Long Knickers Poems
Long Knickers Poems. Below are the most popular long Knickers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Knickers poems by poem length and keyword.
Had a crazy dream last night
Dreamt I was living in a world
Where kisses were units of currency
First thing I thought of
Was that cute li'l cashier at Walmart
To pay for a $50 item
Would require 50 kisses plus the federal tax
Bringing the total to 60 smooches
I would start shopping for all kinds of stuff
That I didn't actually need
I'd even buy ladies lingerie like bras and knickers
And give them away to friends and neighbours!
In all likelihood I'd go broke
But man, would I be a happy camper
Going to bed now to hopefully pick up
Where I left off...
© Jack Ellison 2015
At one time loud rock and roll music
Would drive me up the wall
Guess I must have really mellowed out
It no longer upsets me at all
Either that or I'm losing my hearing
That could be the reason
Whichever the case it's sure a relief
To finally get rid of those demons
My son Scottie is into loud music
Middle aged but still hasn't lost it
So loud it blasts you out of your chair
Your knickers get bunched up and knotted
Each to his own that's the way it should be
No one should complain or criticize
We're all here for a very short while
So the secret is to compromise
At one time loud rock and roll music
Would drive me up the wall
Guess I must have really mellowed out
It no longer upsets me at all
© Jack Ellison 2015
COVID-19
They christened her Corona, and not to be dismissed
The blight that made the planet, get its knickers in a twist
They closed the universities, and then they closed the schools
The world was in a panic because no one knew the rules
We soon ran out of toilet roll and the pasta disappeared
Sanitizer was no more and the various shelves were cleared
They brought in social distancing, self isolation too
We battened down the hatches from the microbes that accrue
All the sport was cancelled, the nightclubs had to shut
The bars then called last orders and life was in a rut
Things were getting serious; our lives were all in shock
Days just watching telly, and staring at the clock
A cure will come from somewhere, to make us well again
A welcome antitoxin from this self imposed constrain
Yet someone is responsible for causing this whole mess
A Government, a Military, who took things to excess
In the summertime if the weather is fine,
Families let the train take the strain
To make their own sunshine.
Set for the coast and the Ocean Beach funfair
Chasing dreams, memories to be made there.
Two hundred minutes by train will feel slow,
“Pick up the pace - come on - let's go!”
A family day at a seaside town,
like a carousel ride, will go up and down…
Lots of smells and lots of noise,
Teenage girls and lynxed-up boys.
Boys bare-chested, girls in crop-tops,
Dad’s in sliders, mum’s in flip-flops,
Neon shorts and denim mini-skirts,
Uncle Barry's after-shaved midlife flirts.
Nan’s sitting out, “I'm minding the bags”,
Glittery vape has replaced her flags.
Waltzers spinning, ghost ride screams,
Long queues at the van selling ice creams.
Raspberry sauce like strawberry laces,
Ice pops melting, sticky faces.
Red sugar dummies and bubble gum slushi,
Fish chips and peas - the type that's mushy.
Kamikaze wasps that helter-skelter
Sue’s on karaoke singing out a belter.
The chlorinated aqua of the outdoor pool,
Sheena’s tankini-ed, hoping for a new fool.
Slippery slide is well splashtastic,
Dolphin bins in bright blue plastic.
The triumphant arrival of the unicorn inflatable!
Dad’s in charge as children scramble,
Splashing eyes in sibling combat,
“We agreed as a family - no one likes that!”
Getting changed after, gets out of hand,
Loss of a sports sock, knickers in the sand.
All too soon, it's time to head home,
“-but I've got a token left”, one child moans.
A helium balloon that floats away
Triggers tired toddler tears
Of a vanillary day.
Why sit with a frown is there a need?
Yes she whispered in my ear, I think I peed.
My knickers are wet, I dare not move at all
If I stand up, down they will surely fall
Your knickers are wet, ha I did scoff
But I made sure I did, no laugh or a cough
For under my seat I would then have to peer
As there may be a puddle just under here
Went shopping before we met for lunch
Hoped lollies would stay frozen, so I could crunch
Put it in my handbag, sat upon my lap
Decided to eat quickly, so no mishap.
But lunch took quite a while
We had a laugh and a smile.
The lollies got hot, and then they did melt
I felt a cold patch sneak under my belt.
I swept off the table cloth wrapped it round like a toga
To everyone watching I said ‘it’s a new move in yoga’
To the bathroom I ran and locked the door
I dropped my wet undergarments, onto the floor
Knickers now down, I could see the stain
Was orange not pee and that I still maintain
I sniffed at my undies and then I did think
They smell of oranges, as I rinsed in the sink
I hadn’t peed at all, twas not a mishap
My ice lollies had melted, wetting my lap
Next time you see an old dear with a wet patch on her frock
Remember it might be a lolly, so you better not mock
One day you know that old dear will be you
So to yourself and to others you must always be true
A wet patch you may see, but no lollies are there
So offer her some wipes, but don’t sit on her chair
© 2013
Collaboration between Seren Roberts and Mandy Tams
October: I'm eighteen, shortcutting home
through an autumn-burnished churchyard -
copper-lustred leaves, moss-skinned stone -
a jaunty swing of skater skirt and arm,
college folder square-sturdy in my hand.
In the moment. In the last pale pulse of sun.
Hey, can you tell me...?
I halt. I turn...
Cold earth. Colder blade dimpling my skin.
My coral cameo earrings scatter,
daisy-dotting the green.
My back is spiked by needles of yews.
Sun skews, sky side-slides
until his face is the firmament.
I'm staring into the tumid blank-bloat of blue;
the ground hardening beneath me,
the death-spike trees stiffening.
Heavy Special Brew breaths.
Grubby, moist fingers
like grubs crawling over my breasts,
and, weirdly, I'm smelling pepper -
horror-spice of pungent lust,
its acrid nose-thrust -
and woodsmoke is drifting from somewhere...
lung-flame, tongue-flames
of searing words - his words -
blazing like the umber tumbling leaves.
Please...Please...I'll...
Fear-forced bargaining, but I'm beyond care.
And I'm aware
of the church steeple rising,
its phallus penetrating sky.
The tilting church could topple
as tears crystal-crush in my eyes.
Fear-faint, already half gone
in a soundless scream, my muted mouth
mouths silent goodbyes
to Sarah, to Mum.
Time slows to a crawl.
I try to call. Nobody comes
but the man who has me ground-pinned.
Bleachy stink of semen
whitening my ripped skater skirt,
but some things don't fade
and there is no clean in this, just dirt,
wet leaf-mulch, shame.
Ineradicable hurt.
Sacred soil is soiled, sullied.
Stunned, I stumble
shoeless, knickerless,
into the trees and heave
into the mud, into the leaves
strings of spittle-sick,
my thoughts strung out,
reality spun out.
From stinking, pulped leaves I retrieve
crushed coral earrings,
ground-grimy knickers,
my white court shoes
that whitely scream the 90s,
the scattered tatters of essays -
white, like fallen feathers, sunk in the sludge,
muddied, the red-inked words bloodied.
I gather them together.
Gather myself.
I go
forward into my future, stained from pain
and tainted touch, the smears of fear, self-disgust.
And oozing slime-soft into my ears
the mire of incongruous apology: I'm sorry
don't tell anyone - I won't.
I don't.
Instead of a clank it's a clunk
A dreamlike sound to my ears
That irreplaceable new car smell
Not known for many years
Instead of a clank it's a clunk
I'm driving a brand new jalopy
With all the bells and whistles
My mood is turning soppy
Instead of a clank it's a clunk
Musta died and gone upstairs
Slapped myself, yup I'm awake
Sitting in my underwear
Instead of a clank it's a clunk
Jumped up at the stroke of six
Forgot my knickers so here I sit
I'm now in a terrible fix
Instead of a clank it's a clunk
People start to gather around
To know if I like my new jalopy
Hope they don't look down
Instead of a clank it's a clunk
Drove off with a confident air
Enjoying my moment of ecstasy
Wind messing up my hair
Instead of a clank it's a clunk
Moments like these are rare
So very few times in a lifetime
Noticing all the stares
Instead of a clank it's a clunk
A dreamlike sound to my ears
That oh so yummy new car smell
Missed it for too many years
© Jack Ellison 2013
The moon raced ahead of us,
like a thirsty dog.
Mama wet her knickers earlier that day,
she yelled at everyone,
for she didn't see it coming.
Later, we teenagers latch-keyed in,
the empty house begged us to come together,
passion leached through porous walls,
brazen desires made Hummel figures,
hide their faces.
The porch light danced,
in the center of a moth fandango,
our ears were listening to the road,
our shadows acting out,
turning to flesh
before we could stop them.
We were both inside the moon now.
Coyote calls trembled our young knees,
as we pledged to be forever this drunk
on each other.
When parents showed up
I was laying on the bed
cocooned in an afterglow,
and ‘my girl’ had slipped away,
yet we were both tied,
to the center of a magical moon.
Mama bustled around the house
like a Nile queen
singing her ***** little songs
that only hoot owls heeded.
Dad sipped a late cold one,
and remembered, with a grunt,
that tomorrow was still only Wednesday.
By then the moon had got so big
that I thought it might turn us all
into a fictional story,
one told between ageing astronauts.
He had long hair once.
She wrote alone in her knickers'
drinking German wines.
He painted dark clouds
that never rained.
Savvy punk word-painters
slam down their ill-tempers
with blunt ballpoints of anger.
Romantic poets running in circles
yapping like Yorkshire Terriers.
Overwrought poetess
banging on about 'daddy'.
Overweight myopic philosophers
creating visual masterpieces.
He draws his thoughts
with the chalky dust
of crow bones,
black birds watch
his hocus-pocus from afar.
The shyly brazen, always
sculpting heart-stomping elephants.
She is lovely seen by
the bottom of a beer glass.
Artists all,
all sketching their faces
looking for someone
to pick them up
to play along
with their solitary games
forever.
What the Dickens! Santa ain't wearing knickers
well his pants got caught inside the chimney
now here's the kicker...
Little Joe woke up in the middle of the night
and gave Santa such a jolly fright
now here's the kicker...
It was drafty there wasn't any gas nor heat
Mrs. Chump snored upstairs like dead meat
now here's the kicker...
Mr. C was 5 feet tall and wasn't a Clause at all
he didn't know how to rob Peter to pay Paul
now here's the kicker...
The real Ms. C owned a solar panel, Oh what fun
gave it to Ming Ming who flew like a Son Of A Gun!
now here's the kicker... Eh !
He burned Santa's pants then laughed, giggled, scoffed
but as Santa danced around the sun poured in the loft
now here's the real kicker...
Christmas was a blast now little Joe C could finally be,
toasty as a glow worm in a house built for three.
Merry Christmas Everyone !
Love,
From Santa's Girl :)