Long Trousers Poems
Long Trousers Poems. Below are the most popular long Trousers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Trousers poems by poem length and keyword.
WHEN RELIGION BECOMES
YOUR OPIUM
When religion becomes your
opium you slip into icy pre-dawn
to mosque then lie in fever flu
at dusk as bilal calls again
for you to stumble towards
beckoning forefinger guilt
chalices cringing crying
You chant morning to night
wrapped in dirty linen blights
mantras channelled centuries
ago resin rosary threadbare
kitabs torn, curtains undrawn
biscuits crumbled alongside
salted slippers prayer coats
ghostly watch blustery blinkers
Your heart remains judgement
tight with rusty mental railway
lines unbuckled only to fight
canaries flown from stilted
cages wire worn walls
cracking ceilings catalysing
You speak in unremitting
riddles try not to scream
at dismal doors knitted beard
knotted knives of seamen
gambles enticing lovers of
yesteryear who remain
embedded in elbow joints
as you catch rain in
buckets of shame
You refuse to let in visions
of New Earth as this opium
mix targets rude roaring fire
planets in unrelenting fear
colour remains brown black
tinges of diseased blood
slowly trickle teary
tattered trousers torn
This drug is an only taste
angels fly past in haste
fezzes stuck on mothy mat
knows no soapy skyline sighs
underpinned by judgement
made in desert ritual fears
God knows no such forlorn
framed jibbas or jibe jihads
Opium can open too
tunnels into tortoiseshell
havens of heather or healing
hearths when heart is given
a hexagon hello helix
headwaters can heady rush
or opium can merely remain
the sniffing powder in
your box
©GhairoDanielsPoetry&
Song2016
bomber jacket, dark glasses
blown out hair,
faded jeans that fit me slim,
brown leather belt and shoes,
a dangling cigarette between lips,
is how I would fancy look!
Reality is something else,
and what I look is more like this…
A T shirt straight out of wash,
never seen the underside of iron,
crumpled to show how the machine spins!
trousers broad fit that struggle to stay
at the waist, with a belt that fails to grip,
the colours of these never match,
and the shoes are ones that were
quick to reach, and the result is a
riot of disagreeable colours!
who cares!!! That is me!
When I walk, my wife walks with me
separated by a hundred feet,
with her impeccable attire that
compliments every fraction of her,
with lipsticks to match!!
Style of clothing do not make a man
but they seem to make a woman!
Reality of life is mismatch of things,
that we learn to love and to live with!
That is why we have been married years!!
our distances in clothes is bridged by
our deep understanding and love for
each other! And when this love really
gets to work- we often discard our clothing!!
Life is so short
But you wear trousers a blazer and a tie
You make money and drive by
Watch the news you are sad some random people died
You are still too important to die
You have a dream to keep you alive
And god to count you more breaths than time
Because those that died didn't have your tie
4 billion years ago the world was made
not even a fraction ago and man was made
And now the world is a man made drain
The beauty and the pain
Global warming and a mattress
But still you cannot cure death
Through the generations alive
Billions have cried then died
To the future we all are dead
To your children they mourn at your grave
A skull on a flag a cemetery on a map
The beauty of death made art
I know its not normal to think about death
But death is normal even in perfect health
The truism that we all gonna die
And every birthday a countdown to the grave
Second by minute by inch till it's six feet under their feet
It is sad to watch the world go by
Celebrating life just to forget we are dead
In a thousand years your life wont mean much
But thank God you got kids and the kids got kids
Because as long man still exists
We achieve a species dream
To die for man to keep living
Open link for Audio exclusives
https://soundcloud.com/moses-c-chach
It was one stop on the highway
along a long desert road.
Billy said, “wake up”.
I thought it was some kind of code.
I stumbled out
into the sun's glare;
if there was an answer
I didn't see it out there.
I shucked down my trousers
and pissed in the sink
all the while thinkin'
I could sure use a drink.
A lizard was climbing
the wall to my right
and I almost remembered
a scene from last night...
but then Billy knocked
on that cheap paneled door
and that sweet memory
wasn't there any more.
I walked back outside...
collapsed in my seat...
Joe pushed the pedal
and I fell back to sleep.
~ IN THE STYLE OF NICANOR PARRA ~
I write as my heart dances or cries
whatever I like whenever I want
______as crinkled leaves fall from trees
undressing twigs for winter’s battering
only to dress up again in pink
blossom
sap lubricating lips
I write anything
I want to breathe again
words shower from clouds
form as homes when I’m cold and hungry
unsheath when window panes
suit me not ….to fly forever and away
it is only that my veins need to run clear
and joints not creak when oil is sparse
may my poems strip all pretence
all contest…all division
poetry and physics
embracing where existentialism floats above our heads
so we may root flesh in ground
and a l l eat bread fresh
So let my verses trigger or
soothe as cream we sometimes lick
soles still touch loose sand grains
wrinkled skin blemished by dark of turmoil
or knots or waiting _______
run on lines with ancestral winks through seas
docks, spaces, ages, blotches, steps
— —+++ to jam sandwiches
I seek no pomposity or accolades
let them fly on raven’s gloss
I greet you always in the name of the unelite the unpoetic who trample sidewalks
barefoot poets
splotches in air….. sun damaged
with alphabets singing far or near
let each poem hasten unpretense
hail margins of cities, farmyards
where aged and hungry hold back the waters of tomorrow
sucking seconds of time in threadbare
trousers
take it or leave it …
so may all despair swallow this poem
my care sleeps now
Morning burns the sunlight out of the scene, and I am still struggling to recover my dreams, morning spill mud on the withered grass and you’re hopping from place to place trying to shelter the displaced human race. How nice it would be if we had a home by the sea where sea water filters in air and saturate the tormenting human desires.
The promise that was never kept was the gateway to my ultimate dream, and you destroy that promise when you came on the scene. The promise was made before I was born to build a palace for me on the foreign lawn, a palace where no king or queen lives, but where truth and love have the power to forgive. The palace is supposed to be me to live in complete harmony, sustain good health and longevity and spread love and peace throughout the four corners of the earth.
You promised to build a vineyard for me that run from the bottom to the top of the rocky mountain and build cabins where visitors can stop. You promise to ship tons of grapes every year and use the proceeds to build affordable houses everywhere, but the promise was never kept, and it strangled the universe to death and left me grasping for breath.
You promise to meet with me every year, but you are scared to death to fly in the air; you take long journey by sea, to move to and from your destiny, but someone is still waiting at the airport for thee. You promise this and you promise that and you even promise your trousers and your frock but never deliver what you have got.
You have never built the village on the block, and the people are still wandering around without socks. Every cycle your promises mount up to the air, and it causes the people to fear, not one of them came through and the people are still walking in threadbare shoes.
Walk with me to the village square and let me show you what is going on there; you have promised to meet the people there, but you never show up and the people are in constant fuss. Promises made promises kept will map out a stable framework and keep the vision alive and the nation will survive.
Year 1488
Daring to hide it in verses and score,
Ursula Shipton predicted her scrolls would not be understood until years after her body’s release.
Read aloud by an educated nephew, almost five decades after they were protected by a family of peace.
She may have been burned at the stake for her predictions of America’s Civil War, simply for being a she.
Her prophesies included horseless carriages, and men’s future unfathomable plans to conquer both the sky and the sea.
Understanding that a metallic monster, would change education, and the menfolk from farms would flee.
Pictures that feel alive – computers, U-tube, I-pads, video and their predecessor – TV?
Mother predicted all this and more. Daring to hide it in verses and score,
Nostradamus had protection of patrons, medical background, sublime.
Ursula Shipton knew her predictions she had best write down in decipherable rhyme.
England’s most famous prophetess, born in Norfolk, England in 1488, she dared not share her fire. Prophesized that women would cut their hair short, and wear trousers, practically three hundred years prior.
When I think of her brilliance at hiding her mystical savvy, hiding psychic self in her moods,
Her declaration that “men will live as hogs” makes me smile, predicting processed foods?
London fire seeing before the fact, she knew of the Catholic Church’s fall, the rise of Elizabeth,
Me thinks a comet is coming that will circle the earth for six days, six nights, causing us instant death.
A homely woman, she may have been, but her ideas were sound, as they came right in.
Daring to hide it in verses and score, Prophetess Ursula Shipton, forevermore!
I met a young woman from the middle east
She asked me to walk her to town,
and took my arm.
She felt good, smelt nice
auburn hair, white jacket and trousers,
crisp cotton, studded with gemstones.
We walked through an indoor market.
It sold Moroccan lamps, gifts, cushions
there was a dining area in the centre, with pale blue
table cloths and dark blue candle holders, flickering.
I bought her a tiny white wooden cage with little pigs in,
all different colours. She said it reminded her of college.
The saleswoman frowned at my five pound note, since
the gift cost only 97p, but handed me the bag.
The young woman opened it,
and found inside a black silk lizard,
and she could feel the little pigs inside.
So I took it back and changed it.
We walked with my arm around her
her jacket was short, and my fingertips
rested on her bare waist.
I left her at the pub.
She never turned to me, just continued walking,
now dressed in black
but she left me a gift
she made me young.
I walked out with all of the other women's eyes following me
and then I awoke.
And I felt so sad.
I must drink whisky more often
If a dog is stopped from pooping, is he DEtured?
Has your hair all of a sudden been DEparted?
Donald Duck's pay cheque was once DEducted
To get a seat at a concert, do you ever use DEceit?
Have you ever seen a tree DEbark?
If you spit out an apple pie, do you DEssert?
Do your trousers ever get DEpressed?
Do skirts sometimes get DEpleted?
If a cop tears up your ticket, does he actually DEfine
Can locomotive engineer's mind get DErailed?
Do first nation peoples live by DEcree?
When a painter farts, do they imitate DEgas?
If you try and fail, do you DEcant?
The lowest card in a deck is a two, I DEduce
If a dog gives you a tiny bite, is that called a DEbit?
By a clear mountain stream an enchantress sat skywriting,
her bracelets seemed to jangle a melody as her arms moved.
The wind stopped blowing lest the clouds corrupt her work.
The knight, dressed in black, wore a mask and intended damage.
His knife was clenched between his teeth, as he moved noiselessly closer
- breathing shallowly for stealth.
The birds suddenly stopped chirping. “Go home boy,” the enchantress whispered.
The knight blinked and froze but the enchantress did not look around.
She pulled a half-penny from a pouch, kissed it, and lobbed it into the stream.
The knight went from certain to vague - he sheathed his knife and wiped his lips.
“Come, drink.” the minx motioned to the stream.
As he sipped water from his cupped hands the beautiful woman
said, “Your love will bear you two sons if you’re home before dark.”
The knight wiped his hands on his trousers - nodded - and ran for his horse.
The enchantress smiled to herself as she finished her unearthly poem.