"hatted" poems
My grandpa loves gnomes
They’re all over the house
Sitting by the mirror and useless combs
There might be one that’s a mouse.
Ill give you two guesses at his x-mas gifts.
And every vacation we find a station
That carries the friendly red hatted myths.
He gleefully owns whole generations.
Grandpa looks like a gnome himself.
This is where we think his joy stems.
He fits in too well with his porcelain wealth.
But grandma puts up with it.
‘cause the gnome light keeps her books lit.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 1:20 AM UTC
In My Salad Days
Salad Days
**Wikipedia:
Modern use, especially in the United States, refers to a person's heyday when somebody was at the peak of his/her abilities, not necessarily in that person's youth.**
~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Salad
Hints of tints of golden
pear skins,
combine with
ruby'd cranberries
each a face, the cheeks of alcoholic old men,
each wrinkle,
a life's recording.
All are mates for the
marcona almonds
nestling, playing hide n' go seeking
tween silk sheeted leaves of
butter lettuce.
All dressed to the nines,
underneath a top hatted, cravatted, Fred Astaire
marinade.
Coated, bathed, loved,
protected by a vinegar of balsams,
aged grape must, pressed,
a lovely, desirable color,
a brown and bronzed rust,
pressed, then left,
to easy rest for
oh so many years,
like I do, easy resting,
when you feed me in
My Salad Days.
The Days
Though it was a life, decades destructed
Millenniums of de minimus,
Forty plus Seders of exile, of hell,
Marked by promises, whispers, horseradish tears of
Next Year and Jerusalem,
Time steeped in a tradition of patient waiting.
Each year, recorded by a spot of red wine
Purposely Spilled,
By my father on unbleached Passover tablecloth,
To example, to symbolize that
Messiness in life,
Is O.K.
The Salad Days
Salad served with irony generous,
When beard greyed and scraggly,
White speckled, wisps of sea salt,
All my youthful greenery, long wilted.
Yet the words herein writ are my
Afikomen, my just dessert,
My victory song of Hallelujah
Just before we eat, celebrating
My Feast of Ascension, marking a
Delayed Arrival, yet right-on time of
My Salad Days.
It was only when
I was resurrected as two bodies,
A pair of cuffed links coupled,
In My Salad Days,
With the taste of freedom,
A first-born infant survivor,
Was I rebirthed, and to the fore, risen.
When words fell from smiling lips, and
Rain and tears flew upwards, and
Each and every breath was an
Amen.
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 1:44 PM UTC
Walking along on the shingle spit
At Keyhaven near to Milford on Sea
You can almost touch the Isle of Wight
Less than a mile away o'er the lea.
Crab-fishing next at Mudeford Quay
With Lizzie and Sam on the nets
When off flies my hat which then lands in the sea
Chase is given but I’m taking no bets.
Later, me new-hatted, we sit by a pub
Enjoying our lunch and a chat
And we laugh at the turn of events in the day
Particularly at the flight of my hat.
Wearily later to our lodgings we go
Chicken Cacciatore for dinner, by me
We then all collapse and nod off to sleep
This just always will happen by the sea.
©Joe Wilson – A Windy Day by the Sea…2014
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 10:50 AM UTC
There once was a hedgehog who sang the blues,
And every day he'd sing his lonely tunes.
I asked him if he'd sing a happy song,
But he said not since he'd been wronged
By a certain red-hatted gnome
Who had driven him from his home.
That bad gnome, you see, had stolen his dreams,
And absconded with a mistress of seams.
With this seamstress the hedgehog had fallen in love
After she had sewn him some quite dashing gloves.
And while they then had a nice picnic,
In the rose garden, a place thought quite chic,
The gnome had more money
So she called him honey.
Then off they did roam, the seamstress and gnome,
Around the world, calling all places home.
The hedgehog ran off away from that place
Hoping to never again see Gnome's face.
But sadly Gnome found a job on TV
And every day he the hedgehog would see.
All this the hedgehog told me that night
As he sang in the pale moonlight.
Later that week I was back in that place
Where I found him with a smile on his face.
I asked him why he was so full of cheer.
And he told me that the seamstress was near.
She had left the gnome who was a rascal.
She had found with him naught but a fiasco.
From the hedgehog she had run,
But now to him she had come.
For she knew he did love her,
And he would be her lover.
Thus ends this story of seams and true love.
They lived ever after making their gloves.
Feb 24, 2017
Feb 24, 2017 at 10:51 AM UTC
Glad to see you, the ORANGE hatted man said to the YELLOW shirted Person seated in the FULL Reclining Chair, WHICH *By the *way, was ONLY in the Half Back Position. Being in the Half-Back Position allowed the YELLOW shirted Person to respond in Just a Slightly UPLIFTED EYE ANGLE !! And, the ORANGE Hatted man, Peering Down, with Head ***** Gave EACH of them an EQUAL Opposition Eye Angle of 22 Degrees EXACT ! ! Now, to Verify the fact of Equal Opposition, the PROTRACTOR MAN arrived promptly on the scene to Evaluate the Situation.. He (protractor-man) Had , for the Very FIRST-TIME, been especially Called for this HISTORIC Moment . YES,,YES,, For the very "FIRST-TIME" Equal Opposition between an ORANGE hatted man and a YELLOW shirted person, USING the Measurement of "ALL-MEANING", *THAT IS:: "The Protractor of Life"... This Historic moment would forever be Relished by Another Member of THE SOCIETY , BUT it was up to the Assigned Protractor Man to Assure all Interested Parties, That the ANGLE of Exactness was * C O R R E C T ! ! OR....it wouldn't COUNT ! OH DEAR GOD,,"THOUGHT" the assigned Protractor man, Let my Measurements be CORRECT ! ! The ORANGE Hatted man continued to Patiently Peer at the YELLOW shirted person seated in the :HALF-BACK * Position in the Full Reclining Chair.. A Trumpet Blast form a BRONZE Bassoon,, announced the arrival of a SPECIAL LADY ;Fully Gowned in STARTLING PINK AND Glimmering WHITE PEARLS , adorning Her Neck and SUN-KISSED" DIAMONDS flashed from her Fingers. In her Right hand she firmly grasped an envelope. She Careful in her opening ,as if it were a SEVEN-SEALED SCROLL ** Pulled out the PURPLE with GOLD INLAY INSCRIPTION ,"CERTIFICATE OF APPROVAL " FOR THE Magnificent level of ACHIEVEMENT by the ORANGE hatted and YELLOW shirted man ,VERIFIED BY AN "UN-COLORED " PROTRACTOR-MAN" "HEAVENLY" PRAISES AND ACCOLADES FILLED THE AIR** AND A "BOOMING-THUNDERING VOICED" "NOT-EVERYTHING WILL BE IN......."B L A C K & W H I T E " ! !
Dec 13, 2010
Dec 13, 2010 at 3:26 AM UTC
Certainly our city with its byres of poverty down to
The river's edge, its cathedral, its engines, its dogs;
Here is the cosmopolitan cooking
And the light alloys and the glass.
Built by the conscience-stricken, the weapon-making,
By us. Wild rumours woo and terrify the crowd,
Woo us. Betrayers thunder at, blackmail
Us. But where now are They.
Who without reproaches showed us what our vanity
has chosen,
Who pursued understanding with patience like a ***
had unlearnt
Our hatred and towards the really better
World had turned their face?
Who knows? The peaked and violent faces are exalted,
The feverish prejudiced lives do not care, and lost
Their voice in the flutter of bunting, the glittering
Brass of our great retreat,
And the malice of death. For the wicked card is dealt and
The sinister tall-hatted botanist stoops at the spring
With his insignificant phial and looses
The plague on the ignorant town.
Under their shadows the pitiful subalterns are sleeping;
The moon is usual; the necessary lovers touch;
The river is alone and the trampled flower;
And through years of absolute cold
The planets rush towards Lyra in a lion's charge. Can
Hate so securely bind? Are they dead here? Yes.
And the wish to wound has the power. And tomorrow
Comes. It's a world. It's a way.
2.3k
Sparks jettisoning into the crisp blackness,
A vivid orange against the backdrop of ebony silence,
Fairies of fire, winging their way home
On an unexpected breeze.
The bonfire a crackle, at once dangerous and comforting,
A furnace ablaze with light, livid and burning with raw energy,
Luring its annual admirers ever closer,
As moths to a flame.
The people, hatted and be-scarved, huddle, cluster,
Sparklers whirling before them, glitzy with extravagance,
Their wispy signatures hanging in the air, short-lived
And fading, fading into nothing.
And only now the fantasia of fireworks commences,
The artist experimenting with line, with colour, his audience captive,
And then at once, a dazzling fountain of jewelled light: ruby, jade, opal, sapphire,
A painting of shimmering castles in the sky.
And a middle-aged man with his son, glove to mitten; in his arms, a daughter,
Her bright gaze betraying the hands over her ears,
A snapshot of dizzy delight, breathless and enchanting,
A simple picture of rare beauty.
Later, with the remnants and debris of the evening lying discarded,
Dying, the brave bonfire, now petered out, sizzles and smoulders,
A scarlet and amber glow lingering on,
Still warm with the memories of youth.
Copyright Vicki Watson 2012
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 6:03 PM UTC
i fought for my country defended my flag
i'll do what i must to support that old rag
i don't drink craft beers
that just ai'nt my bag
i'm just an old outlaw at heart
if there's a chance i will take it
give me a choice and i'll make it
i speak the truth , i don't fake it
i'm an old outlaw at heart
Rules to be broken and highways to ride
I can do both without breaking my stride
I show you one face, but deep down inside
I'm an old outlaw at heart
I'm just a truck driving black hatted man
I defend my beliefs the best that I can
I belief in the flag that flies over our land
I'm an old outlaw at heart
I'll tell you my truths, like it or not
You may not like it, it's the best that I got
I know the pledge of allegiance, each dash and dot
I'm an old outlaw at heart
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 4:36 PM UTC
i escaped the trailer home
to the make shift rodeo
toothful gagglers &
not so pretty hollars
boys
i rush up the bleachers
squishing cans beneath
each jump CRRRUNCH!
i want to go to the
top
find the place
where
goodness
calls
an old sweaty man's hand grabs my trousers
PULL FREE
PULL FREE
.. i can't
his wrinkles shimmer chrome
the shiny belt buckle big n' bold
the pain of a world too ordered
to make people like me silent
he is pulling me down to sit
pulling me hard
my jeans are sliding
black
i wriggle
wriggle
always mama tried to make me sit
the teacher
the politician
my eyes hurt from all this looking
at things not right
i wriggle
the sun is sharp
that place where the shadow meets the crawl
i wriggle
and make a straight hand
bruce lee myself free
his teeth grimace and drip
i unwriggle him from my dreams
& climb straight up the big light at the top
a stadium of nowhere
big hatted heros
the swirl of dust
the crumbs of
discount cookies
the texas sky
cries no mercy
Mar 22, 2011
Mar 22, 2011 at 4:05 PM UTC
Oh mad hatted,
push cart rolling,
wanderer
wither goest thou?
Are you looking
for cans?
coins?
money to keep
on living?
money to keep on rolling?
I hope you
find your way
or at least
a place to
stay.
You're not alone
mad ***
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 11:45 PM UTC
--To A. J.
A black and glassy float, opaque and still,
The loch, at furthest ebb supine in sleep,
Reversing, mirrored in its luminous deep
The calm grey skies; the solemn spurs of hill;
Heather, and corn, and wisps of loitering haze;
The wee white cots, black-hatted, plumed with smoke;
The braes beyond--and when the ripple awoke,
They wavered with the jarred and wavering glaze.
The air was hushed and dreamy. Evermore
A noise of running water whispered near.
A straggling crow called high and thin. A bird
Trilled from the birch-leaves. Round the shingled shore,
Yellow with **** there wandered, vague and clear,
Strange vowels, mysterious gutturals, idly heard.
1.4k
Today, a total loss,
nothing could’ve been
done to save it.
Today was relegated
to the wierdos,
the lady who wears her
cat on her head,
her daughter’s miniskirt
hovers just below her
naughty bits as I ask
momma my litany.
And, I’m an all-American
red-blood, to be sure.
I would look, I would,
but that poor kiddo’s
got a face like a trainwreck,
so none of it looks worth
looking at, if you ask me.
I’m just trying to get out
the door of the cat-hatted
lady and her daughter,
the clockstopper.
Getting back to the office,
putting some desk-time in,
I call the war vet with the PTSD
so deep that it’s in his DNA.
His voice, so quiet
the rage underneath
is audible.
Cradling the phone,
I fret for just a bit,
wondering if his meds
are doing their duty,
and pondering the next
visit to his address.
***
©2015 P&ZPublications;
-JBClaywell
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 6:45 PM UTC
Clean shaven, bowler-hatted, crisp-suited men
are spattered across the canvas,
with stiffened spines,
vertebrae militarily ordered,
Plunging toward the ground,
not falling,
plunging,
leaden,
from a sky the color of a smokers’ lungs,
gray and blue from lack of oxygen,
sputtering them out.
They seem not to notice.
Blank-faced, easy-armed, composed,
they seem not to notice they are doomed
to be piles of splintered bones
webbed with sinew and lumps of skin,
Thinking as they head toward the ground,
praying,
“If I pretend it’s not happening,
maybe I’ll be okay”
from the heartless pavement,
gravity with the whole world behind it,
yanking them like teeth from the air.
Only a few clenched fists betray their terror.
Or,
the
Choking, muted, and embittered city
could be letting them go,
allowing them to evaporate
back to the sky where they belong,
Welcoming them home, that sky,
not with violence,
welcoming,
gently,
to a sky where ennui is beautiful,
star after star after star,
whispering that they are important, splendid, lovely.
One can only hope.
Oct 6, 2012
Oct 6, 2012 at 10:41 PM UTC
Snowfall gently covered Belleville
in a blanket of softest down –
iridescent in the gaslight coronas.
A carriage pulled up at City Park Hall where
the coachman took white-gloved hands
and eased the ladies gently down the steps.
Some paused to pat the horses
in thanksgiving for the lift.
Top - hatted men offered arms to their wives,
escorting them up the snowy stairs
and into the buzzing lobby.
Trays of wine circled the room -
their cargo reduced at every stop.
Each raconteur spoke of celebration for the
Philharmonic had turned a decade old that week.
Programs in hand, people claimed their seats
while musicians on stage
practiced random admixtures of
excerpts that would come to order soon.
Then by the light of gas chandeliers,
Julius Liese raised his arms and brought
Haydn’s symphonic London to Illinois -
a citizen orchestra led by the local lumber czar.
After the final echoes melted into applause
and coats were lifted over shoulders;
the time had come for the waiting carriages -
snow still swirling in the gaslight glow.
The clopping of hooves on cobblestone
drifted into the passengers’ ears
and co-mingled with the echoes of
strings, drums and wind blown music
still singing in their memories
and irradiating their souls,
January, 2007
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 3:40 AM UTC
it's cold
having tested the
boundaries of this
knowledge
my nose retreats
rough brushed felt
the most likely home
hidden behind the buttons of my jacket
and scarf
jam red, spilling
up over the collar
into the morning grey.
I squint up
the road past The
Rooster, down to the
bus hutch, barely containing
the Asian nanny
with pink-hatted Precious
this bus is not for me
nor the next
I glance down at
the slip of paper
crumpled, dwarfed by
my mittens,
I thumb the coffee stain kissing
the blue of the ball point pen scrawl.
42.
was I even sure that
was a route?
the price?
no change chilling
in the pockets against my jeans
a bent fingernail against denim
reveals I've also
lost my pass.
8:58 now
maybe best to just walk.
what was I expecting?
that the meaning of life
would really cover my fare
on the next bus? the
self loathing brought on
only by subzero, interrupted by
the scratch of metal
on the concrete at
my boot tips
golden.
flat.
I have won.
that's more like it.
I'd rather travel by
glass elevator anyway.
If we're splitting hairs..
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 8:52 PM UTC
I was dragged
out of trees, off ropeswings
away from friends
every single Sunday of my youth.
The big grey church
filled with frumpy hatted snobs
lit through windows covered
in incomprehensible verse
held neither wonder, peace nor fascination.
Long, agonising sits,
trying not to giggle with my brothers
and praying only for the ordeal to end
did little to fill me with reverence.
But there was a place.
There was a building in whose hallowed hush
I felt the truth of awe,
a place where universes were revealed,
imagination ignited,
questions answered clearly
and not with twenty tons of sludgy obfuscation.
The library.
I loved it even before I could read,
and afterwards, well -
it still seems incredible
that such a place could exist.
Time passes.
And the fact that the powdered old cows
can still fill the church each Sunday,
fill the collection plates,
sing their ****** songs and go,
while rows of empty shelves
gather dust in the ghost of the library
simply
makes me
want
to weep.
Mar 30, 2011
Mar 30, 2011 at 11:37 AM UTC
That fanfare will always be there,
So will the loud proclamations be,
But they will only remain martyrs.
That assembly will always be there,
So will the very silent salutations be,
But they won't rise up from their beds.
Those tank platoon will always be there,
So will its dominating aura-presence be,
But oil-wells shall never churn them out.
That hatted guy will always be there,
So will forever his beautiful wife be,
But they will only remain martyrs.
That gentleman will always be there,
So will all his mugged-up words be,
But they will still remain martyrs.
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 1:54 AM UTC
this debt, this book, this tort,
so overdue, uncivil wrong demanding reconciliation,
that the librarians sent the hoodlums
to remind me of my obligations
there must be unfinished, three or four Gebbie precursors,
lying about awaiting further final definition
unmarshaled me, unable to see them through to completion,
but my hindsight, my guilty plea, aided by an assertive,
rear self-kicking, offers me some motivation immediacy
When I see the Auckland Sky Center in photos,
a hard hatted man with softest heart always,
is on top, doing his native Aussie global
(in place) walkabout, better to see,
the cubature volume of the global poetry underneath his feet,
the poetic underworld, needing a
Gebbie supervisory drilling read down
Enough!
unsatisfactory above this ditty notation for one who
tenders unto me comforting words that
drill down so deeply, keeping,
"the night shall not disrobe you,"
that only a single rhyming word
is satisfactory but yet too,
is insufficient to capture
the audio of innards weeping
surely aware, the nighttime, is when I best my own analytics,
disrobing in a room of black letters on a white background
for all who stumble by moonlight on the bards of "perchance,^"
giving pieces of me to the those who not only read my verses,
but those who ken
that the unspoken spaces in between,
containers of what is not writ,
but only modestly well hid,
is where lies oft the more important script
and he gets that...
where the skills when most needed?
his precision will deserves artistry, not sophistry,
and I am flailing, failing inadequately to pay my overdue
it is early morn in Taranaki,
perhaps he will see this lackey's lacking insufficiency,
before he goes climbing man-made towers
that bear witness
to mens bigger dreams,
perhaps when he returns later tonight,
in a snifter of old malt scotch,
his "last one for the road"
he will see it floating,
and think of me,
this time, happily,
disrobing mine soul's own nighttime,
trusting him to keep all safe,
entrusting it to him,
and to Janet,
my best,
red and black,
sweetest dreams
<>
https://hellopoetry.com/marshal-gebbie/
9/5/17 13:55pm
Sep 5, 2017
Sep 5, 2017 at 1:53 PM UTC
It’s a riding of the golden enthroning chariot
around the tumultuous roaring coliseum as of
ancient & fast declining Rome,
all amidst a clamoring sea
of simple red-hatted whiteness,
as he absorbs, just soaks right on in,
that honest folks love.
All the while smiling
like Vinnie in a bar in Queens
chuckling over his latest conquest story,
as he shares weak Martini’s with his
drunken & besotted lieutenants.
His time to gloat & sneer at the weak & fallen,
the small boy’s big day out,
riding in papas fancy car
while tossing out empty favors
& a smirking Royal glance at the limping
trembling, so victorious
hopeful rubes.
No, it’s not a thankyou tour,
it’s a Victory lap.
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 11:49 PM UTC
Trump rallied today
which in plain language
means he absorbed the adoration
of a large group of white folks all red-hatted
& sign-waving as if the election was still going
on & Gods Chosen walked among them one more
time just for the fun of it,
& he trotted out the usual enemies of their illusion
& his incompetence & blatant lies,
the press …
for if its daily being pointed out that you fail,
lie & basically don’t know what the hell you’re
doing then labeling those who point this out as
‘enemies of the people’ is I guess one way to
handle it,
& he played the tunes & he pontificated & simple
minded angry Americans praised him to the skies
& felt better about life as The Great Leader promised
better days even though he’s basically done very little
to help your average folk & the courts have challenged
his attempted edicts & his wall is still unfunded & his
tax cuts essentially give more money to rich folks,
but never mind,
‘Make America Great’ resounded through the stadium
as the white common folks found their voice, their man,
their savior & the rich get richer, & the seas get higher,
& the ice melts, & the innocent get deported & Planned
Parenthood gets defunded & we essentially enter a new
age of barbarism, ignorance & good old down home
flag waving victory of the deluded, fooled & just plain
simple.
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 9:49 PM UTC
Seeing the sort of someone
In white shirt, black hatted
Knowing what goes on behind closed doors
Crude & lascivious
But before your Maker..?
Oh, on all fours..!
Jul 22, 2022
Jul 22, 2022 at 8:23 AM UTC
~
deep in the recesses of slumber
dreams are influenced by external forces
we pulled the mattress into the living space
for a little impromptu camping
and being in such proximity to the dog beds
we found their licking and scratching and chewing
to be near unbearable
white noise fan blades breaking up the roar
it was a dream
at first the high hatted chef seemed normal
presenting plates of deliciousness
when at once he grabbed an ice pick
and went to insanely hacking on a large frozen rectangle
it might as well have been a mobster ******
chips flew and the pointed tip plunged deeper and deeper
my eyes opened to a steady rhythmic licking
as the oldest dog lay against the Stearns and Roebuck
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 4:51 PM UTC
It is
is it not
what you give
not what you've got.
we climb up the pyramid
In shallow breaths
in deep ravines
making peace with
dreams we had
but never got
It is so
is it not?
I accede to her request
when she says,
'It's cold outside put on
a woolly vest'
common sense
to do what's right
to be the best
at what you do?
I think Russell knew.
It was childhood in the neighbourhood on the last knockings of my youth
and the truth stays trapped in mittens and a bobble hatted
boy.
There the mountains rose in the mornings
and fell into fits of laughter.
Nov 22, 2016
Nov 22, 2016 at 4:20 AM UTC