Long Singlet Poems
Long Singlet Poems. Below are the most popular long Singlet by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Singlet poems by poem length and keyword.
Males have always made it easy for me to veto
either by words or actions or both.
You started so altruistic and added a brainless flare,
I’ve never imagined one on goggles with such virility
with books and tie, making his swagger uniquely swanky.
This dissertation will prove interesting and worthy
as you plant in my isolated garden,
so many Chamomiles and exotic plants
making me forget the number of times
my emotions have been subjected to an Ambulance.
Your shawama description
blew up a vehicle from my laughter
yet flows with sincerity, grace and caliber.
You, on sweaty tight singlet
and pelvic hugging boxers, on the other hand
presents like a delicious volauvent.
Your heart speaks innocently
in a thick romantic brogue.
I’ve enjoyed the words coming out of it
which are more than mere blandishments.
I’ll hold onto them and carry your actions
like a gold-plated Candelabra.
My heart is in great amity with yours
and its acceptance, totally of its own volition
despite my ‘Yes’ being a cataclysmic event.
I’ve long signed the blank cheque
already hoping for ante-natal sessions by your own doing.
Five in the morning
storm rumbles in distance
balmy, sweaty, thirsty
in the half light of dawn
I grab some shorts
from the work clothes draw
slip them on and a singlet
down some water
birds sing, crickets harmonize
When I fill another glass of water
I think something is odd
with these shorts
some big, hairy spider legs
protrude out from there
big huntsman up the left leg
goes back up to hide
I am awake now
I am sweating now
Thinking what best to do
I shake the leg a bit
feel the spider move around
my leg........
eventually it dropped
to the ground and disappeared
under the wardrobe
and I really am awake now.
She wore a singlet and a tutu,
Ballet pumps and slide in hair
And she practiced rigorously
With concentrated care;
But frankly her dancing skill
Was rather one of dross,
Her Dying Swan resembling
More of a drunken Albatross.
Then she met a Bull Fighter
Standing in the Barnsley rain
Cursing under his breath
That ever he left Spain.
Now they thrill discerning
Audiences every single night,
She in her ballet gear,
He in his Suit of Light.
With the big guitar playing
The mood is never dull
As they dance the Dying Swan
Being gored by the Bull,
And to rapturous applause
They restrict the encore
By repeating the performance
To just one time more.
Other projects are being planned
When they get time to rehearse;
Maybe dancing to the drum
Accompanied by spoken verse.
Oh it’s an exciting time
With no more Barnsley rain.
Operations have been moved
To a sunny Southern Spain.
For far shires beyond the western red sun
I’m leaving the Land of the Long White Cloud -
to journey across the red and blue horizon
where cockatoos in bloodwoods sing aloud.
Tainui, that great waka in the sky -
the flight of the Koru carrying me
into the far orbits seven miles high
at altitude above the Tasman Sea.
Trading in my black singlet and swanndri
for a swag and a croc tooth akubra,
so hoo-roo Long Bay and gidday Bondi
where blokes drink Bundy Rum, not Coruba!
Thus here I am a skyrider who flew
on the wings of Tainui back to you.
And on its metallic longrider wing
I gazed the moon and stars, the setting sun.
No man has seen a more glorious thing
and for me no greater journey begun!
Leaving a world where reality bites
for the Dreamtime People’s great southern land -
among outback bushies and cork hat urbanites
in the convict Land of the Long White Sand.
Trading in my black singlet and swanndri
for a swag and a croc tooth akubra,
so hoo-roo Long Bay and gidday Bondi
where blokes drink Bundy Rum, not Coruba!
Thus here I am a skyrider who flew
on the wings of Tainui back to you.
There I was lost to love's outcast curse,
to my fits of rage and ravage of woe -
to God in Heaven and demons on Earth
till the last flight from desolation row.
Now the Sunshine Coast is the life for me
in palisades and canals by the sea.
Written: July 1997
A brownie slid slowly, no rustle, no noise,
Slid slowly, through the front door.
Invisible to all, an imperceptible ghost,
Slid slowly across the room floor.
The dog barked, ferocious, and snapped,
At the nothing that was now in my sight.
I walked, obtuse, with a spade in my hand,
At the nothing, prepared for a fight.
The dog lowered, froze, no noise, not a thing,
Staring, ready, at the vintage farm bed.
And I stood poised to fire, erupt and explode,
Staring, ready, to chop off its head.
I stood bare foot with a singlet on top,
And I knew I was maybe too drunk.
I felt still, an odd calm, when it shot at my leg,
And I severed its head from its trunk.
A brownie slid slowly, no rustle, no noise,
In my farm house, to meet its new fate.
That night was a lovely cooking experience,
In my farm house, browned snake on a plate.
TATTOO DEPORTATION
I’d almost forgotten that damned tattoo
A small symbol that years ago, I had got
It was a couple of lads, drunk on vacation
The tattooist did it in red on my shoulder
I’m a bit embarrassed now that I am older
Its meaning, I never heard any explanation
Just that for a day or two, my skin felt hot
It’s small and discreet, so what should I do
The symbol meant almost nothing to me
A kind of squiggly letter, kind of Arabic
Yet I thought nothing of it at immigration
But wearing a singlet vest it was on display
The guy scowled and others took me away
I tried to plead ignorance, I wasn’t Haitian
Yet cuffed, I got scared and felt quite sick
Marched off to an office, no longer free
It was a nightmare that lasted several days
They kept pointing at the symbol, annoyed
It appeared to be a sign of local rebel group
And plaintively, ever insisting I knew zero
Perhaps they thought I was the group hero
I was sweaty, trying to jump through a hoop
Thinking of damaging phrases I had to avoid
And all the time under the guy’s steely gaze
Finally, with no answers given, I was spared
Hustled back to a plane, to be headed home
By now, there was some local press interest
I looked up that symbol and found the link
But it was not quite what others may think
I was keeping silent, as I just thought it best
As my world had turned into monochrome
With it now erased, well, I no longer cared
My fingers ache—
muscles weary, spent, and sore.
Sweat soaks through my singlet.
Eyes grow heavy, begging for sleep,
to repay seventy-two hours denied.
Yet each piece I write ends in his bin.
The sponsor never seems to tire
of casting them away with mean regards—
a cross my restless heart must bear.
Would it not be better to run the race
on a track,
not behind a screen?
I could have run twenty-seven miles
in under two hours—breaking the record—
instead of these seventy-two with no glory.
There’s a method, even, in this my madness:
twenty-seven contests in a row,
each confined to forty-two lines,
echoing kilometers run on marathon tracks.
Yet my ink has dried, my paper stays blank.
I restrain my heartache deep within,
lest it spill its ache across my face,
where anger and disillusionment dwell,
hidden beneath facial creams and wry smiles,
till after work removes their weary veils.
Each day, each burdened weekday,
and each weekend, each joyless weekend,
I do my laundry, eat my meals,
beside the stubborn silence of this paper—
still waiting for its first word.
So tonight, I beg you, Sleep:
take away this sleeplessness.
For poems are better written in dreams.
Leave me there till I craft a masterpiece—
one no sponsor could ever deny of glory.
Unseasonal
Leaves shuffle on their stems
fall onto ones which fell before
not yet a storm of Autumn tints
those will blaze in a month
these are an early shedding host
that leave before the cold appears
in months of heat and sweaty brows
what signal do they heed
still green among the fallen fruit
now turning into soft brown dirt
as fresh shoots spring into the light
rosebuds plump in April sun
no hint of cooler nights to come
our evenings set to dine outside
with singlet days of Summer skies
this pleasure now declines
too long, too wet, too hot we cry
as humans always must complain
the tropics stretching south to us
our discomfort metres rise
none can say we’ve time to burn
or urge us spin the wheel and wait
the dial is set for our demise
for life to build a kinder race.
Today he resigned, he filled out his notice,
Today’s the day he departs,
Today’s the day he stops life like an adult,
And begins again, right from the start,
So he threw out his brief case, suede shoes and black suit,
Hung his restraint on the door,
And put on some shorts, torn singlet and boots,
And went on some crazy explore,
To burn some ants with a magnifying glass,
Then kick around the mud and the dirt,
He also went to spray paint some walls,
Getting paint all over his shirt.
Today’s the day he quit being adult,
His new life has now just begun,
Authority and burden of old adult life,
Replaced with fooling around, happy and fun.
I love a sunburnt Aussie bloke, with great big, muscled arms,
His rugged well-built shoulders, and face with all its charms.
I love his thongs and singlet too, and stubby shorts you see,
His beer gut proudly hanging out, he is the one for me,
I love his Aussie greeting way “‘G’day mate” when we meet
His laugh so loud, make no mistake, you’ll know him in the street.
I love the Aussie Sheila too, she’s really trim and taught.
Long legs, tight skirt, big bust, great smile, a real good-looking sort.
I love her when she’s on the beach, bikini clad real brown,
Or when she meets her friends for lunch, all dressed up for the town.
I love her friendly way she says “G’day mate” when we meet
Her laugh so loud, make now mistake you’ll know her in the street.
I love an Aussie BBQ, with lamb chops, snags, and steak
And ‘Big Red’ sauce, a loaf of bread, some salads we do make.
I love the Aussie breakfast time with Vegemite on toast
Or Sunday lunch no better that an Aussie dinkum roast.
I love our wine and spirits too, but best is Aussie beer
It’s Fosters, Gold or Tooheys Blue, you won’t find soft drink here.
I love our sport, we watch a lot, of course we are the best,
We’re always fair, we understand, just better than the rest.
I love the Aussie rules we play, that’s football, not ping pong
And how the crowds call out real loud if the umpie gets it wrong.
I love the summer tennis too; it’s watched by young and old
Or a cricket match the Aussie way, dressed in the green and gold.
I love our patriotic style, the anthem that is sung
‘Advance Australia Fair’ I think, don’t know the words just hum.
I love our multi-cultural race, from lands quite near and far,
As a nation proud we do stand because that is who we are.
I love the freedom that we have, our wide brown land to roam
This place we call Australia; this place we call our home.