Long Wellies Poems
Long Wellies Poems. Below are the most popular long Wellies by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wellies poems by poem length and keyword.
So, finally it snows.
The amber glow of
Distant streetlights
Illuminating the sky
Like the embers
of a frozen fire.
The softening sound of silence
As each weightless crystal
Swirls it's own part
In the perfect dance.
What seems like chaos
Reflects the majesty
Of an Autumn murmuration in flight,
Ever moving, darting, hustling
But of one collective intellection.
Tomorrow will be a day for wellies,
Two coats, hats, scarves,
Gloves with fingers that end at the knuckles
Leaving tips to turn red as noses
And itch as they are later warmed before the coals.
But tonight I do not mind the cold
As I stand and turn my face Heavenward,
Listening to the muffled stillness of the night
And smile to myself as I softly say;
"So, finally, it snows."
Rupert was coming home from school one day,
Yipee it’s raining again, lots of puddles he’d say,
He was wearing his wellies so jumped into each one,
Rupert just loved this weather and puddles a ton,
Every lunchtime Piglet trotted up to Ruperts school,
A clever little piglet, who was nobody’s fool,
Jumping, splashing, frolicking together and having fun,
They were drenched when they got home,
Mom said go upstairs and dry off otherwise
You will get sick and have no fun in the rain or sun.
Rupert's family lived in New Zealand, where it rains a lot,
Mom had made a steaming tasty stew, and Dot the little
Girl from next door, smelt it and ran to Rupert's mom’s door.
Piglet had his own stool, he quickly jumped up from the floor,
They finished their lunch and because the sun was shining,
Went outside to play, the ball went under a shrub, hurt and hiding
Was a Labrador pup. her leg looked broken, dot picked her up
Rupert ran to help as Piglet between his squeals, said this pup
Needs a doctor, so off they went to find Ruby the kind lady vet
This day was certainly not over yet.
Doc. Ruby was known as the best vet in the land,
She put the puppy’s paw gently in her hand,
Looked carefully, only a bad sprain Labby dear,
In a day or two you will be in the clear.
Rupert could never resist a climb, wow a bee hive,
I’v discovered on the same branch as me,
The bees were not happy with Rupert so near,
They started buzzing, get off there now, yelled Dot,
Rupert quickly jumped down, in fact did not
Realize how terrible
A bee sting could be,
Quite unbearable,
As he ran with the others,
As far away as they could.
Sally the Labby,
Lovingly licked Rupert's each and every sting,
Good doggy he said, I now feel no pain,
He began to skip and sing.
Luckily for our heroes, the bees as a swarm,
Did not give chase,
Unusual for bees what can I say,
Perhaps it had been a very busy day!
No-one will ever know, we secretly call
Ourselves, ‘Docs on the block’.
And as all good children, piglets, and lab puppies
Know, we should all be back home by 5.00 o’clock.
It is now ten minutes past noon,
So, I can wish you a good afternoon,
The clouds are gracefully displaying,
Whatever an artist imagines,
But my production manager is glaring,
Say your bit quick he mouths me,
Cheekily I replied, ‘let me be’,
I take a deep breath, and the sun
Peeps from underneath,
Playing hide and seek, having fun,
Oh, I see a cloud shape of a bunny,
That really looks funny,
Don’t forget to take your wellies,
For rain will certainly pour
At approximately three, maybe four.
Splash through every puddle,
Don’t forget to cuddle huddle,
Fun is in the air, a chilly Easterly
Actually no Westerly,
Breeze will later bring wild winds
Tell your mummy or daddy to pull
Down your window blinds,
Pack a warm jersey as well,
You can never tell ,
What will be the weather,
How ‘bout we get together,
Where are you going for tea,
Would you not rather join me.
Phones began ringing
I’m suddenly thinking,
Things look very busy on my TV
Slot, parents congratulating me,
Children stop homework
To listen and see,
My weather forecast,
Golly, a hurricane has just passed,
Aren’t we lucky,
High five and pinkie three,
I got transferred to kiddies TV
Where I’d much rather be!
Contest Entry: "You're a Weather Forecaster"
Sponsor: Matt Caliri
Date; 2022/03/21
Brooding nimbus darken the sky
suddenly clouds burst
Rain drops thunder down
then subside to a gentle pitter patter
on the Perspex conservatory roof
I watch as raging rivulets of rain
run down the windows
and hear the old drains gurgling
at the deluge of water
I peer outside as the pitter pattering ceases
to see the sun
She’s playing peek a boo from behind a cloud
Huge puddles have formed on the stone flags
Millie, my young granddaughter grabs my hand
“Come on grandma, grab your wellies” she giggles
“Let’s go out and jump in the puddles”..
And so we did!
No! Amanda - don’t do that
You put clothes on dollies, not on the cat
Yes, I know that you’re playing, but Simba does not
And he really doesn’t belong in that cot
No! Amanda - I’ve told you before
Put your food in your mouth, not on the floor
Yes, I know it’s spaghetti, but look at the mess
There’s less on the plate than there is down your dress
No! Amanda - don’t you dare
Climb up in those wellies, onto the chair
Yes, I know that it’s bouncy, and that it feels good
But I don’t need the furniture covered in mud
No! Amanda – don’t take him out
A goldfish likes to keep swimming about
Yes, I know that you’re looking, but just please use your eyes
If you hold him much longer, he’s going to die
No! Amanda – don’t get out of bed
Pull up your covers, and cuddle in Ted
Yes I know that you’re tired, but you’ll soon be asleep
Then I can finally sit down and find some relief!
© Janette Fisher – May 1988
I wrote this poem when Amanda was 3 years old, she's now 24
Who the hell is Etty Ket
To keep interfering in my life?
I keep hearing its not Etty Ket
From my very soon to be wife.
I bet she was a Victorian
With a long pointy nose
Red flanellette bloomers
And long stripey hose.
One of those very worthies
Who, year after year
Just couldn't resist
That urge to interfere.
Oh the embarrassments
At odd times of my life,
Eating soup with the wrong spoon
Or fish with the wrong knife.
I've laughed when I shouldn't,
Wished that I was dead,
Stood there in horror
Face glowing scarlet red,
Having absently committed
Some perceived heinous crime,
Just an ignorant peasant
Trapped by the rules of
A more stiff and formal time.
Etty Ket thanks to you
I've gone through times of stress
But now I've reached an age
When I couldn't care any less.
So now I wear desert wellies
All the year round
And I wear odd socks
When a pair can’t be found,
Spill food down my pullie
And don’t give a damn
Take it or leave it
For I am what I am.
Life’s too short to worry
You’re dismissed out of hand,
Farewell Etty Kett, get back
To your Cloud Cuckoo Land.
ANTI CLIMAX
I woke, icicles frozen to the window pane
melting as I looked out; Snow, drifts deep
on the lawn. Still crunching my toast
chilled toes wriggled into damp wellies,
school cap askew, I slam the back door-
Sinking to my bare knees, I stumble to the gate.
Along the school lane, boys snowballed
shouted and slid. At Auntie’s house I stopped,
my eyes seeking the upstairs window-
In that room, last night, another sister
new born, lay. Encore, no fraternal
frolics for’ dained, for me to play
STRONG & SILENT
Fathers of that era
did not hug or touch or
intimate their love.
He was the same
Did he love us, we his
kin, his blood-seed. He
did not say, yet I believe he did.
He was a provider, for
sure. A taste for beer,
never dissolute and
he smoke as most
working folk, did then.
An adept gardener, his
vegetables supplemented
our meagre rationed diet.
Did he care, he never
said, I’m sure he did.
What made him tick,
deep down, I mean
where only introspectives,
types like me will sometimes dig.
It is easy, so easy to theorise. His
generation, strong and silent, did not
discuss such things,especially with his son,
such things were never
done. Maybe..perhaps
with Mum. Feelings
were not shared but
held back, within.
A reservoir of emotions
controlled, withheld
until death shatters
the dam.Is that why I cried
so, the day he died
and still I wonder..
did I cry for me,
or was it for him
Listen to me read these poems on youtube under name of ichthyschiro
I was a child, yes, even little old me,
curious and happy, my smile wild with glee.
But at the tender age of seven,
I learnt that family go to heaven.
My aunt, a distant, great, great one,
who I'm told baked Welsh cakes second to none,
passed on by in her sleep,
no sickness, no hospital stay or cardiac bleep.
Too young to mourn my mother said,
too far to go for distant dead.
To be honest, it wasn't until that time,
that I learnt about my family's line.
My grandad had two sisters see,
each as unique as one could be.
One died some time before my birth,
now sadly this aunt was laid in earth.
Yet, along came a parcel, a letter, a note,
'To Charlotte' , from 'Uncle Sam' it wrote.
The parcel, I opened, like any young child,
ripping at the packaging, like kid gone wild.
Inside was a teddy bear, my aunt had owned,
given at the same age as me, seven years old.
The letter was written in cursive, neat, aligned,
with a twenty pound note, how beyond kind?
It said 'use on something you will treasure,
please write me a letter, at your leisure'.
Who would have known that I'd do just that,
buying a fishing rod, a reel, tackle and hat.
And sooner than later we visited, on my request,
he greeted us, in wellies, lumberjack shirt and vest.
Such a marvellous man, such stories he told,
from sheep stealing dinners to finding lost gold.
A friendship of two, age didn't matter,
we were both unique, quirky, mad as a hatter.
Fast forward ten years, he is so gravely ill,
me at his beside, in the hospital on the hill.
I speak of stories, now tales of my own,
a distraction from his internal body groan.
I hug, I smile, bless him for his love,
and that next morning he was called above.
Through bereavement and loss, I gained a friend,
we remained close right until the end.
Love like that, so unique, and so raw,
changed my whole outlook down to the core.
My heart still skips, like I was seven,
when I reminisce about my uncle, now in heaven.
06.05.2021
Tender moment as a child contest
Sponsored by: Malabika Ray Choudhury
Awake, ye sleepy, coop-bound souls!
Unbutton your boredom, unfasten your goals!
For glory’s not found in the stiff upper sash—
It lives in the squelch of the Chicken Splash.
With feathers all fluffed like a powdered wig,
She struts like a duchess who’s learned how to jig.
A dip of the beak, a dramatic small sneeze—
Then ker-splash! She dives in with elegance and ease.
No need for a ballroom or velvet-toned glee,
She’s a duchess of dirt, and she’s waltzing with glee.
Each puddle’s a portal, a glittering gate,
To a world where the serious show up too late.
She twirls through the mud with flippant finesse,
In a gown of good humour and splatter-spun dress.
Each droplet’s a diamond, each slosh is a cheer—
An anthem of nonsense the wise long to hear.
It’s not just a dance, it’s a radical creed,
A declaration of joy over sensible speed.
Why march through your life with a stiff, tidy plan,
When a squishy detour says more than a man?
The cows may look on with a snobbish moo,
But what have they done that was daring or new?
The hens, though—they giggle, they copy, they dash,
They’ve all found their truth in the Chicken Splash.
A duck may protest, “But we’re made for the wet!”
She replies with a wink, “Ah, but we have regret!”
For puddles, you see, aren’t just soggy terrain—
They’re places where boredom is washed down the drain.
She leaps like a question that’s yet to be asked,
With purpose disguised in the goofily masked.
She’s Plato in wellies, she’s Nietzsche in fluff,
She’s telling the cosmos, enough is enough!
So scribble your worries, then crumple the sheet—
Come paddle with passion, get mud on your feet.
For life isn’t tidy, nor meant to be brash—
It’s a puddle of promise, a Chicken Splash!
And when you grow old, with your spectacles tight,
And you tell little stories by soft firelight,
Don’t boast of your trophies or accounts full of cash—
Tell them, “Once, I dared do the Chicken Splash.”
Poetry be damned
The grey coloured straightjacket of poetry
I have, like, Houdini freed me of these shackles
flowers, loveliness and mendacities.
An unbearable burden getting buried by a ton
of rotten blooms. I am free!
Fly from tree to tree not seeing the foliage,
soar higher than anyone before so elevated,
the blue planet is a bauble on a Christmas tree.
I land in a potato field with ordinary colours and
brown soil and when flowers from Amsterdam
are in season I`m free to wade in a muddy pool,
wear yellow wellies towing on a string a tiny sailboat
that (as by magic) becomes a three mastered schooner.
All this because I ain´t no poet but a writer and can
use double negatives if I so wish
(from my book When Beelzebub Ruled)
Poetry and vignettes)