"corduroys" poems
Two young boys in corduroys
were playing with a ball.
Two young boys heard one strange noise,
coming from the hall.
The boys stood still, well, still until
the door swung open wide.
And a ghostly chill and a real ghost, Bill,
were heaved the heck inside.
The brave boy stood, as the brave boy would,
and said, "Hey, listen Bill!
We're here to hear you, not to fear you.
Tell us what you will."
The other boy wheezed and sneezed then seized
and vomited on the floor.
He shook his brain. He felt insane.
Nothing was real anymore.
"Ghosts are real?! They're ******* real?!?!?!"
he cried and shook and feared.
For nature's laws were gone because
a ghost had just appeared.
And on that night of fear and fright,
the brave boy had his thrills.
And the other one was ******* done
and swallowed fifty pills.
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 1:23 PM UTC
Come up north to see the great outdoors
Rolling hills
Scenes leaving you wanting more
Never mind the weather
Whether its rain or shine
Grab a pint
Sit down
And enjoy our way of life
Born and bred northern boy
But no flat cap or corduroys
Yorkshire til the day I die
I'll represent that West Yorks sign
Faithful to my northern life
Faithful to my northern rhyme
Brought up well with northern vibes
Through hard times, miners strike
Times when maggie thatcher tried
to stir up **** with lies designed
Got miners and police to fight
But don't believe that southern hype...
Those brutal battles gave us life
It redefined our future times
Redefined our future lines
Redefined the northern kind
Redefined our northern humour
Redefined our northern style
Tourists come from far and wide
to find out what the North is like
Expecting lack of cultured life
Surprised we're not uncultured swines
Rewarded with our northern minds
Our northern ways
Our northern lives
Come up north to see the great outdoors
Rolling hills
Scenes leaving you wanting more
Never mind the weather
Whether its rain or shine
Grab a pint
Sit down
Enjoy our way of life
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 3:50 PM UTC
i always end up like this
no matter what type of event i'm at
sitting, alone, in the back
but this time, there
on the church basketball court
converted into a dancefloor
just as roughly as i also was converted
into a church dance attendee
in dark grey corduroys
and a crimson dress shirt
(missing a collar button)
not to mention a shave
(far too thorough, as i always am)
and a haircut by my uncles hand-
it was there,
that i was choking back tears,
tears caused by glancing up momentarily,
javing five or more beautiful girls
meet my eyes, and smile invitingly
(telling me to stand)
but still being unable to drag myself out of that chair
and walk over to them.
an inability caused by her,
the one i still love(d)
wherever she happens to be.
but, this inability to move
is not her fault.
we're over
and i'm a free man,
so i make my mind up,
wipe my eyes,
and stand;
rising to look at the faces
of the two who are telling me
to walk, to tap, to ask, to dance
and
without a word
i walk into that crowd
leaving them behind.
but
she's still here.
and, keeping that in mind
i enjoy myself
but every face
every conversation
dissolves,
as my footsteps do-
as the music does-
at the end of each song
©Brandon Webb
2012
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 9:21 PM UTC
*The wind blows hard tonight. The wind takes every bit of warmth from my marrow and doesn't bring any of it back. No, this is not an art that you have mastered exclusively, as much as that may disappoint you.
Ninety six days culminate and rot within my intestines. The feeling, well, the feeling is like **** but the images interpreted are more than appealing, beautiful I would say.
I don't stay at home anymore; I go to other people's homes and stay there because it fascinates me. It fascinates me for so many reasons, expressions, to name a few.
Keeping true to the convention of keeping true to the convention, I shed a layer of skin when I threw the old tea box full of photographs from the terrace this morning.
The air smelt of coriander and fresh mud, fresh rain. I took it into my lungs as a restatement of my existence but it felt smug and in vain when winter's wisdom slapped me as I exhaled. The pain was a harsh reminder; I was real. My face was red more from the shame than the sting of it.
The whole occurrence was organic, and the memory makes me laugh. Some say to me that I'm made to laugh easily, that I laugh like a fool. I'm a bad hand out of a deck of cards. I am dealt with. It's all in my stars.
In comparison, sardonicism has never known a friend, but I've had one or two. Most people are hopeless to me; I am unplugged.
You speak to me, you want me to be connected. You have a longing in your voice, not so much for me, but for the thought of me rejected.
I had stars in my sights the nights you ignored me and made my hands your ****** Time, and time again, you justify keeping me pressed against your window, believing every inclination is adored.
Time has passed, these creases will stay forever in my corduroys. The fragmented fire wood we never got to burn and those forgotten chapters of childhood still litter my mother's yard.
Maintaining a reserved tone, tensing those muscles in your face, for what? Try dying twice and then you will see that there is no magic, no mystery behind the way things are happening, especially here.
Happy to be hurt, ironic, the pain in my neck reminds me of you.*
Dec 12, 2010
Dec 12, 2010 at 6:33 PM UTC
I can tell I'm depressed
When I don't take the laundry
Out of the washer,
Where it has been cleansed of its sins
Of passion, or rage, of greasy fast food.
My filthy hands would ruin them.
So I wait for my roommate
To baptize his own spotless hands
With MY damp boxers.
The habitual thuds of my soggy clothes
Against the back of the dryer
Are a nice distraction.
My favorite flannel dances
With her tiny lost sock.
But 45 minutes isn't enough.
I don't want to end their fun,
So I leave them there
And hope that they'll fuse forever.
He tosses the clothes onto my floor,
Scattering them, wrinkling them, freeing them.
Corduroys atop henleys under crew socks and tees.
Folding them would be a waste
Of a catastrophic masterpiece.
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 11:25 PM UTC
I believe in myths.
Every naturel blonde was first someone else. By that I mean, she was known as Norma Jean, maybe Katy, in high school (see reincarnation below).
My teenage glory days, when I was the king of cool,
will revisit when I am 75 years old, the man-in-demand (wink), wearing his lucky wide cord corduroys and letting my man-bun,
all the way down, at the prom in the senior citizen home, getting lucky, say once a month...
God, yup, after all, ***** cometh to me regular-like,
when he needs a poet~father to take his confession,
and pays me most excellently for refusing him forgiveness,
with the most excellent poem suggestions or lesser valuable things.
Love at first sight, of course, happens to me all the time,
twenty, thirty times when I am walking home. I tell ya, it's exhausting, the stress of living in the big city
Not only will I win the lottery someday,
will take down both, Powerball and MegaMillions,
in the very same week the odds for which
there ain't enough zeroes in HP's servers. (See God, above).
Reincarnation. One time they Hale(d) and then hanged me (my "namesake") and I said: " I only regret, that I have but one life to lose for my country." Well, the selfies all show oh-boy-o-boy, was I ever grinning and winking.
Only boys are bullies, girls get off easy, by getting called
just mean.
One day my city's teams will win the World Series, the Stanley Cup, the NBA Finals and the Superbowl all in the same year but only after I die and me, well, only after they will have buried me in Wyoming or France, just for spite, and nobody will hear me screaming.
My children will speak fondly of me even after they find out I died broke, well maybe not fondly, but they will most definitely call out my name, regularly.
After my demise, all the typoes in my poems will magically disappear.
All these good things will come to fruition, because I am a believer, and walked the humble path. The autopsy will also show that my tongue was permanently stuck to my cheek.
Sep 22, 2017
Sep 22, 2017 at 3:32 PM UTC
Do you remember when we were boys?
When mischief was our main profession?
With mud about our corduroys
Walking from the field in our football procession?
We chased and tried to catch the girls
Whom we presumed thought us cool.
We occupied our time in class with jokes
Or smoking cigarette butts behind the school.
Time the tax-collector troubled us not
For all the years of these days,
Time was when we ate and how our race
Told our speed, which meant a lot.
Work was gathering stones to build our forts,
Scavenging sticks to build a fire of sorts,
Setting a trap for some unlucky beast,
Or waking to see the glorious sun rising in the east.
I remember when, God forgive our souls,
We skipped Mass (more than once, I might add)
To eat teachers' kolaches and doughnut holes,
But more for the adventures we had.
When we ran in the forest, we were Injuns.
When we sailed on the lake, we were Pirates,
But now we're just drab grown-ups,
Our characters weak as sand; like Pilate's.
What changed in us?
What made this so?
Temptation leads to sin, plus
Sin corrupts the soul.
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 8:58 PM UTC
The moralist is playing again,
bleaching your hair
is an unspoken uniform,
with so little soul
acetates don't get played.
New words gets bandied "plebs",
but without the de-rigueur Corduroys
or navy blazers,
we are all be tarred
with the same brush.
Meanwhile the coach exhaust fumes
abnegated our pilgrimage to Stamford
and we all now agree we
lived beyond our means
in exiguous Britain
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 5:24 PM UTC
smiles revealed during September,
leads to words throughout November,
and greater things come in December
now its May
and some days
it feels like I'm falling apart,
because my love can do nothing to mend your broken heart
things have a way of coming back to us
what was the name of that song by Yes?
well it's only the second sighting of you this week
wish we could sneak
back to your place,
but everyone can tell
by the look on my face,
its a Thursday
I love the buttons on your coat
and the way you can't hold your smoke
corduroys and shades of blue
driving down the road
there is a sound
but we both know, it's just the snow
just abdicate your objections
they incapacitate my affections
I don't need to ameliorate my attendance rate
I'm losing every ambition that I thought I ever had
no one even notices
no surprises, no surprises there
deja vu for you
I'm certain this future isn't true
I just can’t say adieu
Mar 11, 2010
Mar 11, 2010 at 8:00 PM UTC
all the english teachers
tell us how writing about someone
will make them live
eternally
but my words on you
aren't to keep you around--
for you were a horrible person
in your slick corduroys
and sweaters
and the way your hands moved
ever so gracefully over the strings
of your guitars.
my words are to rid my mind
of all the horrible abstractions you
placed before me
to help me forget the words
you sang to me
from your rhythmic lips
and forget the warm embraces
the sweet kisses once shared
and the way our eyes gleamed
when looking at each other.
my words about you aren't to keep you alive
they are to choke out my dreams
and **** the love we had.
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 9:52 PM UTC
an ice cold stare, old denim jeans
suede and cotton tops - they all
feel like los angeles, another
guitar naps where she sleeps,
santana seems to pluck the strings
in her dreams; speaking of dreams,
a sweet man and pup named clyde
are the cast members in her
opening scenes, acts in her play
she would burn the whole script
for just to see
-t.m
Mar 8, 2018
Mar 8, 2018 at 3:16 PM UTC
October 1
Autumn’s arrived so suddenly
her colorful blush upon leaves
soon to fall amid ripened gourds
lying in our small garden
where strong trunks of
brussels have begin small sprouts
beneath giant leaves.
At my feeder, birds no longer nibble
daintily, but gorge, filling for southbound flights
rain beats against my roof
in the now chilling air.
Where summer with its warmth?
Tomatoes too late to ripen, remain green,
bumble bees sit heavily on the few remaining flowers
hoping for warmth’s returning beam,
while honey bees finding my Cimicifuga racemosa’s
white scented floral spray
busily gather its last remaining nectar
for their winter nests
somewhere in my woods.
And I now out of my Bermuda shorts
and colorful short sleeved shirts
don long legged corduroys, an old sweater
smelling slightly of moth ***** to
begin the chore of gathering the garden
furniture’s pillows, turning off the sprinkler
putting away the hose.
It’s time to remove the two ultraviolet lamps
from my ponds water pumps lest freezing break the bulbs.
Koe fish, less interested now in my daily feeding
rise to the surface in the cooling water
more slowly as if preparing for sleep.
I marvel at their ability to simply
lie under the soon to be frozen water
to await spring.
We humans don’t have such patience.
We gather logs for our winter fires
remove screens and windowed air conditioners
check the furnace’s pilot light and search among the eves for
boots and scarves and gloves.
Autumn soon to be Winter
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 7:55 PM UTC
to get to know this boy
to have his words find their way through my ears
to my eyes where his face stops the tears
that slip from our hands, staining my corduroys
Mar 15, 2019
Mar 15, 2019 at 11:27 AM UTC