"oates" poems - Hello Poetry

I remember you like a famous brachiosaur, ensconced in the terrible street lamps of west county apartment block row. That swaying bronze gate to your three flat two room apartment. Skinny legs for the couch, the backroom bedroom, and the bunk beds in the master suite. We studded me for excellent squeeze; one trident pull switching time against a baited lock. "I'll swallow you whole," you brushed off into my ear while I passed your cheek with my lips, braising your skin with dew drops of our rushes and sweat. Even for April this was alright. Your brother had already moved out, and listening to Hall and Oates and going fishing was all you wanted to do. So I made us two root beer floats with Almond Milk ice cream, and settled into you for five hours and forty-five minutes. It was before 5:00a.m. when you turned to the night and spilled the last ounces of your naked body out to me beneath the satin sheets. I pressed my lips hard against your nose and whispered I'd be leaving soon. Still I do not recall if I woke you when I left, but I remember that next day when you questioned if I had.

0

Apr 26, 2014

Apr 26, 2014 at 5:36 AM UTC

martin-narrod

Untitled

I remember you like a famous brachiosaur, ensconced in the terrible street lamps of west county apartment block row. That swaying bronze gate to your three flat two room apartment. Skinny legs for the couch, the backroom bedroom, and the bunk beds in the master suite. We studded me for excellent squeeze; one trident pull switching time against a baited lock. "I'll swallow you whole," you brushed off into my ear while I passed your cheek with my lips, braising your skin with dew drops of our rushes and sweat. Even for April this was alright. Your brother had already moved out, and listening to Hall and Oates and going fishing was all you wanted to do. So I made us two root beer floats with Almond Milk ice cream, and settled into you for five hours and forty-five minutes. It was before 5:00a.m. when you turned to the night and spilled the last ounces of your naked body out to me beneath the satin sheets. I pressed my lips hard against your nose and whispered I'd be leaving soon. Still I do not recall if I woke you when I left, but I remember that next day when you questioned if I had.

1

Ah yes the evening has an ending like a Barbara Cartland novel His eyes burned into hers like sapphires Glazed with the amount of special brew he had necked watching Bolton wanderers. They had won, so he fought with fans instead of the Mrs In the pub after the game he saw his quarry She was a prize His strong arms unfolded, her softly yielding body helpless as she was being swept away on a tsunami of passion Well dragged outside with a bottle of Auzzie white. The black eyes from his earlier exploits reflected on his away team polyester shirt in the fluorescent lights of the pubs smoking area. Then he dropped his pants revealing a porridge gun capable of crop spraying. Moments later she was awash with a spermiferois goatie after almost choking herself on a double portion of spangle after it fired both chambers It was love! Then the bell for last orders sounded and he was lost as to walking the Bourneville boulevard with her or grabbing a last pint with his mates. It had been a hard day But a true hero he did the Captain Oates and left with her The promise of captain's pie and a scotch was on the cards back at her place But her night of passion was not assured If Dibnah **** didn't strike as his alcohol to blood ratio was in the wrong place. On Monday he would be but a memory Next week it's an away game She will miss him

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Jul 27, 2013

Jul 27, 2013 at 10:33 AM UTC

MichealWolf

Football romance (soccer for US readers)

Ah yes the evening has an ending like a Barbara Cartland novel His eyes burned into hers like sapphires Glazed with the amount of special brew he had necked watching Bolton wanderers. They had won, so he fought with fans instead of the Mrs In the pub after the game he saw his quarry She was a prize His strong arms unfolded, her softly yielding body helpless as she was being swept away on a tsunami of passion Well dragged outside with a bottle of Auzzie white. The black eyes from his earlier exploits reflected on his away team polyester shirt in the fluorescent lights of the pubs smoking area. Then he dropped his pants revealing a porridge gun capable of crop spraying. Moments later she was awash with a spermiferois goatie after almost choking herself on a double portion of spangle after it fired both chambers It was love! Then the bell for last orders sounded and he was lost as to walking the Bourneville boulevard with her or grabbing a last pint with his mates. It had been a hard day But a true hero he did the Captain Oates and left with her The promise of captain's pie and a scotch was on the cards back at her place But her night of passion was not assured If Dibnah **** didn't strike as his alcohol to blood ratio was in the wrong place. On Monday he would be but a memory Next week it's an away game She will miss him

20

I'm sitting the passenger's seat of a bright blood orange 1973 Ford Pinto. Adam Levine is driving. We talk about the weather, and sing along to some Hall and Oates on the radio. (By the way, he nails those high notes— just like Adam Levine should.) In the interim, we share a pint of Starbucks Pumpkin Spice Latte ice cream— a flavor which we both agree is subpar and a total disappointment. As he passes the pint back to me, he admits that his abs in half the photos you see in People magazine are Photoshopped, and pats his little round belly in jest. I confess that I can always identify even the most flawless Photoshop jobs— and honestly, I don't think he is the sexiest man alive anyway. We have a laugh after that one, Adam and me, and devour the silence for a bit before I lean in and ask him if he even knows where he's taking us. He leans in too and makes some brief, but serious eye contact, (his eyes are hazel, by the way), and he says something to me that I really need to hear. “It doesn't matter if I know where we're going, Bitsy. You can always get there from here.” I lean back in my seat and smile as I watch the world streak by.

0

Dec 30, 2013

Dec 30, 2013 at 10:29 AM UTC

bforshort

sharing a pint of ice cream with Adam Levine

I'm sitting the passenger's seat of a bright blood orange 1973 Ford Pinto. Adam Levine is driving. We talk about the weather, and sing along to some Hall and Oates on the radio. (By the way, he nails those high notes— just like Adam Levine should.) In the interim, we share a pint of Starbucks Pumpkin Spice Latte ice cream— a flavor which we both agree is subpar and a total disappointment. As he passes the pint back to me, he admits that his abs in half the photos you see in People magazine are Photoshopped, and pats his little round belly in jest. I confess that I can always identify even the most flawless Photoshop jobs— and honestly, I don't think he is the sexiest man alive anyway. We have a laugh after that one, Adam and me, and devour the silence for a bit before I lean in and ask him if he even knows where he's taking us. He leans in too and makes some brief, but serious eye contact, (his eyes are hazel, by the way), and he says something to me that I really need to hear. “It doesn't matter if I know where we're going, Bitsy. You can always get there from here.” I lean back in my seat and smile as I watch the world streak by.

33

it's a surgical thing to become so real like the new thing, the next big thing confirmations everywhere tech bro's and rainbows can't handle this season of my life can't wait until the rainbows fade can't get along with the season next one coming next no one to talk to marching forth like saints the whole world a cult to join or not join

0

Jul 15, 2018

Jul 15, 2018 at 1:25 AM UTC

july-hearne

joyce carol oates wrote

it's a surgical thing to become so real like the new thing, the next big thing confirmations everywhere tech bro's and rainbows can't handle this season of my life can't wait until the rainbows fade can't get along with the season next one coming next no one to talk to marching forth like saints the whole world a cult to join or not join

15

(Haiku x 7) Ears are blocked...deafened Conversations are ignored Disconnected.....though Weary mind needs rest, Wary, half-closed eyes make sure World...still exists...while Aerosmith rocks me! AHA takes me on...Go West? Yes! Hall & Oates, too! OMD's Secret ABC sings Ocean Blue All my dreams came true! Eurythmics sings dreams I love how the Bee Gees ask, "How deep is your love?" Chaka Khan pledges: "For a chance at loving you... Even through the fire...." MP3 takes me... To dip...to wade...an escape ~~~ imperturbable ~~~ Sally Copyright March 2015 Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan

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Mar 20, 2015

Mar 20, 2015 at 9:46 PM UTC

sally-a-bayan

IMPERTURBABLE

(Haiku x 7) Ears are blocked...deafened Conversations are ignored Disconnected.....though Weary mind needs rest, Wary, half-closed eyes make sure World...still exists...while Aerosmith rocks me! AHA takes me on...Go West? Yes! Hall & Oates, too! OMD's Secret ABC sings Ocean Blue All my dreams came true! Eurythmics sings dreams I love how the Bee Gees ask, "How deep is your love?" Chaka Khan pledges: "For a chance at loving you... Even through the fire...." MP3 takes me... To dip...to wade...an escape ~~~ imperturbable ~~~ Sally Copyright March 2015 Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan

25

Disappointment dogged their every step on the trip back from the Pole. Amundsen had bested Scott, as the World would soon be told. Evans was the first to die, to perish in the frost. Oates, the poor old soldier, was next to pay the cost. Crippled by an old war wound, Home base too far to go, He walked out in a blizzard and was buried by the snow. Eleven miles to fuel and food The three men left were stranded A fierce winter storm held them at bay Empty bellied, empty handed. Bowers first, then Wilson died, felled by dysentery . Scott, their brave Commander, then wrote his final entry: “A pity, I can write no more, too weak to venture out. Nearly snow blind from the Frost, by Winter put to rout” Eight months later, a rescue party came upon their sad remains Robert Falcon Scott had died. The world would learn their names. They raised a cairn of ice around the place where brave men died. A crudely fashioned wooden cross they placed above on high.

0

Jan 4, 2012

Jan 4, 2012 at 10:34 PM UTC

john-f-mccullagh

A Party of Five

Disappointment dogged their every step on the trip back from the Pole. Amundsen had bested Scott, as the World would soon be told. Evans was the first to die, to perish in the frost. Oates, the poor old soldier, was next to pay the cost. Crippled by an old war wound, Home base too far to go, He walked out in a blizzard and was buried by the snow. Eleven miles to fuel and food The three men left were stranded A fierce winter storm held them at bay Empty bellied, empty handed. Bowers first, then Wilson died, felled by dysentery . Scott, their brave Commander, then wrote his final entry: “A pity, I can write no more, too weak to venture out. Nearly snow blind from the Frost, by Winter put to rout” Eight months later, a rescue party came upon their sad remains Robert Falcon Scott had died. The world would learn their names. They raised a cairn of ice around the place where brave men died. A crudely fashioned wooden cross they placed above on high.

32

Gettysburg a small Pensylvania town gave the battle its name At its end it became a place of graves Behind the town a small round hill Guarded by the 20th Maine Little Round Top hill now held the flank So that the union troops could now advance If the grey could crush the line They could with their lives buy the time And give Lee the victory he so desired But the hill was strongly held by men Led by Chamberlain Joshua L Chamberlain, a professor was A man who had a love of god But now with blood upon his hand He and the 20 Maine did make their stand On Little Roundtop hill He knew that if his lines did break The conferderates might win the day The war might there be lost With a mighty rebel yell William Oates and his men did charge the hill Into a storm of musket ball and minnie round Now dying men on the ground did fall Time and time again they charged Into that inferno of ****** hell Never ceasing to give the rebel yell Now Chamberlain with shot near spent Turned and ordered bayonets fixed And charged the rebel line The confederats now turned and fled Down the hill now slick and red With the blood of fallen men Chamberlains men of Maine had won the day From their duty they did not sway For many the hill was their last resting place And in their deaths was no disgrace Chamberlain had held the hill

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Jun 17, 2014

Jun 17, 2014 at 1:49 PM UTC

joe-cole

Joshua L Chamberlain. Gettysburg 2nd July 1863

Gettysburg a small Pensylvania town gave the battle its name At its end it became a place of graves Behind the town a small round hill Guarded by the 20th Maine Little Round Top hill now held the flank So that the union troops could now advance If the grey could crush the line They could with their lives buy the time And give Lee the victory he so desired But the hill was strongly held by men Led by Chamberlain Joshua L Chamberlain, a professor was A man who had a love of god But now with blood upon his hand He and the 20 Maine did make their stand On Little Roundtop hill He knew that if his lines did break The conferderates might win the day The war might there be lost With a mighty rebel yell William Oates and his men did charge the hill Into a storm of musket ball and minnie round Now dying men on the ground did fall Time and time again they charged Into that inferno of ****** hell Never ceasing to give the rebel yell Now Chamberlain with shot near spent Turned and ordered bayonets fixed And charged the rebel line The confederats now turned and fled Down the hill now slick and red With the blood of fallen men Chamberlains men of Maine had won the day From their duty they did not sway For many the hill was their last resting place And in their deaths was no disgrace Chamberlain had held the hill

37

We are assembled here this May evening of 2006 to celebrate our own Leading Lady of American Letters. The tall, slender author, her classic looks so reminiscent of ladies in an elegant Victorian era salon, reads one of her earlier short stories at the Free Library of Philadelphia. She speaks with such feeling and precision, we close our eyes and envision her youthful heroine's anxiety and naivete in that familiar setting of an upstate New York town. Later, in another room of the library, I will meet her too briefly at a book signing. She stands to greet me, smiling so pleasantly and asks, "What do you do?" in the friendliest way. I reply "I'm a proofreader," somewhat embarrassed at my flimsy Dickensian credential. This was my own personal brush with greatness and I find myself tongue-tied with hero worship. She is gracious and fragile, exquisitely feminine and warm and I would learn I was not the only groupie in the library throng that evening - a multitude of fans lined up to meet the literary icon. Joyce Carol Oates, as her critics rightly rhapsodize, is a force of nature, a uniquely powerful writer whose brilliance rests not just in the singularly American landscapes she paints, not just in the idiosyncratic characters who people her storytelling, but in the creation of rich personal moments of intimacy, of revelation and insight; she makes us witnesses, eavesdroppers, to her characters' deepest thoughts, longings, her voice reaches out to us from the pages, a voice as poignant as a mother's in the gloom of night, reading to her children just before prayers are murmured and sleep tiptoes in. The path of literary greatness leads us to her heroes... James Joyce, Emily Bronte, Thoreau, Faulkner, Flaubert, Hemingway; like each one of these celebrated wordsmiths, she is an iconoclast, an original... unique, incomparable, our own quintessential national treasure.

0

Jul 29, 2015

Jul 29, 2015 at 4:59 PM UTC

vernon-waring

Tribute

We are assembled here this May evening of 2006 to celebrate our own Leading Lady of American Letters. The tall, slender author, her classic looks so reminiscent of ladies in an elegant Victorian era salon, reads one of her earlier short stories at the Free Library of Philadelphia. She speaks with such feeling and precision, we close our eyes and envision her youthful heroine's anxiety and naivete in that familiar setting of an upstate New York town. Later, in another room of the library, I will meet her too briefly at a book signing. She stands to greet me, smiling so pleasantly and asks, "What do you do?" in the friendliest way. I reply "I'm a proofreader," somewhat embarrassed at my flimsy Dickensian credential. This was my own personal brush with greatness and I find myself tongue-tied with hero worship. She is gracious and fragile, exquisitely feminine and warm and I would learn I was not the only groupie in the library throng that evening - a multitude of fans lined up to meet the literary icon. Joyce Carol Oates, as her critics rightly rhapsodize, is a force of nature, a uniquely powerful writer whose brilliance rests not just in the singularly American landscapes she paints, not just in the idiosyncratic characters who people her storytelling, but in the creation of rich personal moments of intimacy, of revelation and insight; she makes us witnesses, eavesdroppers, to her characters' deepest thoughts, longings, her voice reaches out to us from the pages, a voice as poignant as a mother's in the gloom of night, reading to her children just before prayers are murmured and sleep tiptoes in. The path of literary greatness leads us to her heroes... James Joyce, Emily Bronte, Thoreau, Faulkner, Flaubert, Hemingway; like each one of these celebrated wordsmiths, she is an iconoclast, an original... unique, incomparable, our own quintessential national treasure.

98

As I set out To jot down this poem I had no earthly idea Of what would transpose And who all would be Joining along I'm as surprised as you To these goings on I don't recollect Any of this being nearby All the glimmer and glamor Catching my eye With my mind letting loose In the wondering why All of these characters Are invading my rhymes There are seals riding trikes Uniformed Taiwanese Clowns and their like With smiley faced knees Lepords in tights Like we need more of these A Kardashian or two To put our minds at ease Daryl Hall and John Oates Singing loud 80's tunes And what would be a poem Without a cow jumping over the moon Or a chimpanzee Swinging through the stanzas with ease Using the tails of snakes Like a flying trapeze There's even a racoon By the name of Rocky we know Using his Boogaloo To sweep dust from the poem And look it's Bob Hope Selling soap on a rope To keep it all clean With a rated "G" tone With so much going on Inside of this poem Guess it's best I stop here As this has gotten rather long...

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Apr 5, 2016

Apr 5, 2016 at 2:48 PM UTC

mike-hauser

Look Who Showed Up

As I set out To jot down this poem I had no earthly idea Of what would transpose And who all would be Joining along I'm as surprised as you To these goings on I don't recollect Any of this being nearby All the glimmer and glamor Catching my eye With my mind letting loose In the wondering why All of these characters Are invading my rhymes There are seals riding trikes Uniformed Taiwanese Clowns and their like With smiley faced knees Lepords in tights Like we need more of these A Kardashian or two To put our minds at ease Daryl Hall and John Oates Singing loud 80's tunes And what would be a poem Without a cow jumping over the moon Or a chimpanzee Swinging through the stanzas with ease Using the tails of snakes Like a flying trapeze There's even a racoon By the name of Rocky we know Using his Boogaloo To sweep dust from the poem And look it's Bob Hope Selling soap on a rope To keep it all clean With a rated "G" tone With so much going on Inside of this poem Guess it's best I stop here As this has gotten rather long...

44

he can’t hide the dreams in his eyes. so i guess I’ll lay on this flowered couch and watch the birds in a hall & oates love song rampage.

0

Aug 1, 2023

Aug 1, 2023 at 7:42 PM UTC

ama21

one on one

he can’t hide the dreams in his eyes. so i guess I’ll lay on this flowered couch and watch the birds in a hall & oates love song rampage.

6

Bamboozle Con Hoax Hoodwink Delude. Deceive Snooker Mislead Fake. Out Dupe. Fool String Along Spoof Trick Bluff. Burn Jaded souls will concede An Ex-lover cannot be believed A dagger to the heart, To the core Blow by Blow, keeping score No middle ground in Sight When both demand to be right If you’re nursing a break up, take the time to listen to these classics songs Inspired songs 1) go your own way 1977 By Fleetwood Mac 2) she’s gone 1973 By Daryl Hall and John Oates 3) band of Gold 1970 By Freda Payne 4) sorry seems to be the hardest word By Elton John 1976 5) how can you mend a broken heart? By Al Green 1972 6) tracks of my tears 1965 By Smokey Robinson and the miracles 7) I Fall to Pieces 1960 By Patsy Cline 8) tears of a clown 1967 Smokey Robinson in the miracles

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Mar 14, 2025

Mar 14, 2025 at 3:55 AM UTC

cj-sutherland

What A Wicked Web We Weave When We Practice To Deceive

Bamboozle Con Hoax Hoodwink Delude. Deceive Snooker Mislead Fake. Out Dupe. Fool String Along Spoof Trick Bluff. Burn Jaded souls will concede An Ex-lover cannot be believed A dagger to the heart, To the core Blow by Blow, keeping score No middle ground in Sight When both demand to be right If you’re nursing a break up, take the time to listen to these classics songs Inspired songs 1) go your own way 1977 By Fleetwood Mac 2) she’s gone 1973 By Daryl Hall and John Oates 3) band of Gold 1970 By Freda Payne 4) sorry seems to be the hardest word By Elton John 1976 5) how can you mend a broken heart? By Al Green 1972 6) tracks of my tears 1965 By Smokey Robinson and the miracles 7) I Fall to Pieces 1960 By Patsy Cline 8) tears of a clown 1967 Smokey Robinson in the miracles

37

I loved this song by hall and oates long before I knew it's meaning, then I saw your face and couldn't resist singing. Want you smile a mile for me...

0

Sep 15, 2014

Sep 15, 2014 at 1:21 PM UTC

zinalisha

My lovers smile

I loved this song by hall and oates long before I knew it's meaning, then I saw your face and couldn't resist singing. Want you smile a mile for me...

3