Long Well heeled Poems
Long Well heeled Poems. Below are the most popular long Well heeled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Well heeled poems by poem length and keyword.
“Tall Poppies, Cactus Flowers and a Girl Not Called Betty”
All the Flamingos were called Betty
on a crowded beach somewhere
Well heeled stuck in the quick sands of time
heads held high
like
Tall poppies
waving, long stemmed
they are
tightly furled pale pink peonies
and thorny cactus flowers
the softer velvet petalled man eating flowers
silently watch on
humming tunes
wetting their long musk scented tongues
to catch buzzing bees
and bragging blue bottled stinging horse flies
snapdragons wrapped up in faux violent
violet erroneous blue disguise
languidly caress memories
where the deeper shade of lurid fuchsia
open their moistened crowns
sweet honey traps
dripping with potential
unfurl their arms
seductively
reaching out
strung on legs that travel
all the way up a nowhere road
consider stopping for a while
shedding petalled layers
amusement winks
silkily bending over in the breeze
the feline tiger lily
looks aroused
while the glowing dandelion
a will-o'-the-wisp, walks on water
across the green laureate laurels and
through the pristine poetry blooms
blowing away
the dark dreary clouds
to touch your shores
where you sit smiling naked and salty
toes dangling for sharks
off some shady pontoon
casting the fishing line
into the ponderous light
dreaming
of the long held dance
somewhere untouched
under Blue Sky
Summer's dreaming
reeling Winter back into Spring
Romancing
he rolls his eyes
she grins
(LadyLabyrinth / 2021)
"Watermelon Sugar" / Harry Styles
https://youtu.be/7-x3uD5z1bQ
"Well I had a dream and in it I went to a little town
And all the girls in town were named Betty.
And they were singing: ..."
dance?
"Smoke Rings" / Laurie Anderson
https://youtu.be/Pdoj-w8xn1g
LYRICS / https://genius.com/Laurie-anderson-smoke-rings-lyrics
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Will-o%27-the-wisp
It was a night I'll always remember,
I've told this tale so oft,
Sometimes I forget, and on my 3rd repeat
My friends think my mind has gone soft
But it's way back, maybe "69,
I was but a teenager hanging out,
My young new wife and another couple
Just sitting, lounging casually about
When from the kitchen radio
An advertisement we did hear
The MJQ (Modern Jazz Quartet) was playing that night
It's true, I tell you true!!
Now to put this in perspective
So it makes some sense to you,
And I do here swear
That what I say is true!
Let me enumerate some facts...
See, I was a young aspiring musician
My neighbor a well established one
Percy Heath, bassist of the world famous MJQ
My best friend then was his son
He used to listen to our jams
no choice i guess he had,
Our music sometimes too loud
For that I now feel sad...
So we looked at our financial state,
Not too impressive, be assured
$20 here,$10 there,maybe she has $5, $10 had the last,
It'd be tough to manage this, we knew
But at this point our determination was well cast
We managed to take a cab,
To the NYC Rockefeller Centre, and up,
to the classy Rainbow Grill
The atmosphere so different
It really seemed a thrill!
But, see, we were like country bumpkins
For this elite wealthy NY crowd
Well heeled, well dressed, well mannered,
Well moneyed, most important, they were,
Easily at home here, well above the highest cloud
Now the Maitre d' did quickly size up
Here we would not fit in,
So he'd show those sophisticated others his wisdom
But to me it seems a sin
He seated us behind a thick pole
With the band so hard to see
We struggled with the 2 drink minimum
How embarrassed we should be
But once in awhile the losers win
And God in heaven smiles
For stuck-up rich old morons,
Under "losers" they he files
For when the MJQ took their break
They all came over and sat with us!
My pride, my gratitude, my "up-yours!" wish
Came to us without a fuss
So now you should remember
Don't preen and think you're cool,
Cause once in a while,
The tables turn,
And you become the fool!
On the Red Carpet and Beyond
They want a red carpet theme for their school leavers' ball. This is my didactic rendering.
Today you are stars and the red carpet is spread
Rolled out for you to, with cool class, tread
For in this movie aptly called, Life in High School,
You've starred remarkably as hero, villain and fool.
Romance, sport, drama, every possible genre
To your credit, you have done much honour
So the carpet is red, out there quite ready to greet
Snazzy outfits, suits, gowns and well-heeled feet
But remember, dear friends, today is but just a day
The lights, they will sizzle, pop and then fade away
And once we are done with the glitz and glamour
Of the raucous laughter and all the clamour
Life will move on and the carpet will, in the distance recede
You will be thrust into a world that will judge your every deed
It will be harsh, cruel, nasty, full of spite
'Twill touch every nerve throw challenges tight
Yes, today is your day and the red carpet is there
Enjoy what it offers, even its tiniest fare
Recall memories of the many moments spent
Of the mischief and the rules you quietly bent
But remember there is tomorrow when the lights go out
And you begin to struggle, wondering what life's all about
When the carpet upon which you did gracefully stroll
Has given way to terrain where you stumble, ride or roll.
You will have life, on a red carpet, just for today
What tomorrow brings no Oracle can truly say
Still, when upon that carpet you tread tonight
Look back, smile, and say, I have done alright."
Look ahead, also, when for the cameras you pose
Look in to the future and with daring suppose
All that you can, with your many talents achieve
So that, in your life, many gifts this world will receive.
I have found little to paint my life
As exquisitely as your song
For the sun did not shine on my bearing
Or grant me shelter from the rain
I am but an ordinary creature
Of no flair or finesse to circumvent
My gifts are not of beauty or brilliance
My breath a mere intrusion on your journey
You see…the seasons failed to transform
That which knows no glory
And the canvas remains ill-favored
Powerless to rise above well-heeled judgment
And just as a seedling with no light
Will not age in splendor to greet the heavens
A soul deafened to life’s symphony
Will never truly learn to sing out in jubilee
Twas only in the sweetness of Apollo’s kiss
That I dared to dream of places beyond my horizon
And for a flitting, I stood barefoot in the garden
And felt full the majesty of Elysium
I welcomed the offerings, my book flung wide
Inviting fate to ink the pages of my journal
Welcoming the stain left on my heart, and my life
Cherishing the makings of bittersweet memories
But oh how fleetingly those treasured moments passed
And I woke from my reverie to find myself alone
Imprisoned still, in the concrete of my reality
My tender heart reeling from the loss
Yet…I do not rue the passing of your shadow over mine
Nor will I forget the elation of sunshine on my flesh
And though the fire sparked but for a twinkling
I will long remember the warmth of the flame
For, I have found little to paint my life
As exquisitely as your song, my love
And I will carry breathless, your lullaby
Captured forever…in my heart
*********************************************
Copyright © 2009 Leria Hawkins, All Rights Reserved
(For six days in mid-August, 1971, at Stanford
University near San Francisco, a psychological
experiment was conducted in which students
took on the roles of prisoners and prison guards.
The experiment had to be cut short, because the
guards were indulging in unhealthily sadistic
behaviour.)
"Never again," we say.
Those things can't be repeated.
"We set our face against him,
and Hitler was defeated."
Are you sure?
If sweet-talking you
could make it come true,
I would hand you the world
right now on a silver platter ...
but what would it matter?
Life isn't always Garry Keillor.
It's Rwanda, too. Sabra, Shatila.
The key you're holding
won't fit my door.
And you're not welcome
any more.
Just picture this, my friend.
Almost in sight of the Alcatraz ferry,
that sunny August of seventy-one,
a couple miles from Haight-Ashbury
something funny has begun
- and we're not talking Tom and Jerry.
You used me and abused me
till I felt like I wanted to die.
You created a need in me
that only you can satisfy.
Well-heeled campus kids
don’t quibble at the pay rates
make fifteen bucks a day
playing guards-and-inmates
- but is it really play?
I wondered hard
'tween twelve and one:
I asked my God,
"What have I done?"
These guards love Cohen, Dylan,
Che Guevarra, Mao, Durruti -
but now they're volunteering
for unpaid extra duty.
He spits into my food tray
for nothing more than spite.
Hear him whip the women
just around midnight.
You'd be surprised
what humans do.
Hippies can be Nazis, too.
On the San Francisco waterfront the sun is going down
Upon a well-heeled journeyman fresh in from out of town.
The sky's been drained of color to a somber shade of gray
As a new day dawns on another continent half a world away.
In the console of his rental car he keeps a loaded Glock,
And fifty grand in cash for proving dead men never talk.
His trip to Frisco fit the adage "crime can sometimes pay."
Like that wedding swindle a dozen years ago half a world away.
There’s a shot glass on the window sill, a bottle on the floor.
A briefcase full of alibis lies propped against the door.
The walls of his motel room might be closing in today,
But it can’t compare to the hot, stale air she breathes half a world away.
He could maybe make the fever break, breathe easy for a spell.
Maybe shave a couple seconds off the time he’ll spend in hell.
He might even find forgiveness if he had the faith to pray
For a young girl burned by a grifter's double-cross half a world away.
In his wallet there’s a photo of a happy, smiling bride;
The blue eyed, fresh faced girl-next-door he’d taken for a ride
To a Southeast Asian brothel where he led her soul astray.
When he sold her ass to spend her nightmare honeymoon giving it away.
When the scholars write the history that chronicles an age,
They leave the least important things omitted from the page.
There's much that gets forgotten, left to silently decay;
Like a sex slave serving a Bangkok pleasure den half a world away.
Half a world away is as far as you can get,
But she’ll never let you spend a night in peace.
Zombies dwell in the halls of justice of this country
joining other dead brained imposters
with their eye on the throne of Democracy
the Holy Grail of money, money, money
Darkness surrounded us, the fight for promised justice had begun
waiting was moot, as usual the dreaded police sought victims to murder
the struggle must continue until evil in their vacuous minds is exorcised
and the would-be authoritarian devils are defeated and ousted
No matter where the wealthy controllers and their sycophants lurk
whether residing in glass buildings gilded in fake gold
or congressional representatives prancing down marbled hallways
adorned with antique bronze statues, they must be held accountable
With their warped psyches, non-existent integrity and stopped-up brains
these well-fed, arrogant zombies walk the halls of congress making law
and life unbearable for the sickly, the homeless, the hungry,
the elderly and the overtaxed, overworked middle-class voting citizen
To cleanse the world of the avaricious many
who abscond with the lion's share of our country's bounty
and like impetuous, spoiled children still demand more
and loathe to share the bounty their privilege gives them
On the other hand, hard-working Americans innocently wait for justice
from the well-heeled ones imbued with decayed hearts and putrid souls
who deny, deny, deny and give no respite to the working man or woman
these zombies are destined to dwell in a place called Hell for an eternity.
These are photographs of my village
Taken over a hundred years ago
The streets look just the same
As those I used to know
When Fifty or more years later
That village was my family home
And i wandered them as a child
With streets and fields to roam.
They show a part of my family
Each stood by their front door
On the little row of cottages
That isn’t there any more.
Condemned, demolished, erased,
New dwelling replacing the old
Some not yet quite finished
But each one already sold.
Large, desirable modern residences
Where once workers’ homes had stood
The village of my childhood changed
But not necessarily for the good.
None of those posing for photographers
Could afford to live here these days
Once working village dormitories now
As they have adjusted to modern ways.
One farm worker can do the work of ten
So you don’t need the labourer in the field
And modern mobility means most villages
Are full of commuters or the retired well heeled.
The orchards, allotments, garden meadows
That lined nearly every road and street
Have identikit brick dwellings built on
Grass destroying foundation concrete .
Sometimes, unrecognised, i visit my past
Still enough unchanged to make it hard
To accept these days my family presence
Is restricted to graves in the old churchyard.
Maybe it’s my imagination at work
But it seems to me a peculiar thing
As i wander those known streets again
I no longer hear so many birds sing.
The Door Wolf.
And, what of the waxing Moons
Its flood, of relentless tides, that time
of scar faced pit dogs, long sharp toothed,
their belly grumbling handlers, eager
to chalk a death line, on cold ale stained flag stones hard.
While in bleakness yard, belly tumbling hags squeeze, last drops out of well gripped ****, for the blind pups bellies,
babies must wait, in so many ways they are a benefit, against the door Wolf.
And what of pale, deep eyed children
Barefoot in waste lands of snow
Thin as cotton threads, as are their ragged clothes !
Their belly grumbling quenched, by easy swallowed earth worms, to placate the parasitic worms hidden within.
Ahh, all in ! to the avoid the door wolf.
And what of the well heeled lace lover,
hovering in trinkets of silver, and cups spilling with distain, against the scroungers pain ?
With, Parisiene perfume, to muffle the drum
Hum drum stench, from a piss trench
soaked and brandyied to sleep.
Her blinkers finaly, blinked blank.
Those waxed, and wained Moons !
Now cobwebbed in long past night skies.
Miss Garner, Miss Garner. I HATE your Gymkhana,
I loathe every second it's run.
I dread all those horses and obstacle courses,
and everyone else having fun.
Now Mummy is frantic, the panic gigantic;
my pony won't go in the box.
She's shouting and screaming (and often blaspheming),
when Dobbin sits down on his hocks.
We stop in a field, by others well heeled,
their lorries all parked in neat rows.
My Dobbin looks grotty, all rumpled and spotty;
their ponies are plaited in bows.
I get in Show Jumping my usual dumping,
when Dobbin refuses the last.
I'm beat in the Bending (and cry without ending);
my pony is not very fast.
You're calling my name? Is this all a game?
And now you are pointing at me?
What me in the line, at Prize Giving time?
Oh, my? Have you answered my plea?
Miss Garner, Miss Garner. I LOVE your Gymkhana!
It's been such a jolly good thrash.
The Rosette I won has made it such fun;
my Dobbin has got a bran mash!
~
For Francine Roberts' "Children in Rhyme" Contest by Charles Clive.