"overcoats" poems
The line didn't move, though there were not
many people in it. In a half-hearted light
the lone agent dealt patiently, noiselessly, endlessly
with a large dazed family ranging
from twin toddlers in strollers to an old lady
in a bent wheelchair. Their baggage
was all in cardboard boxes. The plane was delayed,
the rumor went through the line. We shrugged,
in our hopeless overcoats. Aviation
had never seemed a very natural idea.
Bored children floated with faces drained of blood.
The girls in the tax-free shops stood frozen
amid promises of a beautiful life abroad.
Louis Armstrong sang in some upper corner,
a trickle of ignored joy.
Outside, in an unintelligible darkness
that stretched to include the rubies of strip malls,
winged behemoths prowled looking for the gates
where they could bury their koala-bear noses
and **** our dimming dynamos dry.
Boys in floppy sweatshirts and backward hats
slapped their feet ostentatiously
while security attendants giggled
and the voice of a misplaced angel melodiously
parroted FAA regulations. Women in saris
and kimonos dragged, as their penance, behind them
toddlers clutching Occidental teddy bears,
and chair legs screeched in the food court
while ill-paid wraiths mopped circles of night
into the motionless floor.
10.3k
In Worcester, Massachusetts,
I went with Aunt Consuelo
to keep her dentist's appointment
and sat and waited for her
in the dentist's waiting room.
It was winter. It got dark
early. The waiting room
was full of grown-up people,
arctics and overcoats,
lamps and magazines.
My aunt was inside
what seemed like a long time
and while I waited and read
the National Geographic
(I could read) and carefully
studied the photographs:
the inside of a volcano,
black, and full of ashes;
then it was spilling over
in rivulets of fire.
Osa and Martin Johnson
dressed in riding breeches,
laced boots, and pith helmets.
A dead man slung on a pole
"Long Pig," the caption said.
Babies with pointed heads
wound round and round with string;
black, naked women with necks
wound round and round with wire
like the necks of light bulbs.
Their ******* were horrifying.
I read it right straight through.
I was too shy to stop.
And then I looked at the cover:
the yellow margins, the date.
Suddenly, from inside,
came an oh! of pain
--Aunt Consuelo's voice--
not very loud or long.
I wasn't at all surprised;
even then I knew she was
a foolish, timid woman.
I might have been embarrassed,
but wasn't. What took me
completely by surprise
was that it was me:
my voice, in my mouth.
Without thinking at all
I was my foolish aunt,
I--we--were falling, falling,
our eyes glued to the cover
of the National Geographic,
February, 1918.
I said to myself: three days
and you'll be seven years old.
I was saying it to stop
the sensation of falling off
the round, turning world.
into cold, blue-black space.
But I felt: you are an I,
you are an Elizabeth,
you are one of them.
Why should you be one, too?
I scarcely dared to look
to see what it was I was.
I gave a sidelong glance
--I couldn't look any higher--
at shadowy gray knees,
trousers and skirts and boots
and different pairs of hands
lying under the lamps.
I knew that nothing stranger
had ever happened, that nothing
stranger could ever happen.
Why should I be my aunt,
or me, or anyone?
What similarities
boots, hands, the family voice
I felt in my throat, or even
the National Geographic
and those awful hanging *******
held us all together
or made us all just one?
How I didn't know any
word for it how "unlikely". . .
How had I come to be here,
like them, and overhear
a cry of pain that could have
got loud and worse but hadn't?
The waiting room was bright
and too hot. It was sliding
beneath a big black wave,
another, and another.
Then I was back in it.
The War was on. Outside,
in Worcester, Massachusetts,
were night and slush and cold,
and it was still the fifth
of February, 1918.
3.5k
Wasted words I should have thought instead of said
Wasted dreams of who knows what stuck in my head
Wasted thoughts and wasted time,
Wasted explosive dramamine
With about fifty billion fuses.
Wasted money
Wasted laughs
On wasted verbal acrobat
-ics that used to summon smiles,
T'would only last but for awhile
Before they'd disappear again
Though I may not see you,
You're still my friend.
Wasted smiles on
Wasted jokes
Wasted guys in overcoats
Written on pages
Never finished
Endless stages.
Wasted sorrow
Wasted pain
We may ne'er connect again
But I still love to make you laugh
Though you may think I'm such an ***
I am wasted.
Wasted for the better ends
Wasted for family and friends
But I still see where hope begins...
I am wasted.
May 16, 2010
May 16, 2010 at 3:07 PM UTC
.
The
puppet awakened to...
martyrs-
selling raffle tickets
to the resurrection of
heaven-
as
the dawn
came crashing through
the trees...
and the moon hung lifeless
like a wet rag,
clipped to a frayed clothes line.
To
superstitious souls-
wearing antique flesh
like over sized overcoats;
and eternity mixing
with dew
and flow i n g
s l o w
l
y
into the holy river.
Who cut the puppet's strings?
.
Jan 22, 2010
Jan 22, 2010 at 3:59 PM UTC
There is something about seeing a woman
in a man's clothes
that hints at recent sins,
for where are her own clothes
and why does she choose to wear
a man's shirt? A man's stink?
His salty passions, faded nights
written sartorially in drink?
The wood of his wardrobe
and his love of meatballs?
Jackets are overcoats, clothes lie,
skin peeks from behind rolled up sleeves
pants are dated, we say, **** pants.
There is a sense that what I've been wearing
has never seen better days.
I study this creature with a cat's grace
masquerading in a mongrel's wrinkled skin.
It is then I decide that these clothes
are no longer mine, that they belong
to she who they've chosen and that
I'd rather be naked than feel the shame
of being second best for my own things.
Quietly, I peel her like an orange,
tongues singing like electricity.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 9:29 AM UTC
They flex slowly.
Come up tails.
Coin flips floating down the
Riverbanks,
Past the fountain pens
Dripping with fresh
Ink and short-armed knives.
Laughing hard
At their ridiculous leather jackets,
Brandishing bug eyed grins
Above all other
Deadly weapons,
Just as disarming.
Souped up
Vintage cars and hats
And stowed away
Overcoats and canes
Somehow soaked
By the groundwater rain.
Coming up
Aces,
Breaking through the sea
These
Kids,
They'll be alright.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 11:28 AM UTC
translucent jelly fish
in burgundy overcoats
trudged along the lane
today.
the clams cousin,
the barnacle,
collects rent
from the whale.
surface tension
molecular bonds
ebb and flow
liquidized energy;
ocean spray
returns to the sea,
you see.
and the sea ****
sees it all.
Apr 12, 2010
Apr 12, 2010 at 5:06 AM UTC
I am a cube in a dark chocolate bar
seasoned with a milky white
continent of courses
collision of cultures
chili and chill wind season
in overcoats of global ambitions.
Born in the barracks of colonial masters
who took their women from tribal backwaters
of empire. These beauties succeeded
in conquering their Masters
in the art of warfare in bed and beyond.
say what you will
I carry the cost of all completion
and show the combination of colours
on my skin
burnt in the sun of these wars and conquests
all six of us soldiers.
we took his language and her complete
abandonment to beauty grew in the night
of knowing the white ruled the rainbow
and hard liquor while the dark bred the boldness
or so. (Mama said)
we, as children of different cultures
in a potpourri of pertinence
got licked, kicked, bruised and burped
cooked and laid as chocolates always do.
But we grew in mamas wonder of the world
at large, while Dad knew all the blends of single malt
maidens from the highlands of his birth.
as happy children, aware of hard work and toil
we rose faster than the fumes of spirits
and set about travelling the shores of net profits
and university empires instead.
Mama laughed when we told her
of the worlds and wonders we had conquered
and how the colour of our skin spoke for us.
Dad knew all about peg measures
and pork chops, fork, spoon and gunpowder conquests
as hollow as his casks of wine
and maturing as slow as his wisdom.
Mama only knew the meaning of knowledge
with no degrees.
God bless them both
as they sit around a table
in that great place in the beyond
and discuss chocolate bars
skin and colourful wrapping
of all six cubes!
I am Anglo-Indian.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 8:43 PM UTC
Stoners go hippie with the sticky sweet smoke
Dope-wicked hope stricken trippin' sinners don't choke
Sellouts sell jail cells in the cellar downstairs
Hairs-frayed-from-hairspray stricken sisters don't care
Tell me where are the werewolves wearing skin overcoats?
Not a body dare boast that their coast is a host
For a problem don't got one when the team boat won't row
Don't tell me you got hope when the dough runs the show
Don't tell me that you care when to sin is to share
Don't ever tell me that you know when your love never show
You're fuckin' bloody-gut, up-chucking sick
Don't ya know?
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 7:02 PM UTC
Known for leading charges in to debauchery.
Fearsomely handsome burning blue eyes that long outlived his passing.
“Didn’t leave life unlived, did he?”
Reformed, unrepentant; grown wraithlike, diminished.
“If you give up, don’t moan about it; go back.”
The scholar who led a rebellion against performance.
The Lion in Winter.
The Ruling Class.
My Favorite Year.
Born August- the son of Constance, he grew up.
He gave up drinking- he did not give up smoking.
Cigarettes in an ebony holder, green socks, overcoats and trailing scarfs.
Good parts few and far between.
Waiting…you could wait forever.
Together with fine people, good companions with whom I've shared my belief.
My belief,
that one should decide for oneself,
when it is time to end ones stay.
I bid a dry eyed grateful farewell.
Audiences, critics, curiosity seekers
“My Favorite Year”
unlikely to win awards,
he clutched his statuette.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 11:32 AM UTC
In a nation torn with racial strife
Where killing seems a way of life
Where rappers hold the people’s court
And looting is a favorite sport
Where drugs and thugs, both black and white,
Govern day and rule the night
When Superman is fast asleep
And shadows o’er the addicts creep
And rain don’t wash away the smell
From where it comes it’s hard to tell
Cuz truth ain’t always what it seems
When judges judge and lawyers scream
At least two sides in every fight
And everybody knows what’s right
Cuz the FacebookYouTube miracle
Sends evidence empirical
Across the globe at speeds of light
While the real truth stays out of sight
Hidden by gray overcoats
While politicians gather votes
And make the nation safe again
For women, children, mortal men.
But there are heroes on the street
Men and women you don’t meet
Unless of course you break the law
And you know that sticks in your craw
When a thousand thoughts are in your head
And you don’t see the light turn red
Or you’re headed to a meeting-late
And you’re only going eighty-eight
And the State Cop says “The Law is Clear”
“The limit’s sixty-five right here”
You grumble but you pay the fine
And wonder why he wastes his time
But the Cop has seen a different view
He knows what eighty-eight can do
The mangled steel and shattered glass
Maybe he just saved your ***
In cities large and village small
Policemen answer every call
In every town and every city
Sometimes it ain’t very pretty
Protect and Serve when Hell breaks loose
Mere seconds, all they have to choose
What course of action they must take
And pray to God there’s no mistake
Cuz each Monday Morning Quarterback
Will pick a side and then attack
And argue based on “evidence”,
“What they would do”, and “common sense”
While sitting in an easy chair
So very thankful they weren’t there
And radicals from either side
Make threats and say the other lied
And which of us, if we weren’t there
Could ever judge a verdict fair?
Families grieve and loved ones cry
Both innocent and guilty die
Sometimes truth ain’t black or white
Only God knows wrong from right.
pwl 1/7/15
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 11:56 PM UTC
Skies stretch sparks to light the damp ground
And I watch, chuckling by the lambs
Lapping the waves that smack tastily at their feet
And bring in the harvest for the day.
The sun bows its head
And sea makes its sleep
For it to hide amongst the bubbles
Until the Night claps it awake.
Footprints stretch up the beach made
Of arrowheads and other cobbled things
You're there, you're there
Pulling me to your place.
Warm, shivering houses, of
Wooden overcoats and salty lashings
Made wind by fervent tides
Desperate to huddle in and hear stories
Of your uncle, your father, your brother's ruddy cheeks,
But you have eyes with me
And we lend them together to the fire
To hear of orcs, of brochs and angry kings, far away.
The howling streets meet no one,
And pirates prowl their decks to see
A glimpse of my island girl
As she holds my arm cased in wool
Blond hair crying to the floor.
For I am a story, you see, I know what I have when I have it
And salt, quiet lamp-lit salty living
Make ancient ages while keeping,
The mainland for themselves.
Good thing I have her,
So I can share in what she calls home
So I can lie in the lavender in Summer
And cry with the Winter rain when she's gone.
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 6:56 PM UTC
"This too shall pass"
is a phrase that I apply to remind me this anchor will detach,
But as for now, I stare blankly at a fellow passenger's rust colored shoe,
paying close attention to the stitching--every detail.
Pushing down the urge to *****
Angry at every beautiful thing that's here when you're not.
My ears muffled with despair at every voice I hear that is not yours,
Reminded of the lively ants that littered the porcelain sink I bent over when I got the news.
REminded that their lives were pointless.
I could thumb their bodies into the porcelain and end them.
They were my only company though,
and misery likes that sort of thing.
The smell of travelers permeates the air.
My bag full of ***** laundry and this journal.
People stare at me and I believe their eyes say "sorry",
I must look like a freshly cleaned window.
I'm writing like you taught me to,
a poem,
like you taught me to,
Struggling with the decision to touch your now cold hand
or remember your warm one.
"Cold hands, warm heart",
You told me that.
With my guitar, I'd make like Orpheus and compose a melody,
to fish you back to me.
You loved when I played and I'd fall asleep to the sound of your piano---
laden with arthritic flaws, making it perfectly human.
You were my Beethoven.
I want to leap onto a bed of your clothes,
your sweaters, because you were endlessly cold,
your scarves that accompanied your overcoats,
Your lotion, your perfume, all items in your room..
NO little kid in India can have them!
You and I were friends, generations apart.
I hope I can live without my heart.
**** that house, all the doctors!
**** the faithless kin!
Anger resides in me like a squatter,
I don't want to be this angry-not for you--not on behalf of you,
NO. You are kind.
Hug the anger out me!
I will wait for the beauty to slowly leak back in and not be a nuisance as it is now.
The flowers **** me off because they live without you planting them.
I hate tea--I don't want to drink it anymore because that is OUR thing.
I am mad at all the wonderful things that exist because you don't.
A sign above me reads ,
Life vest under your seat
I'll bring it to you.
See you soon...
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 5:41 PM UTC
After riddling mad.
Austere dreams
indulge
long layered
overcoats.
Mar 5, 2012
Mar 5, 2012 at 3:01 PM UTC
Grey blankets of fog drifted through the dimly lit streets. The rain only a whisper, softly seeping into umbrellas and jackets. I stand still, watching as masses of black and brown overcoats hustle from grey cars to dull brick buildings. Flesh, red lips and blonde hair steal my gaze. In a sea of black umbrellas, deployed as bomb shelters, hers is still wrapped in nylon, secured with Velcro. Yet she holds it above her head as though it were open. Pale hands caress the black handle, and tease the button that would surely shield her from my stare. Stiff like a gargoyle I begin to wade through the damp and dreary to witness this anomaly more clearly. From across the street she notices me, her attention stolen by flesh, bright eyes and wet hair. She crosses the street, smiles and hands me the umbrella. Without once removing my eyes from hers, or hers from mine she tears the Velcro and presses the button. As quickly as the umbrella flew open with an awful and startling pop, I disappeared into the sea of black nylon shields.
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 5:57 PM UTC
Chilling in blanket, grey red edged, itching,
Bright clear night,
Leaves him colder,
Fingers smart,
Blue, cold attacked,
Feeling older,
Cloud cover dispersed,
Lack of cloud makes night feel worse!
Holds on to night's mantle , try to keep warm,
His tatty grey blanket protects him from harm,
May warm his heart, if only a little,
It's only the cold that keeps him alive,
My homeless friend, a fight to survive,
Fights on night after night,
Wrapped in winter's chill overnight,
Stern, severe, no desire to be here!
Circumstances beyond his control,
Left him stuck unearthly hole,
It's Friday night,
Greetings abound,
Soup served by poppets,
Angels wrapped in overcoats,
Ladles in hand,
Here again to meet Friday nights,
Supply with demand,
Not societal pariah,
A sad soul, lost in loneliness,
Living, but not alive!
Livvi Kent 29/04/2013
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 12:15 PM UTC
The City Is a Garment
by Michael R. Burch
A rhinestone skein, a jeweled brocade of light,—
the city is a garment stretched so thin
her neon colors bleed into the night,
and everywhere bright seams, unraveling,
cascade their brilliant contents out like coins
on motorways and esplanades; bead cars
come tumbling down long highways; at her groin
a railtrack like a zipper flashes sparks;
her hills are haired with brush like cashmere wool
and from their cleavage winking lights enlarge
and travel, slender fingers ... softly pull
themselves into the semblance of a barge.
When night becomes too chill, she quickly dons
great overcoats of warmest-colored dawn.
Published by The Lyric, Sonnetto Poesia, Poetry Life & Times, The Eclectic Muse, Freshet, Better Than Starbucks, Jar of Quotes and Verse Weekly
Keywords/Tags: City, rhinestone, garment, neon, colors, night, bright, lights, cars, highways, motorways, railroads, sparks, hills, river, barges, boats
Mar 6, 2020
Mar 6, 2020 at 4:21 AM UTC
Ninotchka, I beg you
Stay
You shouldn’t leave
It's cold and nasty outside
Soldiers are marching
In black overcoats
One, two, three
Ninotchka, I’m sorry
I understood everything
I know now how
And you
Do not go away
I ask you
I'm a miserable man
But
Ninotchka, in the eyes
Look in my eyes
I beg
Another minute
I entrust myself to you
For all the sins
That
Ninotchka, tell
Tell them not to wait
There
I'm here
Stay here
I beg
You
Ninotchka, ...
Mar 25, 2018
Mar 25, 2018 at 9:00 PM UTC
Court is now in session
We are suspended business men
And teenage film stars
We are more marketable this way
Won't you take my word for it
All your wisdom is absurd
And a burden to your bank accounts
As the sounds of mountains
Are firmly standing up to bullies
We are millions of years older
Folding stock markets and overcoats
Wearing sweatshirts and sandals
Morning is our only time to pray
As we stray into the wilderness
Fences learn to keep their distances
And forensics is our only evidence
Regarding the dangers
Of too much living on display
Aug 30, 2019
Aug 30, 2019 at 5:00 PM UTC
The early risers
Are ripped from their sleep
By tinkles and chimes
Of programmed alarms
They tread their cold floorboards
To peer in their mirrors
Observing dark shadows
Beneath their worn eyes
They are the ones
Who meet with bewilderment
The dark of pre-dawn
And ponder its death
They are the ones
Who half-asleep shuffle
Along broken pavements
Avoiding black puddles
They are the wearers
Of gloves and wool hats
Thick scarves and overcoats
And knotted shoe laces
A slumber-some army
Making their pilgrimage
To station and hospitals
Factories and schools
They are the ones
Who catch the first birdsong
The breaking of dawn
The crisp of the air
They are the ones
Who gaze at the moonlight
Wonder at stars
And think of the spring
They are the ones
Who live out the hours
Whilst we comfortable sleepers
Lie warm in our beds
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 4:33 PM UTC
Hey there
You there
Standing with the director
In his chair
Talking about the right actor
Slick back your blonde hair
While you’re mouthing to him
Talking about the movies
Sends you into a hitch
Time to talk about that *****
Who is up next
You know you’re not in the right situation
It’s time for the nation
Let’s go again
For the new generation
Looking at the congressmen
With badges pinned across their *******
And a politically-correct three-piece suit
With their largess
Drenched in sweat
Driving the rally into the unknown folly
To fear the unknown people of foreign cities
More than just a sign
It’s all in our precious time
The high-rollers
In their representative fashions
Taking over the world
And committing all the crimes
But that is just all they do
Let’s be moving on too
What about the generals, brigadiers and captains and colonels
With their epaulettes and patriotic decorations
Conspiring against the nation
Like chameleons
Thanks to their post
With ideas
Those are insidiously of corruption
As they stand host
To nations feasting on war
And diplomacy at the most
Political amusement isn’t it
The dichotomy of having aliens
Deported
And these braver politicos star in their expensive overcoats
See themselves getting promoted
It’s rather fun
When the bourgeoisie
With their Large brim hats
To protect them from the sun
Cash in
More money and hate
More than religious faith
Innocents supposedly drowned in sin
Don’t know when good will begin
With the Catholic Church
Being a prison of beliefs
Since the inception of time
Changing political opinion as we speak
Which brought forth with it unnatural urge
Hilarious isn’t it when politics starts to stink
When the crowds go berserk as they scream
For more religious retaliation and a lost dream
Fun isn’t it
For the vengeance seeking righteous prisons
Who wish their prisoners burn in the crimes
That they spin
Before they can live out of those times
And their whims
But who is to blame
The heart isn’t tame
Is it God
Who has made it rough
For the virtuous inferno of actions
That has been extinguished by the holy water of circumstance and disdain
Isn’t it easy to blame our surroundings
Rather than our actions and our fate
Sep 7, 2017
Sep 7, 2017 at 1:45 PM UTC
i sat on the decrepit
chesterfield near the
window with a half-empty
bottle of whiskey
and a pack of cigarettes
pondering about death
pondering about trivialities
because i had nowhere to go
the roads were closed
the churches have been burnt
the bars were filled with ******
i was lost
my soul was empty
i have walked the streets
every hour
every day
wearing threadbare overcoats
and fedoras
from the strangers
i slept with
my feet were trying to find
the right path but
i was so lost
the lights have flickered out
the birds have stopped singing
and the madness have stopped
cauterizing my throat
Sep 29, 2016
Sep 29, 2016 at 9:59 PM UTC
We hunker down and shudder
at how pale the dawn appears
as it leaves the city of evening behind;
we were not looking, so could not find
any reason there for all the tears.
All of the sadness worn here,
thin overcoats against hurricanes
to protect our shoulders from the storm,
fail to leave us feeling warm;
unhappiness remains.
We hold our voices back from cheering,
afraid of being proven fools,
left blind within the heart’s surround;
music playing that makes no sound.
What’s not been lost cannot be found,
dawn plays by these rules.
But in among the foolish people
a spark glows every now and then;
A soul that reaches can be touched;
heart that listens, just that much;
dawn that does remember when.
We held our spirit up before that wind
to let cobwebs be blown away,
to dance for some undetermined while;
like an unexplained but honest smile,
one dawn before a brighter day.
Apr 8, 2017
Apr 8, 2017 at 1:41 AM UTC
This is a portrait of backs turned.
It's inspired by windows
on a railcar
passing an anywhere town
where turned backs
the shape of faraway kites
move farthest on windy days.
This is the wall
where a portrait of backs turned
could have been framed,
captioned
by the silhouettes of parting words
left in eraser dust.
These are the overcoats left
hanging
on the backs of empty bar chairs.
We sat on the precipice of a deep
conversation.
Your face was a blur.
Mar 7, 2020
Mar 7, 2020 at 10:40 AM UTC