Long Vests Poems
Long Vests Poems. Below are the most popular long Vests by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Vests poems by poem length and keyword.
Swept from the ballroom romances
She glides in search of serenity
Never did she wonder about the passions
Beyond the borders of the heart..
She could see through the sky scrapers
The rock music and the fake tattoos..
She could smell the flavors sweeter
Than the roses from the flower shop at the corner;
Brown boots, vests, jeans and a
Checkered shirt was all she had..
All she needed...
It was her and the bloody world
Competing for peace.
ONE STEP FORWARD:
The deep craters were majestic,
She could soar high, without directions,
She closed her eyes for perfect darkness;
She won; the smile was unavoidable..
Standing before the microphone,
blank faces stare from cushioned chairs
Jewels sparkle, acting like they’re real,
while bow ties just seem sad…it happens
Marching to the beat of clicking heels,
unbuttoned vests as strange eclipsed spotlights
illumine smoke swirls in overhead rafters
flowing from my ember’d fingertips
And my hair is a mess…but it always is
and I don’t care…do you?
I’d clear my throat but that does no good,
gravel has taken up residence…it pays the rent
The room goes dim, the audience worries
Glares spark like steel on asphalt
I can see them clear, slowly fading in anxious doubt
My mind scratches some ink in dusty thoughts…
I love you, I love everything that is you
Need surpasses desire, and I need
My arms long to cling you, crushed against me,
breathing as one, harmonious breath…dusty thoughts…they come
The bass player plucks and that is my cue,
flicking my ashes I begin to read…poetry
and the audience smiles…I am a poet and poetry is cool,
Leonard Cohen was right
The bayou sky flies a catfish moon over swamp gators
And cottonmouth vipers. Accordions, fiddles, and rub board vests
Make their ramble through the undergrowth hot on the trail
Of a sultry midsummer house party in Sweat Neck, Louisiana.
All the usual suspects are there. Sharkskin Slim doffs his topper
To Ruby and Rose - the Harlequin Twins. They curtsy in reply.
They came to town to show local folks how business gets done.
Fast Man is fresh from stabbing Satan in the back; same as before.
Snorkel-nose Nelson lays his blackjack on the table.
Pelican-neck LeBeau considers the odds and spits.
A honeysuckle breeze wafts across the terrace.
Eucalyptus, peppermint, and pine tar grace the veranda
Where Miss Bunny Bouche, in her famous lavender velour,
Garners attention from spy boys eying Cajun temptations
With considerably hardened intentions. Several teamsters
Just in from Shreveport dance lively while a claw hammer fiddler
Plays Tee Nah Nah. Essential words are suggested in the space
Between the jug and the mason jar. They speak of collard green
Creole rice served with crayfish in roux étouffée. The snap beans
Are sure enough salted. The shrimp gumbo is suitably spiced.
Sad Hannah sits off in the corner, her motives transparent
As parish politics. She’s been rumored to have dabbled
In arson crafts she’d learned at Magdalena’s Den of Sin,
But no one ever really pays her much mind.
She’s been deliberating the consequence of a life not lived,
And sees a glimmer of hope in the eye of a hurricane lamp.
Her chance of escaping obscurity erupts through the hall.
So now, it’s last call and damn it all, take a left at the crossroads,
And be sure to turn your mattress over when it’s time to climb downstairs.
And as for Hannah, sad Hannah, well, it’s either up Ladder Lane
Then down Hemp Alley, or else it’s just a lonely walk home.
Our church was old, brown, a block from downtown.
We could walk to Piper’s Candies from it, but Pipers was closed.
It was Sunday, in the fifties; everyone closed for church.
The people who came here were mostly women with kids.
Very few men, just single guys who wanted to get a woman.
I felt like most of these dudes were in their hundreds.
Men wore suits; women wore dresses. Girls were frilly.
Boys had on suits or vests, unless it was during Bible School.
Our shoes were polished, every Sunday. It was the law.
The same old women out-sang us from the choir loft every Sunday.
I did my best to out sing them, but they always won.
Our Sunday school teachers took it seriously.
We were there because there was no getting out of it.
Most of us were with Moms. Our fathers were doing other things.
The minister was about three hundred years old; I liked him though.
He always winked at me when I tried to out-sing the choir ladies.
Enter Your Plea
All rise for the honorable judge,
some pimply-faced wiener-teen
with a computer mouse for a gavel,
a keyboard for a bench
and the whole world is on trial.
Welcome to the millennial's millennium
1000 years of cyber-bullying
sworn over oath of the holy Facebook
to rain down judgment from above
like precision guided twitter turds.
Any minor misstep makes you a target,
bully-proof vests will spare no one
for Punk-tilious is his name
and ruthless forum flaming is his game
(well, it’s that or Flappy Bird.)
Let all give ear, as he doles
expert opinion on politics, science,
sociology, psychology, and every other –ology
from his sweat-stained easy chair
in his parent’s basement. OMG WUT!??
ORDER! Order in the court,
20 million likes and three times the shares,
a jury of my peers has found
me guilty of contempt…
perhaps rightly so!
07/19/15
Wearing whirls, swirls, paisley too.
A jazzy, snazzy, bell bottomed you.
Slinky hip huggers with large chunky belts in style.
White Go Go boots that never walk a country mile.
Faux fringed jackets, fake fur vests, tall high boots too.
Gypsy skirts with mismatched patterns of every hue.
Please let your belly button show, my dear.
Wear the tightest jeans to accent your rear.
As long as your jeans flare out as wide as a skirt
And drag along enticingly in Woodstock’s dirt.
Homemade embroidery on blouses, and dainty braids.
Unless you deem to do an Afro, beautifully made.
Tight mini-skirts that show off your thighs.
Nehru jackets with high necks are a prize.
Headbands made to match every outfit.
The 70’s was strutted. Don’t you doubt it!
Vietnam War in black and white, every night on TV
Burning bras seemed okay for everybody but me.
Hippies and flower children seemed pretty wild.
To me in the Midwest, pregnant with child.
Boot juiced abiding
by ruff dogma, with joie
de vivre, which oft times witnesses
me being a decoy
occasionally feigning
tubby an Anchorite, ahoy!
Life in the K9 corps
aint so ease zee
absolutely daunting, hence
lemme share with ye
haunting, and unnerving, the whee
kid nasty, short, and brutish
ways, and truth be told,
I would rather be outwardly
hidebound, gagged, and flagellated
(threatened tubby slowly
strangled to death by vee
numb muss snakes, me scree
ming bloody murder,
sans resembling
caduceus), or re
peat head lee bitten
(till death do me part)
by vampire bats pre
dominant lee inhabiting
spooky attic, nee
above cattle crying
abattoir, bovines me
ting grisly demise, cuz prowling
the murderous gang
infested mean streets -
of corpse lee
ving shot up desolation
(think skidrow) role much
more blood curdling, key
ping adrenaline heart pounding,
and sweat pouring directive he
ping helplessness 'specially,
when this gree
gear re: us macho foo fighter,
accompanied by my greatful
dead cutting crew - on free
key Friday the 13th
assigned directive to man
the most crime ridden, and be
dev filled violent bailiwick,
(donning head to toe
bullet proof suited vests),
nonetheless fraught with
horrendously extreme
difficulty, and more
challenging, end
during, and grueling
than surviving training
undertaking associated
with elite military clique,
and attendant rightfully
earned linkedin prestige
joining: Raiders of United
States Marine Corp,
Green Berets United States Army
Special Forces, or Navy Seals.
The dead roach with its upended crinkly legs
has been lying in the windowsill for at least four weeks.
I would get rid of it, except...
nothing has amused me for years half as much
as people's horrified reactions when they notice her.
This poor ugly black dead thing.
I have decided to have a tiny plaque made, and a little glass coffin.
I will put her into the coffin, and glue my "snow white" plaque on the side,
ever so sweetly.
I will caution the taxidermist to make sure the legs remain up, as it is the cutest thing.
I will then pay him to stuff and stand seven little dead flies or ants.
His choice.
I will put little hats and vests on them and label them too.
Grumpy will really look grumpy.
This will bring the dead roach to a whole new level.
It might even embarrass the custodian,
but as she clearly has not noticed this dead roach in four or five weeks,
perhaps not.
Seventies fur vests wet in the rain
Stinky but still in style so we wore them
Until they shredded and fell off our dirty shirts.
Cotton shirts no longer crisp but with wide ruffles at their wrist marks.
Soft dirty wrinkly blue jeans that smelled a bit gamey.
No one noticed that they never made it to the laundry pile.
Being rank was part of our revolution, a clothing protest
To the Viet Nam War where our poorest were being sacrificed daily.
We scrunched together in Volkswagen busses,
Traveling to Washington, where we could hold our signs.
And protest our truth, where wet fur vests were parading about
Along with grungy headbands and dreadlocks on white teenagers.
Leaving the silk and satin of the sixties back in the small towns
Where their youth thought they had to have a wedding to have sex.
We knew better. We did not care about crisp smooth wrapping paper
Or prancing ribbons on packages. We were uncomfortable and glad.
Through the eyes of one born in 1952:
1950’s TV craze
Muscle cars, blue jeans
Poodle skirts, class ring exchanges
Simple time, grandparents involved.
Girls want to be pretty, men call women girls
I Love Lucy
Topper, Loretta Young,
Show of Shows
Grandma’s house on Sundays. Grandpa’s teach skills.
Girls want to be beautiful, men call women “dames”
1960’s Marauding cold war
Russia cosmonauts
Space race
Grandparents are moved to nursing homes.
Girls want to be Jackie, men call women “wife”
JFK and Bobby
Dr. Martin Luther King
Killed by cowards
Grandparents give advice, but visits are more seldom.
Girls want to be housewives, men call women back home.
Early 1970’s, hippie revolution
Egyptian cat queen make-up, free love, anti-war.
Barbara Streisand, Sonny and Cher, Bette Midler,
Grandparents see an alarming pattern of disrespect.
Girls want to be singers and dancers, men get confused.
1980’s
Fur vests, striped pants
Disco Music, John Travolta, Sundays are just another day.
Grandparents have rights, and try to get part time custody of their grandchildren.
Women want to have rights, be independent. Men call them “busters”
1990’s, Turn of everything, selfishness on the rise.
Assassination of Innocence, church and family are scoffed.
Grandparents back off, not daring to give advice, seeing it is not wanted.
Women are working all over the place. Men are not the only bread-winners.
2000’s Computers are in houses
Children are alone, latch key
911 happens, people pray for a day or two.
Grandparents are nowhere around.
Men and women get depressed; children are too.
2010’s
I-phone. I-pad, I-know. I, me, I, I, I.
Lawsuits, lawlessness, spiritually bereft.
Communication breakdown; facetime grandparents once in a pink moon (rarely).
People sit next to each other and text. Confusion reigns supreme.
Breaking down of family is complete. Sorrowful, angry people, disjointed, sad.