Of a dream in reverse
Of all life in reverse
Until two arms grab you
And you fall from the sky
And you fall from the sky
Waiting
For the ground
To coronate the outcome
And for one more answer
To a ‘why’ unquestioned
And to love you one more time
But the lights are now dim
And the voices muffled
As an organ can be heard
And storebought flowers smelled
And an old woman cries …
As a young woman cries …
And a stranger pronounces
What you feared the most
They didn’t know you
And couldn’t know you
The exit sign flashing
But there is no door
“There is no door”
—and then the music stops
(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2016)
The jaws sing
As the drip, drip, drip,
Of the petroleum chorus
Dances across
The inverted aluminum
And the hissing starts
And the hissing stays
Its smell a warning
A final omen
Like the last rose
Of summer
Or the fragrance she wore
For that final goodbye
The teeth tear inward
Like the regret for today
And the regret for yesterday
And the lament for tomorrow
Its promise broken
And your khakis red
And baptized
A stigmata
To self infliction
As the music plays constant
And the rushing you feel
An emptying of sorrow
Onto the crushed ceiling
Of a dream in reverse
Of all life in reverse
Until two arms grab you
And you fall from the sky
And you fall from the sky
Waiting
For the ground
To coronate the outcome
And for one more answer
To a ‘why’ unquestioned
And to love you one more time
But the lights are now dim
And the voices muffled
As an organ can be heard
And store bought flowers smelled
And an old woman cries…
As a young woman cries…
And a stranger pronounces
What you feared the most
They didn’t know you
And couldn’t know you
The exit sign flashing
But there is no door
“There is no door”
—and then the music stops
(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2016)
Sing praises to the toothless grin
of the plastic, pocket comb;
who through many heads
of boys and men
its plastic tines have flown.
Working magic in the masculine hands,
putting astray stains of hair in place,
as the holder stares into a mirror,
admiring their own face.
Carried in back pockets of
jeans, khakis and shorts;
sat upon on hard surfaces -
some tines start to abort.
Thin tines on one end
for the finest head of hair;
thicker teeth on the other
with large gaps of spaces there.
Left behind on counters,
in kitchen drawers and in bathrooms;
discarded due to some missing teeth,
but for others still worth a groom.
Looking for that perfect look
are many men and boys;
hopeful that this plastic tool
leads to future romantic joys.
The jaws sing
As the drip, drip, drip,
Of the petroleum chorus
Dances across
The inverted aluminum
And the hissing starts
And the hissing stays
Its smell a warning
A final omen
Like the last rose
Of summer
Or the fragrance she wore
For that final goodbye
The teeth tear inward
Like the regret for today
And the regret for yesterday
And the lament for tomorrow
Its promise broken
And your khakis red
And baptized
A stigmata
To self infliction
As the music plays constant
And the rushing you feel
An emptying of sorrow
Onto the crushed ceiling
Of a dream in reverse
Of all life in reverse
Until two arms grab you
And you fall from the sky
And you fall from the sky
Waiting
For the ground
To coronate the outcome
And for one more answer
To a ‘why’ unquestioned
And to love you one more time
But the lights are now dim
And the voices muffled
As an organ can be heard
And store bought flowers smelled
And an old woman cries…
As a young woman cries…
And a stranger pronounces
What you feared the most
They didn’t know you
And couldn’t know you
The exit sign flashing
But there is no door
“There Is No Door”
—and then the music stops
(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2016)
the gulf circle is where
brown pelicans dive for their
dinner over the heads
of the hungry masculine
wood storks looking men
swarming in schools like shark
preying on beautiful elderly women
for they jewels life savings retirements
pensions property and real estate
anything he deems of value
wearing khakis by day tropical
shirts baring parrots coconuts
both hands in their sunken empty
pockets scouring dreams and life
savings of grandmothers and somebody's
aunts strolling along the antique shops
thrift shops following artists writers
thrive awaiting a time to dive his prey
shoulders raised and back knees knocked
feet flat turned outward over canvas
looking penny loafers he smells of cheap
hair tonic his eyes lock beneath dark
sunglasses while the woman approaches
big straw hat beach bag retired poet
brilliant writer removing her own book
she took years to write the pink flamingo
sings a warning for all ladies sunbathing
to watch out run for cover while his knees
pop and stretch backwards he opens
his long beak of a nose and grunts
he raises the longest arms unusually thin
smooth fingers as if he never lifted not one
of them to work ever he snatches the old
woman book spilling her pink grapefruit
juice grabbing her change purse retrieving
her coin collection finally the last coin falls
a very rare Abraham Lincoln penny he picks
it up the woman cries contadino contadino
he mumbles quickly removes one
of his tattered and warn penny loafer
places the rare coin inside his shoes
strolls along simply singing the blues
The jaws sing
As the drip, drip, drip,
Of the petroleum chorus
Dances across
The inverted aluminum
And the hissing starts
And the hissing stays
Its smell a warning
A final omen
Like the last rose
Of summer
Or the fragrance she wore
For that final goodbye
The teeth tear inward
Like the regret for today
And the regret for yesterday
And the lament for tomorrow
Its promise broken
And your khakis red
And baptized
A stigmata
To self infliction
As the music plays constant
And the rushing you feel
An emptying of sorrow
Onto the crushed ceiling
Of a dream in reverse
Of all life in reverse
Until two arms grab you
And you fall from the sky
And you fall from the sky
Waiting
For the ground
To coronate the outcome
And for one more answer
To a ‘why’ unquestioned
And to love you one more time
But the lights are now dim
And the voices muffled
As an organ can be heard
And store bought flowers smelled
And an old woman cries…
As a young woman cries…
And a stranger pronounces
What you feared the most
They didn’t know you
And couldn’t know you
The exit sign flashing
But there is no door
“There Is No Door”
—and then the music stops
(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2016)
I have a lovely daughter, who is a lovely mess,
for every rule you give her, she will have to test.
She’s always just inside the lines or balanced on the top.
She loves to challenge all the rules to see how they will flop.
My favorite of her hurdles was the school uniform,
and she was delighted to best this strict form of norm.
A uniform would be an insult to her fashion sense.
As her mother, I suspected the rules would soon be mince.
She wore exactly what they said: khakis, belt, white top.
You've probably guessed, though thusly dressed she did not stop.
Smiling like an actress in a play,
she wore a striped scarf with red beret.
Her belt was wide and trendy,
her shoes, black boots to knee.
A voguish olive blazer was her “coat.”
Stylishly outfitted
and with the rules outwitted,
the books she carried seemed a lighter tote...
The "book bag," after all, was a fabulous new purse!
and...
Her creative conformity sent the principal to the nurse.
There is something to be learned here, as I reflect on this bright girl.
Without the rules before them, there’d be no rebels in the world.
11/2/2018
Strutting down York Avenue,
Appearing in a hurry,
His face is beatific,
Showing not a drop of worry.
With one child in his hand grasp
And another at his chest,
He seems a modern father
But he stands out from the rest.
It isn’t for his man-bun,
Rather for the clothes he wears –
Not jeans or sweats or khakis,
For it’s leggings earning stares.
Today’s had printed donuts
Looking fattening and sweet,
While yesterday’s were swirled
With every color you might meet.
I wonder as his kids grow up
If they’ll think he looks cool
Or, as I perceived when others gaped,
More like a kingdom’s fool.
Timidity ran all over me,
I got frightened for the day
Corpers march out of the camp
Bidding service to their homeland bye
A compulsory year for “ajuwaya”.
Of waste to many
Of hilarious time out to some
Of acculturation to others
Of enslavement in a glorified den.
With the inscription NYSC on white top
Brownish khaki below
Para-force orange boot to march
Ajuwaya’s hope dashed after 365 days
Dream killed for future seeds
Aspirations in korper’s khaki cut off
As they are unleashed to joblessness
Scattered into hopelessness of labour market
Here comes the “korpersion”
In search of future in confusion
Outside the very den after gyration
In a kingdom with no future.
Alayande Stephen. T
2.55pm
17th August 2006
Ajuwaya- a term used for fresh undergraduate who are
Undergoing one year compulsory service to their father land.
Still on my way, but back to IPC from Apagbon in Lagos on
The behest of IPC Chairman, Lanre Arogundade.
Significantly, it was the pass out day for corpers as they don
the streets in their Khakis.