Long Polyester Poems
Long Polyester Poems. Below are the most popular long Polyester by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Polyester poems by poem length and keyword.
Chucky's atonement
1. Used to be scared of the rain. He would drag me out of the shelter and make me dance.
It always drives him insane. Dressed me like a little Chucky doll and spared me no glance.
Frozen toes in winter were warmer than the hot tears of fall. He would knit me a polyester, same color as his cat.
2. Used to be scared of his footsteps and the timbre sound of the bell until I sniffed your inviting pine cologne.
My heart palpitates at the notification of your message/call. Trapped in your fancy hell.
Called me your wife in public. Treat me like a pet at home. Jagged scars on my back memories of your love.
Only meant for us to see, Right?
3. Used to be scared of his belt till I tasted your kiss. It eats me from inside out and leaves me torn.
Trapped in your elegant world, in your embrace so tight it killed my every dream.
Like the gold jewelry from Valentine. Alluring and heavy.
4. Used to be scared of his voice till I heard your laugh. Honey, I fell for it before I even knew you. Smooth and unrestrained, engraving it on every marble wall.
5. Used to be scared of his stares until I faced your smile, kept me frozen in a daze. Silent but brutal.
One minute you kissed me like you meant it, just to treat me like the sand underneath your feet.
6.Used to be scared of you until I knew the location of the key.
The beginning of my downfall. Chucky's atonement.
We went to Glenna’s wedding
that late afternoon in summer, you
and I destined next, never younger.
And there was a rigatoni buffet
and open bar soaked in Popov
and lime, and everyone
was blessed and blasted
in swaddling polyester and chiffon
as evening did the Hustle away--
And, it was our night after
Glenna’s wedding
stealing the honeymoon,
out at the cottage, until
that fine summer’s threads
shredded off to the floor,
deep into late, warm nights
of a settling fog, much
like doubt and loss.
We went to Glenna’s wedding
that afternoon in summer
never younger,
and there was rigatoni
Popov, shredding threads
settling fog...Perspective
is a kaleidoscope
of tumbling dreams
down the tunneled lens.
I knew the future once:
and it is this idle I have
to wonder in.
~~~~~~~~ Pink Polyester Pants ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I really like to ride my bike, outside your porch, hopin' for a glimpse,
of you sitting, singing dress a clinging in neatly pleated floral chintz.
And that time after school-ly when that bully pinched you on the buttocks,...
Though I decked em, I must respect em for admirin' your tattered denim cut-offs.
And, oh, did you look sweet and sassy when you wore that peasant blouse,...
though maybe not so replete and classy when you trick or treat'd at my house.
Though you are one year older, I sure feel bolder a'climbin' o yer backyard fence.
But I really flipped when I saw you slipped inside those pink polyester pants!
I can accept love
I have time to learn
and earn
But
can I embrace compassion
I feel sure appreciates me
far more wisely
than I have yet earned?
Positive passions more pleasant
than I could ever find sufficient time
to brilliantly learn
My adoration spot
on this comedy central
AnalRetentive Stage
listing
lusting
more Left Winged
liberating
than Right Fringed
defensively sedating.
I am haunted
by an oppressively disabling gap
between what I have sufficient healthy time
to accomplish
to communicate
to experientially articulate
as anemically contrasted
to all I can imagine health
and safe wealth doing
togathering in this day,
this week,
this month,
this year,
this final decade
of my personal AnthroGay Pride
and WhitePrivilege
to prefer Black Lives MultiEnculturing Matter
and wild Paradise
PolyCulturing Pleasure
Win/Win bi-everything trans-thriving
positively contagious
as the clap
On a loved ones back
is my gay worldview sound
of one left hand liberally clapping
out FreeDom
ReStorative Justice
Love
Between my NonViolently WinWin Communicating
brothers and sisters
LeftBrain verbally dominant
claiming Peace
I nonverbally feel
RightBrain left outside
closeted ungay emotional neglect
In my polyculturally wise universe
feeling all EarthMother's love,
Polyester is always Lose/Lose trauma
bad news drama
while
PolyPathic Win/Win
evokes sacred warm
wet 1 within 0 zen rivers
of deeply penetrating gospel
Good regenerative humor
despite toxic rumors
that my indigenous EarthTribe
intentional family
and trauma-infested community
are suffering from an overheated climate
of monoculturing dementia
Increasingly difficult to recall
the love we have had time to learn
is earned one timeless
warm remembering moment
always liberally Here
as time conserving Now,
unconditionally warm
well-moisturized regard
For healthy hygiene
is next to wealthy
goddessness
A gay gratitude gift
more than sufficiently
out proud
well endowed.
it is one of those placid docile what-do-we-do April days.
I sit outside naked except for my light polyester mumu.
an airplane wakes the cloud with her powerful engine noises.
my wind chimes tingle a mirthful melody.
Sophie, my cocker spaniel sits behind me, she is an inside dog.
Buddy, our husky mix trots a giant six pound bone around in his mouth.
there is a car on Kansas Avenue, we cannot see it, but we hear it.
nothing else is moving until I spy a blue jay landing on a branch.
so light in hue, that he could be an arctic jay, he is the lightest gray.
annoyingly loud muscle car can be heard in the distance, tearing up a street.
roosters behind me begin to crow, even though it is noon.
melodic chimes heighten their melody as today’s breeze picks up.
trilling of birds gives me a reassuring thought of God in the yard.
behind me I hear the purr of our porch refrigerator.
if there has ever been a calmer day, I was not aware of it.
someone revs a car engine far off in the distance.
old man or boy, I think, or old lady in a mumu. This makes me smile.
Wear the green dress today
in the back of the closet.
The floor-length polyester blend
with little bicycles
peddling all over it.
Your kindergarteners
love to count the bicycles
as much as I do.
One, two, three, four
five, six, seven, eight,
(and turn around for more)
nine, ten, eleven, twelve
little bicycles.
I woke up early
to press the wrinkles out,
thinking of your freckled arms
fitting through the sleeves,
and the way you wiggle into it.
The dress still holds
the smell of citrus
perfume from before.
You sashay when you wear
long dresses on workdays.
I witness the subtle difference,
and the way you saunter,
and all your variations
color my life.
I enjoy, more than all,
the emerald fabric on you,
it has a suggestive rustle.
The heavy layers
over your toned, determined legs
is lovely to gaze at
when you strut through the kitchen.
And somewhere sleeping,
the sun in her pale and trying beauty,
has yet to drag itself
in lesser shades across the sky.
Choosing a dress for you
from your closet of forgotten colors
is still the life I want, and better
than anything outside.
The concrete and plastic, chrome domed
bricked up auditorIum rang
like a hollow bell,
a meager few red skins circle the stadium seats
like smoke from a mythical “peace” pipe
ragged, distilled, diluted, distraught, “dised”
A 21st century ablution of angst.
Round shoulders meet, sidelong glances;
old and young form for dances.
All semblance of nature betrayed
by polyester tassels and cheap Crayola yarn fringe,
a sneakers and moccasins mix,
only the whistle-drum, and sage smoke sanctifies.
Circles form, crouching over polyurethane floors
silver hair, braids and hands harden; they bear,
bore the “dis” missive, disdain,
the balm of music eased all the pain.
Round shoulders meet, sidelong glances;
old and young form for dances.
The roof “dis” appears becomes the night sky
air vibrates with the heart thumping of stick on skin,
and so WE, the PEOPLE begin.
Chants warm the taunt throats of man;
a whistle trills the coyotes howl.
Heartbeat sings a drum song,
bowed and bent the circle dancers form.
Stomp, twirl, braids a whirl, winged dancers rattle and bell.
Mans peacock form no longer forlorn rises above the well.
Chant the tell tale heart,
the sorrow the joy, drum thumpers hatchets fall
on the neck of a starry night.
Drum and dance invite…..
scream,….soul song, smoke dream,
eyes daze in a reverent scheme.
WISH OF A ROOSTER
Swinging scarlet red velvet crown,
flapping wings feathered golden-brown
boldly ignoring the Master’s frown,
roams the brave rooster,
being the booster
of poultry, far away from town.
Rooster wanders free frolic stepping proud,
declaring early dawn, whistling shrill loud.
Close- by resort attracts it.
On yard sometimes makes visit,
looks at posh auditorium,
large dining hall on decorum.
Table cover of polyester
dazzled glittered charming the rooster.
Wanted to touch its glossy polish.
At last fulfilled its earnest wish.
Reached on table as delicious dish.
03/05/21
There once was a man named Bobby Joe
From a small town in New Mexico
Always wearing pointed toed cowboy boots
With a three piece polyester business suit
Bobby Joe stood about six foot four
Was handsome and sun-tanned dark
All the women fell in love at first sight
And were left with a broken heart
Bobby Joe was smart and serious
Had a fight to pick with big business
Said they were ruining Indian land
With big oil rigs digging in the sand
The Harvard lawyers talked in corporate-speak
To the paid for judges to whom they did entreat
After pleading their case for twenty-four hours long
Bobby Joe simply said, “What you’re doing is wrong”
“You’re on Indian lands under a made-up law
Leaving nothing behind but an ugly scar
Lining your pockets with profits never higher
You say all is fair and I say you’re a liar”
Bobby Joe knew it was a case he couldn’t win
But he also knew he had to try
No one would fight for the poor Indian
No one could hear the Great Spirit cry
While in court he unveiled all their lies
Then at night he would sleep with their wives
He was losing his case on legal terms
But news reports made executives squirm
When they found Bobby Joe full of bullet holes
Suspects, they had an awful lot
By a jealous husband or a forlorn wife
Or an executive hit man he was shot
The case was closed with no arrests made
Everyone was glad that he was gone
American greed won again that day
Writing a tragic end to this hero's song
Written: July 30th, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Seth Pina
*********
Your very skeleton
is not spun from cotton and polyester.
No, it is not carved from wood,
nor forged from metal or steel.
Its substance is—nerve endings,
tissue, and blood—
circulatory systems,
bound,
but not from woven fabric.
A lethal lotus languishes,
lamenting in its limbo,
crouched on bended knee.
A curved carcass, prostrate
beneath time’s passing wheel.
Its chalk-white bones
measure the slow decay,
where darkness lingers
in the hollow space within.
Cyborg of a cyber-skeleton.
Coiled with a steel-stitch
sprocket of subjugation.
Its spinal cord, bound in circuitry,
hums with sorrow.
A crestfallen cranium,
a heavy, hollowed
moon-orb weighed down
by the gravity of grief
in synthesized solitude.
Amidst this woeful wheel,
supplications of skinless steel
fuse forgotten fragility and fortitude
into a fatalistic future.
For you were neither tool nor tree,
but a tight-furled tapestry of flesh—
a weeping engine, bound in bone,
where the wild pulse fights the gear,
and slowly fades to rust.