Long Parka Poems
Long Parka Poems. Below are the most popular long Parka by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Parka poems by poem length and keyword.
I can't sleep, my body gives me its usual wake-up call;
it's certainly the burden of the Christmas' season,
stretching my resources to implement its reason;
and this budget crisis won't keep me from spending it all...
some folks disagree and constantly shake their heads,
and should I pay attention to those annoying glances?
I can't be a scrooge, not buying that expensive item,
trying to save a dollar and feel awkward inside:
sometimes even generosity can wipe out greed by making a little sacrifice;
and despite a December wintry mix, with freezing rain and wet snow,
I venture outside bundled-up in a warm parka and wool gloves...
to renew the season's spirit with something as exciting as love!
I'm entering into Macy's, my favorite store,
and what I find in there, can't be described:
there are no affordable sales with incredible values;
I pull out my credit card and give it to the jovial cashier,
but her cheer turns sour when the transaction is declined!
Oh, foolish me, why did I go over the credit limit;
don't I ever learn to use cash and get rid if the damn plastic...
is this a time to be so distraught and envy the elite?
Perhaps I could use a magic wand, not asking Santa' help with childish eyes,
and grab everything that catches my eye for the needy ones,
but these are different times: if you don't have the green and the luck
of a Trump who can squander his money, you can't afford anything!
And what if I hit the Lotto or Mega Millions, wouldn't it change everything?
My list would be endlessly long: everyone would hilariously jump and shout!
Before I choose those names that are entitled to a present,
I weight out the cost and some nice gifts might surprise them;
and if they think I am the impersonation of Santa who jingles his bell
while riding the snowy sky of Christmas to perform many miracles at will:
they must know I make a decent living and save every dime
in a piggy-jar just in case I run low on cash to avoid another stride!
Luck, come today to solve my financial problems in the mist of a December wintry mix;
and Santa, don't be be too jealous and hold this against me...I'm still your loyal friend!
copyright 2008 by Andrew Crisci
Long ago, in the fastness of the north
lived a people known as the Inuit.
They lived in perpetual darkness.
Although they had heard of light from Crow
they at first would not believe him.
They made him repeat this fairy tale
many times, for it sparked imagination.
Imagine how long they could hunt.
Imagine seeing polar bear before he saw them.
They begged Crow to find and bring the light.
“But I am too old and daylight is far to the south”.
After much begging the old crow relented.
He flew through many dark miles of the north
and just as he was about to change his mind
he saw light - - - just a speck on the horizon.
Suddenly light burst upon him as the daylight
world exploded around him in brilliance.
He had to stop and rest and comprehend
this wonder of wonders called light.
He noticed the blue sky, the blue stream
and the young girl walking back to a village.
She carried a pail of the blue water as she passed
beneath the tree in which he rested.
Turning into a small speck of dust,
she did not notice Crow as he drifted into her parka.
As they neared the village, Crow saw a young boy
playing with a ball of daylight, bouncing on a string.
Crow flew from her coat, and grabbed the ball.
He flew into the endless blue sky,
the ball of daylight trailing along behind him.
Waiting impatiently, the Inuit saw a tiny speck of light
moving towards them in the darkness.
Soon it grew brighter and brighter
and Crow dropped it in the center of their village.
It exploded into a burst of light, revealing everything.
It illuminated every dark corner and chased away shadow.
But as the Inuit danced and celebrated
Crow told them the light would not last forever.
The ball of light would have to rest for six months
each year in order to gain its strength back.
“Half a year of daylight is enough” the Inuit said
and to this day they build their lives around
six months of day and six months of night.
An Inuit myth retold by S.E. Schlosser,
made into this poem July 15 2012
By: Charles Henderson ©
Please help me forget
The stubborn nostalgia of a long'-gone ardor
What magical pill have me to get-
To ease up this cussed disorder?
Our sweet long-gone ardor of the days
Was as sweet as perfume of roses
And as enjoyable as ice cream in the summer days
Or need I list to you its amorous doses?
Under that canopied tree, above with intoning birds
You were tearful as you implanted the potent "I love you"
The sincerity of your face evinced the words
And my nerves they numbed like dawn dew
Don't you remember the wintry evening chill?
When you quivered against the biting weather?
Didn't my only parka cover you for a thrill?
I in cold, you in fervor but we still bantered our blather
Oh! And the Chaka tour jog!
Fool! I wanted to forget the glitzy moment
When you slipped and got stuck in the bog
Like a baby I lifted you to arms, my sheer atonement
In that silent arbor at the bell-flower garden
You nudged and I turned to your blue eyes
And there, secret ties of love were harden
With tender kisses and vows laced with cries
Can't forget those endearments close to that river
We cuddled as we vowed the fidelity of our bond
For the joy of armor we promised to be one's giver
And for our future success our dreams were fond
Uh-uh! You were a cheeky teaser baby
The day you challenged me to make a frosty dessert
And for recipe you could beguile me, maybe!
But didn't I unearth your tricks that made you assert
Oh baby there were much we did
But need I list these your scraps that are olden?
Out of your mind these fond memories are rid
Even by their ecstasies you're never embolden
Now let me beg for that magical spell
To forget like you and settle at last
For in my own bearings I wish to dwell
Please help me too to forget our past.
Everything I buy to touch or taste
is made in China, made in China
leave alone my china set, even my toothpaste
is made in China, made in China.
From my pencils to my stencils
to the golden locks on my stylish lockers
all bore labels of 'made in China' in block capitals
and that explains thriving doorbell hawkers.
And for 'economical' me, stuff made in China
does hold a lot of frugal charm
Comes all the way from China, my granny's parka
About 'made in China' I've never had any qualms.
And because I don't intend to fritter away
hard-earned savings on any frippery
for 'made in china' alone shall my purse'n' pocket pay
and don't they play their part perfectly,
both my 'made in China' stereo and frisbee?
And all that 'made in China cutlery and crockery
is just as fragile and breakable as any other
All my life I've stuck to made in China stationery
and their costs haven't been any exorbitant so far.
L
I have seen latest High quality samsung Chinese cellphones
My TV a longlasting decade old, yes chinese Hitachi brand
You can wisely avoid debts and loans
purchasing brand new grand stuff from
the Chinese land
And then to my surprise I discovered
that many people both here and abroad
tended to buy things made in the land of the Great Wall
for similar reasons: esp they're easier to afford.
Ah, I don't like the idea of squandering away
or thoughtless wasting of wealth
No one could ever make a spendthrift out of me
For that would be unhealthy for budget health!
To refrain from prodigality and unfeeling extravagancy
'made in China' seems to me the solution
Let millionnaires make-believe that only the costly has quality
for I ain't gonna buy that pricey notion!
When winter months become morose
And everything around is blue and froze
Gets disheartening even for the eskimos
Their morale starts to dwindle and decompose
They tread most lightly on cautious tippytoes
For fear their neighbors will become bellicose
They bite their tongue rather than use such prose
As ‘up your nose, my friend, with a rubber hose’
It is uplifting to dream of colorful scenarios
Any warm place where the blazing sun glows
Where the desert air gently blows
While ocean waves roll in sultry rows
All agree a trip down south would be most grandiose
Trading bikinis for their parka and heavy winter clothes
By pools they’d feign being divinely comatose
Drink in hand adopting the hot vacation pose
Stretched out on their hammocks eating pistachios
Laying back being busy counting colored rainbows
Hey CabanaBoy we’d truly really hate to impose
But would you please massage us from our head to our toes
Before their fair skin burns and redness undergoes
They all head back to their respective bungalows
Wondering should they dress go catch one of the shows
Or rest in bed before calling on one of the local rodeos
While visiting the souvenir shop one decides to propose
To send home a postcard showing tropical buzzards and flamingos
With a heartfelt message that needs not be verbose
For sure they’ll be the envy of both our friends and foes
AP: 1st place 2021
Submitted on January 9, 2019 for contest BUZZARDS AND FLAMINGOS sponsored by ANTHONY SLAUSIN
Oh, was it in this dark-Decembered world
we walked among the moonbeam-shadowed fields
and did not know ourselves for weight of snow
upon our laden parkas? White as sheets,
as spectral-white as ghosts, with clawlike hands
thrust deep into our pockets, holding what
we thought were tickets home: what did we know
of anything that night? Were we deceived
by moonlight making shadows of gaunt trees
that loomed like fiends between us, by the songs
of owls like phantoms hooting: Who? Who? Who?
And if that night I looked and smiled at you
a little out of tenderness . . . or kissed
the wet salt from your lips, or took your hand,
so cold inside your parka . . . if I wished
upon a frozen star . . . that I could give
you something of myself to keep you warm . . .
yet something still not love . . . if I embraced
the contours of your face with one stiff glove . . .
How could I know the years would strip away
the soft flesh from your face, that time would flay
your heart of consolation, that my words
would break like ice between us, till the void
of words became eternal? Oh, my love,
I never knew. I never knew at all,
that anything so vast could curl so small.
Originally published by Nisqually Delta Review
She watched her move
The potted Chinese Hibiscus inside,
Sliding it over the not yet frozen ground,
Hefting it slowly over the six wood back steps,
Resting and breathing,
Hands on hips.
Each year she would think of helping.
But she didn’t
And this time she could tell,
She was really struggling.
No one was there to help her.
Years ago she had told her-
“Scarlet Rose Mallow.
Only plant it. Cut it back late fall
And leave it in the ground.”
But her friend hadn’t listened.
She hadn’t listened to other things.
But they were neighbors
And she was from the west.
They don’t listen,
Everybody knew.
Her neighbor had even been surprised
When she had buried her husband
In the back
With a simple stone
Next to a row of them.
She could see them bloom,
Five petals for each of their children,
And sit with him anytime, any weather.
Her western neighbor
Had to go all the way to the
Church cemetery
And shiver or hide under a parka.
So today,
After the struggle was over,
She made some tea
And walked the distance
Cups and saucers on a tray,
Imperfectly matched and unbalanced.
It was about time
They put differences aside.
On Snow Shovelling
A foot of snow fell by night
With no let-up in sight.
(“Brrr, it’s cold out there.”)–
A mutt rebounds past my window,
As I contemplate the morning weather,
While sipping my hot cup of coffee.
By the street-lamp’s hazy glow,
I make out my neighbour:
Clad in a scarf, tuque, and parka,
With a winter implement
Grasped in her mitten covered hands,
Bravely confronting the heart attack weather,
And tossing snow over her shoulders,
To clear the driveway from garage to curb
For the mechanical beast to enter
The unplowed street.
She stops and calls to the mutt.
(No doubt, an excuse to catch her breath.)
The dog, tail wagging, rushes to his master;
Who brushes the snow from his fur;
And I venture to guess,—an “Atta-boy!”—
As if the dog had accomplished
Some great endeavour.
But, they both seem to derive pleasure
From the brief encounter.
The Master resumes her shovelling,
And the mutt to his romping,
And I to thinking
While sipping my hot cup of coffee;—
I too will have to face the inclement weather:
Clad in a scarf, tuque, and parka,
And commit to the task of snow shovelling.
Cletus considered himself an expert angler, handy with reel and rod.
He'd landed ever'thing from wily rainbow trout to North Atlantic cod.
He'd fished the streams, rivers and lakes from sea to shinin' sea,
But he met his Waterloo on an ice fishin' expedition as we shall see!
He bought a tidy little fishin' shack that was really very nifty,
That he could haul aboard his pickup, a beat-up old Ford One-fifty.
He purchased a parka, gloves and boots to weather the fiercest storm,
And took his pals Jim Beam and Jack Daniels along to help keep him warm!
He drove upon the ice and set up his shack on a North Dakota reservoir,
Settled back anticipatin' a nibble on his line and then he lit a fine cigar.
He took a snooze but was awakened by a growin' rumblin' sound.
At that he pulled on his boots and got up to take a look around.
Alas, a huge crack in the ice was creepin' inexorably t'ward his Ford!
He espied a beckonin' floe passin' by and quickly jumped aboard!
Cletus shivered as he saw his truck and the shack sink in a trice!
"Damn", he mused, "I reckon I misjudged the thickness of the ice!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
At a giraffe like height, with eyes in clear view, from a cold icy frosty windowsill, 3 stories high. I see a city forest full of snowy powdery pillows packed and stacked high and also patches of icicle drops. These now all drenched in a natural inked white-out made by and from winter's chest and best.
There also views of the white sheets of frozen tundra and piles of pearly, ivory, fluffy, flaky, chalky, tall mountain mounds. This causes great white high zenith peaks to greatly abound. There in the quaintest of small shy snow-bound town.
Trees are huddled and covered in pure white parka snowflake designed fleece. This creating like a blanket canvas for me the artist. Hidden in an icy little village: A living ice sculpture painting of nature's frosty experiences.
Youngsters do enjoy wintery weather games in their childhood play. Adults in this season has winter’s life priorities of plowing and snow shoveling. The town’s people chat in igloo like shops. This to have hot mint coffee with some toast and a little bit of a great boast!
A frosty winter small hometown scene: yet, a very, very, warm community feel;" and a Yule-Time dream.