Long Skirts Poems
Long Skirts Poems. Below are the most popular long Skirts by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Skirts poems by poem length and keyword.
Standing cynical and numb on the cliffside, watching the waves flow, tumble, then crash up against the jagged rocks below.
Little bubbles of sea foam pop and crackle as they slide across the rocky beach shore.
The water ebbs back again to repeat the cycle; it goes back home just to be pushed out again
The salty sea breeze catches your loose hair,
just a few strands at first,
just enough to feel… something,
just enough to remind you something is there.
Before long, the wind picks up
and tosses your unbounded hair around in swirling gusts of unbridled resilience,
to get an easier path to whisper sweet nothings into your ear,
promising flight and unwavering freedom,
promising serenity found in the unending horizon,
promising harmony and complete wholeness.
The wind understands.
The wind empathizes with your pain.
The wind draws thin comforting fingers across your cheek
and breathes compassionate vows into your restless soul.
“The wind understands,” it promises.
You look down in shame, knowing no one is to be trusted enough to believe such things.
“Just come with me, my meek child. All will be well.”
The wind tempts as it brushes your hair behind your ear.
The wind runs down your neck, ruffles your dress, and spreads your arms wide as the wings of the gulls over your head.
The wind slips down your sleeve to billow your skirts.
The wind beguiles you closer to the cliff’s edge,
“To get a better feel of the openness around you,” the wind assures.
and in the moment the wind runs through your fingers,
you feel enough of the sky that for a moment you believe the whispering wind siren.
You finally let go and let the breeze sweep you up,
lifting you into the vast sky.
You embrace the promised freedom and smile at every peaceful whip of wind
right before you are thrown into the sea
and the awaiting rocks.
Alright then
It was peace in the valley, a deep harmony of those
who had fled the air of a town´s inequity?
Then there was an avalanche of thoughts which caused confusion
when it settled, a gramophone voice from 1930 sweetly sang
“I love you, yes I do, my darling.”
Back then, singers appeared in suits or long skirts.
Now it is about tight trousers and ****, never mind the song.
female singer elicit sympathy telling of an abused childhood
The men, do tell, of poverty before they made it to fame.
Tomorrow the peace will be broken by shooting, hunters
will fill the valley and bath it with blood lust.
The avalanche has blocked the road where we used to bath
I accept that and find a puddle to wade in.
should I get tired can find a folding chair
and play my turntable and hum along with the old tunes.
The boys sat on the bridge, dangled legs above the water,
a tractor crossing that lifts and rattles, loosely laid with sleepers,
rut tracks between the marshy fields as rough wheels slowly pass,
crossed with bankside bullrushed dikes and scattered lonely sheep,
dagged bottoms up, all black heads down,white teeth to wetted grass.
Fifty’s cotton printed frock skirts mother’s seated lap.
Her hair is tightly bunched and tied in cotton farm scarf wrap.
Her arms enfold and hold me there, as I am quietly sat.
The boys are pulling tiddlers, quick flashing in the sun.
Excited shrieks and sudden shouts drift down the weedy dike.
I see their makeshift rods and lines pull fish up one by one.
I hold my cane with cotton thread and watch my bobbing cork,
and wonder why the boys have fish, and why this boy has none.
Uncle made the fishing gear, made safe for one so young.
Uncle made the fishing gear and thought it would be fun,
so hook and bait were missing, for safety, there was none.
It's the girls night out
at the local country bar.
This time we'll have to try
not to go too far.
We'll have no more
than seven shooters each,
And no more standing on the table
giving a slightly slurred speech.
On with our cowboy boots
and skirts a bit too short
To entice a dance partner,
a cowboy is a good sport.
We'll try and talk the band
into playing our favourite tune
And sing along like coyotes
howling at the moon.
We'll dance a few, and sing a few,
then maybe a few more.
We won't start a fight like Friday night
and get escorted to the door.
It's all in fun, we're just kids at heart,
going out to play.
It's time to unwind and let down our hair,
after all we've worked all day.
There's karaoke and two-stepping
and flirting with the guys
And telling stories, some of them true,
most of them little white lies.
We don't do this nearly enough,
at least that's what we think.
So here's to us, the local cowgirls,
now would someone buy us a drink.
Baseball cards and hula hoops
Baloney sandwich, Campbell’s soup
Howdy Doody and Mickey Mouse
Mamie and Ike in the White House
American Bandstand, Rock 'n Roll
Elvis the Pelvis, Nat King Cole
Pez Dispensers and Kool-Aid
Bedtime for Bonzo, Panty Raids
Oscar Mayer’s Wienermobile
Superman was the ‘Man of Steel’
Archie & Veronica, Mad Magazine
Skirts and Bobby-Sox, Jukebox Scenes
The Roadrunner, Tom and Jerry
Durward Kirby and a Moore named Gary
The Price is Right, Let’s Make a Deal
Hostess Twinkies – b & w newsreels
A Dog named Lassie and Rin Tin Tin
Yankees and Celtics always win
Mickey Mantle, Ernie Banks
Whitey Ford, Hammerin' Hank
Joe McCarthy and the Red Scare
Semi-Crewcuts or Slicked-back hair
The 1950’s weren’t built to last
Still and all ~ quite a cast!
Just me and mine shadow doth blog
passivity, the path of least resistance oh my dog,
an emphatic YES,
a legitimately valid reason and rhyme to flog
yours truly (figurative emasculation),
thee catchword to hog
immediate attention,
see above named poem title
the best idea to expound upon,
while attempting creative juices to jog
all mein kampf, I felt like a bump on a log
please... don't be hesitant
to identify me as a nog
one aging long haired pencil neck geek
never reached maturity forever a pollywog.
More clearly, plainly and succinctly
one sniveling poor excuse for masculinity,
I continually experience
unrepentant (unforgivable) humility,
hence lame justification
Matthew Scott sought adultery,
which unwise choice attempted
(pun intended) to fill a void
sexual propensity linkedin with precepts
attributed to Sigmund Freud,
though skepticism skirts
barenaked lady hardcore psychoanalysis
downplayed or Oedipus complex
shrugged off (heavier imposition
versus Atlas) fails to bridge any mettle alloyed
within me psyche.
Absent healthy teenage
dating experiences, think tryst
I yearned, trended then
regretted handy dandy wrist
took rat tick antics subsequently,
and compromised spawning prurient dalliances,
hence understandably missed
(until death do me part)
doting upon then young daughters,
rightfully thee eldest one
(born 12/22/1996) still pissed
at primal, gonadal, and brutal predilections
now... finding very little reason to exist
matter of fact I dreamt
(earlier today June twenty seventh
two thousand and twenty), the gist
regarding harming self
Covenant
Barren, brown and dust,
The vast horizon line pushes on a meandering sky
Pulling away from desert’s still and lifeless form
Where life itself only dreams above this land devoid
Of earth’s abundant blessing,
Cheated of the ample bounty held within her skirts;
The endless waste appears to speak,
In its eternal void, of sin, so great,
Creator’s hand swept away all living things from its face
To mourn in everlasting time the life now gone –
The barren womb cries out for life to return
To devastated hills, to prairie plains as
This wasteland changeless lies
Through summer heat and winter rest,
Through autumn change, but does not change
Except to remain the constant brown,
Despairing emptiness of sage
Through which the racing wind
Rattles desert’s bones and chills
The blowing sands unending dance.
Dance, O desert,
In your plaintive waltz,
The vision of creation’s plan
Lives deep within your beating heart,
Not damned, but blessed,
Living out the fullest vow
To guide the promise overseeing
Dawn ascending from oblivion
Like Spring –
To blossom, to survive in sage and desert blooms
That seek to reach their fullest height,
The fragile flower fulfills its destiny
To grow above hostility,
Witness of the bond between infinity
And the enduring spark reborn within the restive voice
Breathing vigor into the ever borning essence of this land –
Life’s signature complete, rising up from the desert’s will,
Springing from cold desolation’s womb,
Beacons in the endless wilderness,
To join the hand of genesis to life’s inheritance.
I feel as if I could see — is it shock?
The wind from the flying skirts hit my face.
Music starts getting louder; the walls rock.
Within all the people, I feel my trace.
Warm skin on mine, every touch feels like fire.
I'm standing high, like the moon over the room.
My dancing legs calling my blind eyes liar.
People keep looking at me while I bloom.
I don't need to see as long as I feel.
Why even try to cry if there's no eye?
Bodies tickling, spinning around like wheels.
I know for sure tonight won't break the heel.
It's a feeling through moves that never stop.
If your eyesight goes, you'll still see a lot.
In the 1950’s we thought we were so modern, so sophisticated, so posh.
When Barbie came out, she was the rage, and we little girls thought we were ready by gosh.
Goodbye Vargas pinup girls, good bye hoop skirts, and Betty Boop. Some of us would confer.
A 1950’s art peek might amaze you as to how into space travel we were.
The ones who were in style so to speak, we decorated with abstracts, big and bold.
Moms carefully steered clear of the nature colors of our grandmothers, they seemed way too old.
These colors came back into style about twenty years ago, full force and all.
To jog your memory bank, look at the ads of your childhood. They are a wake up call.
Fighting to stay hungry for life,
In darkness,
Chains cutting through gang green brown black skin,
The smell of death choking from without,
The sound of fury raging deep within,
Fighting to keep master’s hands off their back,
Fighting to keep their skirts from off the ground,
Fighting to hide the baby’s color from dejected and angry housemates,
Fighting to avoid wrath,
“Woman where’s my dinner”
“Woman I’m a get my belt!”
“Woman you’re just a low down, dirty ______”
“Woman if you don’t, if you don’t, if you don’t!”
Fighting to live on child support,
Fighting the temptation to sell bodies for bread,
Fighting the smell of death choking from without,
The sound of fury raging deep within,
Women in Darkness,
Fighting,
My Great great grandmother, her mother, and her mother.
Fighting dark in darkness,
Raging for a new tomorrow.