"coveralls" poems
Our family got the news today
Our bubba's gettin' hitched
Young Daisy Mae, she's near fourteen
Got our boy bewitched
He's sayin' that he loves her
He's making her his bride
She's the first to get him this close
Though not too many tried
We've got to get things ready
Send invitations and make candles
We've got to get the good jars out
The one's that still have handles
The minister is on alert
We've got to make some shine
Grandpa says he'll make some up
But, it will not all be mine
Gonna have a wedding, a real old fashioned bash
With all sorts of kissin cousins drinkin from their secret stash
The food will be impressive, there'll be turkey, pig and cow
The family won't get bigger, since we're related anyhow
This time there'll be no shotgun
Like the last time for old Ben
This time the guns are empty
Not the way they were back then
The banjos will be tuned up
There'll be music in the air
The cops won't try to stop it
I think most will all be there
The ladies will be planning
Just how to serve up all the grub
While Bubba has to find a suit
And therein lies the rub
He's never worn a suit at all
Not even for a day
He's only dressed in coveralls
And that's how he's gonna stay
Gonna have a wedding, a real old fashioned bash
With all sorts of kissin cousins drinkin from their secret stash
The food will be impressive, there'll be turkey, pig and cow
The family won't get bigger, since we're related anyhow
It'll be a **** dang doodle
A hell of a good time
It'll only be completed
When they run out of the shine
there'll be singing and some dancing
Underneath the harvest moon
We can't wait for it to happen
It cannot come too soon
There'll be readings from the bible
Which the minister will read
And as good holy Christians
Everyone will heed
There's sure to be some fighting
Before the couple say "I do"
I mean, they are both cousins
I'm gonna go...aren't you?
Gonna have a wedding, a real old fashioned bash
With all sorts of kissin cousins drinkin from their secret stash
The food will be impressive, there'll be turkey, pig and cow
The family won't get bigger, since we're related anyhow
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 11:45 PM UTC
tight are the waxers
with gelatin scrub
their alcove smiles paired
on a check-board slate
dive jackets
and coveralls
mark the blue persuaders
stuffed lockers
and lattice straps
for a cold
pilgrim's stare
cork boots
and poly rot
rest in the C block
rank and file
mask a heavily
worn charade
windows wide
and curtains
thread bare
greasers
and **** rats
pardoned
on principle
chain link and
tether held
firm in the grasp
bead bites and
castle tops
slip in the **** steam
chants and speakers
blast from the back wall
elements stacked wide
for tainted leaners
strummers and pickers
held high on the jimmy jack
a chilled base breeze
at the ****** hole
rogues and hatters
stir at the mixer
an imitation face
closing in on the feast
maiden hands clasp
hard at the inseam
scuffed heals shuffle
on the peripheral scene
a cloaked man scurries
(chilled in his double sock)
moonshine
and mickeys
turned up in the jar
light streams blind
the paranoid eyes
laggards peeled
from the wretched
framework
veneer shattered
on a point strip groove
an overwhelming trauma
from slaughter
harbor
Apr 18, 2019
Apr 18, 2019 at 3:16 PM UTC
You're on your way to where the job is at.
Wearing boots, coveralls, goves and a hat.
It's **** that floats in an unergroung vat.
You dig that up, but that isn't that.
You remove the old lid and there you find.
A smell that drives you out of your mind.
Digested food of every kind.
The sight of which makes you wish you were blind.
The special function of your work truck,
Is to siphon up all of that muck.
You start up the pump, and with any luck.
The machine will then sloppily ****
Slurping hungrily at the waste.
And hopefully doing it with all due haste.
Removing a greyish sort of paste.
Feces, that five years, has been encased .
Now with the job almost through.
You suction up the last of the poo.
Replacing the lid but as you do.
Some of the stuff splashes on you.
It gets all over your clothes and your hat.
And all over your face. What's up with that?
Now you are as filthy as an old, greasy rat.
That was chased into a sewer by an ill tempered cat.
So you wipe your face with a rag that you brought.
Just in case that you might get caught.
In the kind of mess that has just been wrought.
A precaution of which, you had thankfully thought.
As that nasty job is finally finished.
And your good cheer is also diminished.
You can take a shower and so be replenished.
To face another day that you will be punished.
Aug 4, 2012
Aug 4, 2012 at 2:45 PM UTC
I miss you baby.
Seems like I cain’t get warm no more
and winter’s a comin on soon.
I didn’t think I’d make it this far
with you gone.
I wish I could still feel
the heat of the July day
you passed.
I try.
But I cain’t no more
You’re both gone.
A’times I miss you so much
I feel like I’m gonna break
But then I look up
And still see that old dusty table
In front of me.
How many years we had that table?
Corn bread don’t taste the same off it.
Not so sweet in my mouth now.
I picked up your coveralls the other day.
I keep ‘em in that old trunk mama gave me.
They still smell like you,
your sweet sweat and tabacca
And the gin you’d sneak when you thought I wasn’t lookin’.
I needed a new blanket
but there just wasn’t enough for it.
So I took all your coveralls
And stitched ‘em--
I hope you don mind"
Into a blanket--
And covered myself in you,
So I can smell you and dream of you
Through the long winter.
Dec 16, 2011
Dec 16, 2011 at 6:15 PM UTC
Every day I am leaping higher
Jumping from brown blocks and green pipes.
From the pluck of fire flowers steams this passion that I pursue So adamantly.
Question mark filled boxes highlighted yellow.
Flickering on and off.
The alchemy of white gloves, stomping and flipping the backs of turtles.
Small mushroom men with small feet.
Flying bullets of unusual size.
Large man eating plants.
I no longer fear the height of odd shaped trees, and small collapsing bridges.
What I fear most are the walls of empty castles.
Flying bullets and funny shaped ghost.
Soon to attack soon as I turn my back.
Lava filled pits. Huge block castles.
Torn blue coveralls. Dull and weathered black boots.
The slip of a shoe and everything I know comes to an end.
Still,
I travel land, sea, desert, space.
No matter what adversity,
In search of a princess that I love so adamantly.
No matter how long the journey
May 23, 2017
May 23, 2017 at 9:30 AM UTC
A harsh Winter day , sweating copper , shoring ditches , sporting long johns and ***** coveralls , thankfully returning home to hot coffee and a chair in the kitchen ! Glance at a seashell on the window sill from Daytona Beach , recalling beautiful blue Summer days with Brown Pelicans , white seagulls and salt water taffy ! Ships on her horizon , children laughing with frisbees and sweet Summer memories ! What beautiful token from that magnificent coastland tempers a thick skinned , calloused workers train of thought such as mine this very evening ?
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 3:28 PM UTC
my hair is a wild mess and smells like gasoline,
like solvent and you--old spice and hay
you can't chicken out now you tell me
and though I can't see your eyes, your smile
is the whitest thing i've ever seen and makes
my shoulder blades ripple and pinch together
and my pulse unwinds and slows to a heavy
hum--picks up like a bush plane when you
start up your truck.
you throw an old jacket at me,
smirk when you see how i'm drowning in your coveralls
and tell me well, you shoulda worn something warmer
drown out my replies by gunning the engine and I have
no choice but to shut up and hang on--ask me if I had
anything else to do today but barely wait for my answer
you knew better through a grin that I have no problem hearing.
i think about how i've changed a lot in the past two months
how I feel like all of the little girls I used to be are growing up--
how you teach with your voice before your hands and are silent
during my expected bouts of self-doubt, don't shoot the bull, is all you say before I pull the trigger and my ears start ringing--so funny
how I'd trade dozens of other moments just to relive that one over
and over, hear you say i think you hit it, at least twice more.
You're not smiling but there's sunshine
in your drawl that I can't help but taste,
there's 14 inches of snow outside your door
but you could melt it all blushed with those red flannel cheeks--
can't help but feel like your dog loves me a little more
even when I'm full of fears that you don't bother to coddle but certainly don't ignore--
how even though you're probably hurting
you still want to show me every last thing on this green earth
in your red heart, this stretch of land from here past your
grandma pat's house--
raise welts--
and snap my thighs
with dish towels
throw snow in my hair but gingerly
pick it out once we're back inside
trash talk my aim but make sure my shirt gets dry
dislodge my sedan near the corral--but not before rolling me into one of
those side embraces, where you tuck me beneath a heavy arm and lift me off the ground, oh,
i never want to touch down
i never want to touch down
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 10:36 PM UTC
Well ducks, it was the place to gather in those days.
There were ceiling fans that made one think
that Baron Von Richtofen might fly in at any moment.
I wondered whether a man wearing coveralls had to climb
up on a ladder each morning
to heave the blades into motion.
They served a concoction of fruit, gin, crushed ice,
the low notes from Hernando's Hideaway, and who knew
what else. It tasted like children's party punch
but made our high perches start to pitch
on the rough seas beneath our jelly legs.
Down some white stone stairs, there was a blue pond
someone had stocked with mallards, as green and gold
as my jewelry. They were free to fly
but could never leave--the desert
would have turned them to cardboard.
We slept with scorpion nets. One night I dreamt
that a handsome man in a uniform of water lay with me,
told me my hair was good rope from India, and
that I had been a snake charmer
in a previous life. He kissed me and it stung.
Ah, love, there you are looking at me through your new
telescope, your young face behind the lens like an egg.
I gave up gin, and traveling, and most other things long ago.
Now I'm talking to you with my bird beak,
free to choose but forbidden to leave
except via packing box, to be sent by air mail over the dunes
to the oasis bar, c/o my younger self, cash on delivery, payable
in florins, code phrase "wing walker." The Baron will be there waiting.
_____________
Aug 13, 2025
Aug 13, 2025 at 9:44 AM UTC
I'm just sitting here
waiting on a deer
wishing I had a beer
Or better yet some 40 creek
some 7up to mix I seek
hoping the stand roof don't leak
In the driving rain
it would cause some pain
cold rain down the neck causes disdain
**********************************************
In my coveralls
made by Walls
Coleman heater warming my *****
Bushnell binos around my neck
looking out, what the heck
oh it’s just a speck
On my lense
I feel dense
but I used uncommon sense
It wasn't a ghost
it was at most
something from the post
Where my binos sat
right next to my hat
and above the mat
Where my boots are
drying out from walking far
most people would drive a car
*************************************
Now sitting in the camper
feeling a bit hampered
By the cold and rain
it's the mud that causes pain.
Slippery and wet
a mess you get
with every step
cannot move with pep
It's like walking on wet glass
you will slip and bust your ***
then a muddy mess you'd be
wouldn't want anyone to see
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 2:28 PM UTC
well he's back from the rig he says,
heels up in dragon's blood
crept through denver at an easy pace, left his soul
on the toolcase, packed up with the coveralls
said there's never room for that--
and he sleeps while he's wide awake, said he
left his love up there, said he'll be by, but he ain't coming back
where back is home or here or me, he's spinnin'
i'm grounded, i'm looking for his strings,
he's unwound, divided and callin' my name--
used to kneel by my bedside, hold my hand around 10 at night
smelled like pine and cold wind, but you'd never tell him that
and I wonder about the longevity of his trust
the miles left in those long legs,
If I've all but said too much
to keep him runnin' from me
well he's stained by the deaths of many
and I've them locked away, makin' sure there's no anniversary
where he'll drink the funerals away,
we're both troubled by the other's demons
but his don't scare me much,
just play things and shadows all rearin' their heads
his own chorus of voices tellin' him it should have been him
and he sleeps while he's wide awake, said he
left his love up there, said he'll be by, but he ain't coming back
where back is home or here or me, he's spinnin'
i'm grounded, i'm looking for his strings,
he's windin', drawing fangs and ready to flee
to show me how fast he can run away, and he can
probably will, out of spite, out of fear--
and if timing is everything like he fancies it is
i'll be here waiting like i promised i would
'cause he'd hold my hand at ten at night
before i'd wait for the sound of that engine
pullin' up,
him whispering pretty girl
to wake me up,
hey, pretty girl
hey pretty girl
hey, pretty girl.
Feb 26, 2017
Feb 26, 2017 at 4:09 PM UTC
there on the scaffold
colorful cacophonous screams emanating from workman’s coveralls
captivated her
rebel in real life
engaged by her lack of hero worship dedication to her art the common cause
her fire drew him to her
and so they began to weave their tapestry
it tells a story
tumultuous
traveled
torn
tragic
timeless
true
brilliant hues
life
as art
compatriots
rebels
lovers
newsreels
public pride
personal degradation
recovery
reconciliation
back on the scaffold
cacophony revisited
back on bedrest
resilient resisting unceasing unaccepting
scaffold and ego deemed titanic-like demand artistic license uncompromising
crushed crumble disintegrate
lose face credibility
turn tale
and run to the one deemed feeble
whose
spirit knows no bonds
as body knows no freedom
yet
is Hercules for them both
until
the day her plaits were drawn crisscross on her forehead
decorated with huge glorious blossoms
plucked from the patio
lips kissed
last breath
a pair destined for the history books
a love
rollercoasterlargerthanlife
FateD?
Frida & Diego: FateD?
© 2017 rochelle foles
Feb 19, 2019
Feb 19, 2019 at 11:07 PM UTC
she dragged a clear bag,,
a patchwork of her clothes,
she held her hands behind,
her back, checking traffic,
to make sure all crossed safely,
ours eyes met, and I assumed
some things about her life choices,
we smiled at one another,
she recognized my thoughts,
and I looked away, all cars paused.
her blue coveralls, were extra
large and extra tall, she had the
cuffs tied and they
scuffed along the
asphalt like her
clothing in the
clear plastic bag,
the blue over-sized
jumpsuit was tied at
the waist, cropped hair,
gave her a girlish flair,
but she did not care,
twenty pairs of eyes
all stared, waiting for
to get out of the way
it was laundry day,
and she was going to
pay to wash the stuff
out of each piece she
owned, oh that smile,
said that I was right,
and she was okay
with it, as she was
off
for the night.
©ClemC072013
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 12:12 AM UTC
Family Tree
They come from far and wide
once a year to mingle and snack
on catered shrimp and small talk
in the long line that snakes around
the room to the open bar besieged
five deep, the beating heart
of the party until the string band
starts up and everyone hits
the dance floor, limbs loose,
knees high, hair down, skirts hiked
generations of farmers and drifters,
rail men and conscripts, schemers
and failures, a cacophony of native
brogue and broken English, long
lazy vowels stretched to breaking.
The men have my nose, the women
your eyes, but neither you nor I claim
the crazy cackle coming from
a skinny gal with electric
hair or the flat, vacant gaze of
a fellow in coveralls,
hands like hay rakes, yellow
fingers balled into fists. The bar
closes at twelve, they start to drift
away, arms draped, propping each other
up, telling the same old tearful tales,
falls down wells, battle axes
to the head, starvation in alarming
numbers and many iterations of
pox and croup, ague and catarrh,
bilious fever, dropsy and the flux,
melancholia, milk leg and screws,
a miserable game of one-upmanship
savored by all as they disappear
into the night, fore-bearers eyeing
us at the door, polite yet taciturn,
playing things close to the vest
mum on the matter of the higher
branches of our family tree.
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 7:40 AM UTC
Grim weather workday
Co-workers tower and storm
Frustration wind gusts
Colleague’s deep weeping deluge
Workwear, my only shelter
Hi-tech coveralls
Cold tin pressed over concrete
Full-body shielding
Spikes guarding critical zones
Early threat sensor system
-------
--Tricky meeting one---
Sensors detect unstable air
Towering cumulus,
imposing updraft,
condensing vapour,
supercooled drops,
colliding particles,
electric charge,
energy below 100 Hertz,
below 20 - infrasonic range,
cloudburst impacts,
downdraft wedge,
gusts at 90 km/h,
winds slowing,
anvil passing,
dissipating feeder air
-Coffee break-
Systems check
Minor damage
Vibrations neutralised
Commence shield repair
-Tricky meeting two-
Scans register earlier storm damage
Key infrastructure stressed,
dam failure,
imminent water surge,
significant hydrologic activity,
evacuate downstream,
clay soil,
infiltration below 2 mm/h,
gage data above action stage,
avoid low spots, streams, and rivers,
sandbags in place,
wall seals holding,
precipitation easing,
infiltration nominal,
subsiding flood water
-Coffee break-
Systems overload
Unable to assess damage
Full reboot required
Commence systems reset
-------
Home brings fine sunshine
Joy-filled fluffy puppy front
Gentle joy breezes
Clear skies, household index high
Soft clothes, it’s cuddle weather
Sep 23, 2024
Sep 23, 2024 at 11:27 PM UTC