Long Sweatpants Poems
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Cartilage Cartridge Carthage
Spread my skin around your city limits
And sow these Dragon Teeth to reap my heart
Apple red lace, apple sweet lips, apple techie, apple allergy
Let's play Adam and Eve and make faces at the devil, because we own this Tree
My fingers plow the earth and pluck your laughter off of autumn branches made of purple ties and navy sweatpants,
water the butterfly's palm with these kisses and tether the sun to the pier so you can light up the day and night at
once.
Where I might somewhere be speaking birds out of my mouth, I'd much rather here have this butterfly land on my
lips and silence my.
She slips on her sweatpants then heads towards the door
over to the gym to exercise, bodily atonement just so
Diner reservations are at eight there is still so much to do
before meeting him in her silk red dress and Reveling smile
At the makeup counter she chooses a vigorous Opium scent
with two dreamy eyes she pays the lady then walks out
Unbeknownst,... her sweetheart is perusing the glass case for
a diamond ring. He is ready to dive right in for the sake of love
A gentleman across from him snaps the velvet case shut
son there is a reason why they call it, " The Sweat Shop"
He wipes a brow, "I think she's worth it" he says with fieriness
then he arrives early to place the ring beneath a damask cloth;
Chopin plays on as he gazes in her eyes of tinkling glass
he holds out the ring, " Will You Marry Me" he whispers
as the world falls away for a moment, for a second, for a day
two lovers kiss in a booth that smells like roses and wine.
By: Mystic Rose / Feb. 10, 2022
Sponsor Kai Michael Neumann
Contest Name The Sweat Shop
Argh, I Ne'er Got Got Bran Did With...
A Muffin Top Before - Why Now!?
Impossible firm he (reed myth self)
to compete with Adonis, no way no chance
asthma gut busts over
waistband of sweatpants,
the choice couture,
asper this poet, who kant's
cease spewing regularly
(quotidian) raves and rants
years ago (another lifetime),
I partook of contra dance
sing, (and most casual suitable
place to find romance)
plus burn calories matter of fact,
a milieu to buff and enhance
physique, while simultaneously
kibitizing with great expanse
of pleasant gals and guys
one must not be afraid to prance
(albeit in accordance
with a caller on stage,
and maintain endurance)
synonymous with aerobic exercise,
and also act flirtatiously amorously glance
sing and/or stealing a French fried
kiss, yup dashing all
the way out to France,
yet returning just in time and proper,
or improper instance
all the while sustaining
the energetic activity over expanse
of a few hours (traditionally
held on Thursday evenings)
and for that block of time held in a trance,
asper...analogous to
spellbinding arrow or lance
suspended part way thru flight,
cuz all troubles troubles
temporarily melt away
which venue mentioned,
which small number of bucks one did pay
to participate among mine weekly highpoint,
where life liberty, and pursuit of happiness
which place this then akin to a cray
zee lee whirling dervish, did pine
to spruced himself up, and ready to hay
for four, thus sped without delay
this bag of lovely bones hapt tubby
more more trim, unlike
less physically fit body of today,
and scant finances find me find
foregoing joyfully
listening to musicians play
and healthily exhausted
with closing waltz,
thence out tummy car
yours truly did sashay!
No! The blue jeans screamed. We do not stretch that far!
The people driving by began laughing it up in the car.
They had seen the old woman who had eaten a moon and a star.
She waddled into the house clutching a huge candy bar.
Please no! The blue jeans screamed as she sat on the bed.
She pulled off her sweatpants and swiveled her head.
I bet these blue jeans will not split she said to her man.
He dared not even look as the jeans’ torment began.
She slid them to her knees, but they would not go over.
Come lick my legs a bit, she suggested to her good dog Rover.
She tried the best she could, but she could not get them up.
Guess we will not split today! One leg said to the pup.
Oh hi me hence to the laundromat
Bearing many a malodorous sock
As ofttimes a shepherd will boldly go
To the babbling brook where the clear waters flow
With a line of the wooliest beasties in tow
(Or sometimes merely formed up in a row)
Which comprise his caprinaerious flock
A football jersey, meant for sport
Relegated now to work
A dozen holed and yellowed shorts
Which in a dank corner lurk
Some threadbare jeans and faded tees
A brace of sweatpants lacking knees
And a woolen sweater, rife with fleas
I find I must transport
As manly heart anticipates the finding of a laundromat queen
Perhaps a Vida Guerra clone
Or Jennifer Lawrence all alone
Or Charlotte McKinney, sans cell phone*
But it doesn't seem to be my day, none such are here, I ween.
When it comes to laundromatic love it seems I am quite out of luck,
For the only lass who toils within
Sports globular frame and trebular chin
And more body hair than Rin Tin Tin
Much like Rosanne Barr with a silly grin, had her face impacted a truck.
*So she can't call for help.
The relay race starts with a bang as rain comes pouring down.
The starting runner, Spring, flies by in her bright flower crown.
Baton gets passed to Summer, who so glowingly appears
right at the very moment that the massive rain cloud clears.
The crowd all loves this golden runner, who too soon is gone.
The sun shines brightly on her as she passes the baton.
The third one, Autumn, plods through leaves and nearly takes a Fall,
then passes off to Winter, who proceeds at such a crawl -
for she showed up in sweatpants, knowing snow had been forecast.
Each spectator cheers loudly when the finish line is passed.
But when that race is over, then a new one's soon begun
with all the fans excited to see how THAT race is run!
I'm sitting like a fat gray cat in the sun,
watching my forest gently dance,
The wind is barely breezing,
The bird songs are the only sounds
I hear except for the running water
of my fountain and my wheezing.
I have cut my newest homemade pirate
shirt a bit too low. Yes you can see my navel if
you care to look around.
I have to cut a sweatshirt and sweatpants
into pirate gear at least once a year. More if
one pair is not quickly found.
I love being nature-loving, dog-hugging, cat-sneezing, wild woman who is secretly a pirate too, anyway it was a secret until a few seconds ago. But you won't tell, right?
NLDHCS Wild Woman ruthlessly hacks sleeves and hems off pants and tops, cutting pirate strips without a measuring tape or ruler in sight.
I am a female Peter Pan, ruthlessly stalking my prey, on school-less days like today. A crazed, demented, energetic pirate wanna-be who follows rules, naught.
Rules are for accountants, police officers, Marines, prison guards, bankers, race car drivers, and maybe the Air Force, not for NLDHCS Wild Women, you sot!
I am wearing my wild woman pirate necklace today too, it's big and bold and black, and has lots of sass.
It's a caricature of a fierce warrior woman holding a giant silver sword, and a shield, and she'll put you on your ______. (You put it in, I'm much too demure).
We've got this today, Women.
We've got this!
The grandkids are heading to sleepaway camp,
Their clothing all labeled and packed,
Plus all of the extras they may or not need -
Way too much, as a matter of fact.
They bring pillows and blankets and flashlights and fans
And shin guards and sandals and cleats
And towels and bug spray and sunscreen and stamps
And shampoo, toothbrush, toothpaste and sheets.
They need rain gear and sleeping bags, books and canteens,
A laundry bag, backpack and socks,
Plus sweatshirts and jackets and underwear (lots!)
And their sneakers and rain boots and Crocs.
Of course there are bathing suits, t-shirts and shorts
And sweatpants and PJ’s and fleece,
But there are no iPads or Switches or phones
So some wonders, I guess, never cease.
The days spent at camp will fly quickly until
All that stuff gets repacked to go home,
With some missing or ruined or filthy, but that
Is a topic for some future poem.
In the airport, there’s nothing to do.
But they’re taking off at once.
I didn’t decide to.
The luggage just appeared.
My feet almost got chewed off.
But I started my poem just in time.
I decided to feel the vibes of the day.
But then a bee flew by and I forgot.
You should write things.
Sometimes you can forget how to read.
So you don’t for a while.
Stare at the lines on the paper.
They are not words, just the helpers.
Or throw everything away, who cares.
Throw away those old sweatpants.
And maybe that will inspire me.
Capitalize That.
And This And Them Too!
Write a bit each day.
Then I take my notebook out.
And eat it all at once.
Pajamas or nightgowns, to me, are to keep
People cozy and comfortable while they’re asleep.
When sheltering-in or on weekends before
Getting dressed needn’t be all that much of a chore.
For even just changing to sweatpants and tees
Makes things seem so much better, by more than degrees.
I feel much the same way about making the bed
Since not doing so can make despondency spread.
Though many may argue they do the same job
And both PJ’s and sweats make one look like a slob,
It’s psychology playing a sweet little trick
For pajamas in daylight make one appear sick.
In our homes, we’re in charge, so we wear what we choose
And if challenged to dress, we can flat-out refuse
But you’ll never find me in my sleeping attire
Past the morning, unless the apartment’s on fire!