"vest" poems
A Queen in waiting, a Princess no less.
Each day, a routine before being seen.
For some, a shadow and not of the eye.
The kind you'd find on that of a guy.
An army of pogonophobes in dysphoric confusion.
Each purging our wardrobes,
a repeated delusion.
A leading *******
from a pornographic circus.
The ***** under graduate from
a school of *** workers.
Your Hubby's vision in blue
is our secret down south,
'cause he wouldn't kiss you with
that ***** mouth.
So, I'll stop you there Sizzle Chest
with your cans of Stella
in your pristine white vest.
'Cause this is real easy,
even for you Mr ******
I used to be a Princess but
now I'm a Queen,
recently coronated
after all that I've seen.
Poetry by Kaydee.
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 9:43 AM UTC
“Ask me about my patches”
Was written in Sharpie on a piece of cardboard hung by string and Duck tape from
his backpack.
I didn’t dare ask.
I was late.
The image of hipster: gauged ears, lip and nose pierced, cut-off jacket vest, tight
black jeans, —and patches.
I didn’t dare ask him.
But I was forced to read the large one sewn across his back.
That’s when I realized my first judgment was wrong. Not an image: he was a force,
his patches his power.
That was all just a glance, just a memory of a patch of the face of a woman
with streaked black hair, a tear? its fading... but the words won’t.
The words that I won’t tell; the words that carry with them the power of
the history of man.
Not of humans, of man: man who has ruled this world, man who has buried mother earth
(alive) deep inside herself.
Who pinned her down and penetrated all orifices— inserting, and removing and inseminating;
making her pregnant with ********
Man—men—when did we do this? Who was the first among us to realize his
superior strength?
I don’t dare ask because I am not ready for the answer.
I am not ready to ask myself the questions that I feel but don’t know.
I realize when I pass someone on the street, I don’t know anything—every woman I see at
night has a past, every man and every child.
I don’t know any of it.
But, I do know some about the history of man.
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 4:55 PM UTC
627
The Tint I cannot take—is best—
The Color too remote
That I could show it in Bazaar—
A Guinea at a sight—
The fine—impalpable Array—
That swaggers on the eye
Like Cleopatra’s Company—
Repeated—in the sky—
The Moments of Dominion
That happen on the Soul
And leave it with a Discontent
Too exquisite—to tell—
The eager look—on Landscapes—
As if they just repressed
Some Secret—that was pushing
Like Chariots—in the Vest—
The Pleading of the Summer—
That other Prank—of Snow—
That Cushions Mystery with Tulle,
For fear the Squirrels—know.
Their Graspless manners—mock us—
Until the Cheated Eye
Shuts arrogantly—in the Grave—
Another way—to see—
18.5k
Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
His underwear is hanging on the lamp.
His raincoat is there in the overstuffed chair,
And the chair is becoming quite mucky and damp.
His workbook is wedged in the window,
His sweater's been thrown on the floor.
His scarf and one ski are beneath the TV,
And his pants have been carelessly hung on the door.
His books are all jammed in the closet,
His vest has been left in the hall.
A lizard named Ed is asleep in his bed,
And his smelly old sock has been stuck to the wall.
Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
Donald or Robert or Willie or--
Huh? You say it's mine? Oh, dear,
I knew it looked familiar!
17.9k
A gentleman is not brutal,
but he will prove all vendettas futile.
He is not immune to bullet, fist or blade
but any insult raised against him
will be met with a blockade.
He is stoic, but still smiles,
cracking his face open without reserve
for a friend, to calm, to a foe, to unnerve.
A gentleman dresses his best,
whether it Vans and sweater, or tie and vest.
No-one is beneath his attention
he gifts compliments quite often,
but when a man puts a hand on him,
that man goes home in a coffin.
No matter his orientation,
he respects every inclination,
He holds the door
the same way he strikes true,
every time.
He knows his weapon well,
but in blood, he doesn't buy nor sell.
He knows the time to fight
but of violence, he makes no light.
He respects every man,
every woman,
every child...
But,
if his family is ever hurt
and this one renders apologies inert
then they shall receive only
a box and a white shirt.
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 1:41 PM UTC
In a class, I'll sit and listen
they'll explain that I have no rights
as a member of the LGBTQ+
they'll say,
with pride of their skin,
black lives DON'T matter-
all lives do.
I'll sit here, OH YES,
I'll sit and listen
they'll talk about girls being ugly
talking about how
there are only two genders
and I'll sit here
relating women to paintings,
weaving them into my poems,
slightly pouting and confused
with my lack of their said gender.
Sighing,
I will sit here and listen
as they repeat the things
I've heard my entire life
and I'll bite my tongue, though not really
a look will pass by, rage seeps through pores
I'll leak liquid anger
until the toxins correct their rotten brains
I know I should say something,
but there are tons of them
and only micro-me.
Weak.
I'll sit here, and I will listen to them as
we all eagerly await the bell
Save us.
we're far apart, so
my mask is off now,
but when it sounds, when it promises peace
RING RING RING
I will stand, turn,
and Black Lives Matter will be almost
as prominent as a tattoo on my face,
the phrase will melt,
it will stick,
it will attach to my mouth
and say
scream
sing
the words that I cannot.
and I'll keep Sydney's hoodie on
as my bulletproof vest,
her chain against my heart
understanding that
THIS IS NOT A CHOICE
Why would I
ever
choose the pain I went through for this?
only to go home,
and hear more from my step-father,
with the victimizing mother actings
as if it never happens
Dec 2, 2020
Dec 2, 2020 at 4:31 PM UTC
Something about the woven leather
Reminds me of sandals you once wore,
In the garden enjoying the sun.
Your shorts and that old cotton vest
the one that was probably once white,
but Nanny wasn't around to do your whites anymore,
and so it grew greyer as your hair grew whiter.
The sun's rays danced through the waves of your hair
and into the garden,
Filling it with light, shining down upon plastic flowers planted among coloured stones.
Smells of stale cakes from bargain stalls and the sugar from flat lemonade in murky cups wafted out the back door and clashed with that overpowering cooking smell as you sat in your sun lounger and baked yourself in vegetable oil, cooking your Irish skin to a crisp!
The flower patterns of your walls in the garden and cast iron patio furniture,
The plastic mat that covered the carpet and always managed to trip us,
The halogen heater in the parlour and blanket on your knees,
The clumps of bullseye sweets in your locker and Quality Street tin of empty wrappers,
The damp and stale smells of the kitchen in your care,
The holy pictures and moving Jesus on the stairs,
The bath marbles we loved to play with and how they'd smash upon collision,
And the pink, silk quilt that enveloped your bed,
They're all pieces in the mosaic that illustrates your memory now and they'll never be broken.
I've glued them so tightly together it's as strong as your jaw!
Your jaw, always known to make eyes water when you'd turn during a goodbye kiss on your cheek and crush our noses! Even when we tried to approach with caution! But oh what anyone of us wouldn't give to feel that again, just to say goodbye and think we'd be over to the Bluebell to see you again.
So now I sit and look at the woven leather on my sandals and remember all the details, all the memories that are woven together to make you. Sometimes I wish I could click the heels together.
Bluebell
Bluebell
Bluebell
And be back in that garden, once more.
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 5:41 AM UTC
Last night we celebrated 40 years,
out to dinner we went.
So different than our wedding day
We ate and reminisced.
At sixteen I didn't have much sense
and at 23 you even less.
How crazy we were way back then
You in you bell bottom jeans and vest,
I in a black mini skirt and boots.
We road around until we found
a mailbox with Rev. on it.
In we went to get hitched,
borrowing your brothers' wife's' ring.
As the preacher pronounced us man and wife,
a box of kittens was my main thing.
A nudge from behind brought me back
to the day I'll always remember.
As we walked out the door
the ring I gave back.
Oh what a memory we did make
but the best of all
was our wedding night.
You road around drinking beer with your brother-in-law
and I went to a tupperware party!
Jan 30, 2011
Jan 30, 2011 at 11:09 AM UTC
You may see colors and a world that is free. When I open my eyes everyone is expecting good things from me. I struggle to breath in this cage without a window or door. Black and white, white and black-I feel as if to be under attack. Do I wait for one more year to pass or attack back? I want to be me but then all of a sudden there's something wrong with me? I seem so sad, I look so depressed. I'm okay, I'm not under any stress! Laughing in the back of my head because being me rather than the person I set up in their heads make them all think I've lost my sanity instead!
NoT yet hAVe i GonE mAD!
I have not ripped my memory's to shreds! I don't need more meds. Am I really seeing all these things or is it just in my head? Attack! Attack! Knock down the cage walls white and black! Black and white! Depressed in stress I wear a bullet proof vest; they strap me tight in the jacket without care, lock me up and watch me disappear.
Aug 11, 2016
Aug 11, 2016 at 11:58 AM UTC
The devil sat upon his toasted grieving red throne
Gulping his tongue, the devil never stressed
She seduced his powerful taste
He knew she was a lost soul, out of control
She was a walking mess, who was taking her toll
He had no business taking a hit to his statured entitlement
He promised to distinguish her from the rest, implicating a battle every dawning blue sky
His threats do not scare her passion to fight
She's a rampage with braided hair and an innocent glare
Zip up your sweater vest, here comes Hells pest
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 5:01 PM UTC
I am your Dystopian girl
got a black leather vest
here at the bottom of the world,
wearing shades so I can't see the decline.
I stand in the dark and wait for nothing
under this rusted and broken street lamp.
Heat from crowded streets and hustling alleys
keeps the blood moving in my veins for now.
Lament if you need, cry if you want
buy into the creed, it's Dystopia baby
that we made by hand with our friends
we like to call misery and disease.
We're always looking for a hero
to step up to the plate but the
early bird special is apathy baked.
It's Dystopia baby, wake up and smell the decay.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 8:32 PM UTC
The left of center
are in north bound throes of a dupe
and can't begin to forecast this wonder of polluted marvel,
in the morrow
my optics discharged in a catastrophic traversal
While whimsy and accidental feels like I've taken pills
a power rain this sobbing has spilled
No longer to be contained based on sheer will
Attacked by neurotic transcending
While sifting through files and photo stacks
Came across multiples of your smiling face
From when I shot you, a couple hundred miles back
No one would dare debase the abundance of your emitted grace
Bloodshot mist eyed and blind from tears
control lost during transport steer
Drips off my cheek pouring down my chest
Could make great sense to don a life vest
Filling up floorboards like a spraying firehose
Shattering cascades diamondize the windows
A single glance at an image turns farmland into rural seaquake
If they interview my lifeless corpse what a headline this will make,
turning tragedy into a foolish mistake
people will curse and laugh
Paved over roads now films unseen
when dusk fuse night from the weep my eyes dispensed
Elements effected by incidents
Rising waves climb over to decimate interstate 65
All over a tiny tear drop and her sweet smiling photograph
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 8:01 PM UTC
stress like the rest I’m trying to get something off my chest. its a weight so great my body begins to shatter all i want to do is yell but this weight is hell it pushes all the air from my lungs till they are bare. do you even care? are you even there? stress is the pain in my chest it feels like cardiac arrest i feel like i should be wearing a bullet proof vest because I’m wearing a red target on my chest. just something to aim at. stress is a mess with no clear way to clear a path without being cluttered by fear. it will bring tears, it will make you think of the ones you hold dear, stress is that weight on your chest making you feel oppressed. its something i deal with normally dont worry i dont repress. i paint it on this page with each move i make a digital valve releases letting you read this.
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 12:38 AM UTC
i love you,
fresh from
the shower.
glistening and wet,
smelling of aftershave.
"coolwater" by davidoff. often aslo sandlewood,
goat soap, from the local
farmers markets.
i love you,
dressed up smart.
in a brook's brother's way
dress pants and shirt,
blue linen vest.
johnny walker silk bow tie,
untied is best. then your twist,
(not as original as you think)
converse skaties, no socks
and bone bleached cuffs,
turned up.
i love you,
in your work gear.
just come home,
you smell of sweat.
clean and healthy,
always wood shavings
caught up, in your
unruly shaggy hair.
cargo shorts and
t-shirts,
that have seen,
many days of worksite wear.
size elevens in your hands,
those big feet and freaky toes
bare, ******* in the air.
i love you,
in board shorts and rashie.
rushing into the surf,
hand in hand.
with the energetic bundle
of love,
to which we gave birth.
it is not as though,
clothes made this man,
but boyohboy, you, frame them well.
it s the heart, the chuckle
the hands, the philosphy,
the clever, erudite, caveman,
the downright,
man-dumb bloke.
that endears, your heart to
mine.
it is, that you really listen
and take the time,
to make me feel and be,
phenomenal, wise, sensual
and beautiful beside.
i love you,
best, in my bed.
moving slow and sure,
undressed, silk and velvet.
as we express,
the reality of our love
and whisper words,
well known,
and cry to heaven above.
i love you,
then, here, now and eons
on.
even after the worlds
memory of us,
is nothing,
dust upon the breeze
our love,
will carry, forth
stardust on heaven's winds
and cries of our love and ecstasy
will birth worlds anew
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 5:38 PM UTC
there is something suspicious about you
every time I channel a wish through you
it all goes rather askew
last year when I sent you a special SOS
to tell you I wanted a nice red dress
instead of making good on my request
you supplied me with a green vest
that would have been okay for Jill
but it didn't quite fit my bill
Fair Godmother
if you don't get my wishes
straight
we'll be parting company
and there will be no debate
may this short note
be read and properly understood
make sure all my future wishes
are by you made good
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 7:03 AM UTC
Up in the crows nest with the hawsers,a steel vest that ran up the ship and fastened itself to the West wind that blew,
sat, Tamale the blue,
so named, because of his dour expression,that was compressed on his features like a cold North depression,
and he wailed at the gales,the unfairness of being, a hangdog of a ****** who saw nothing worth seeing.
The salt etched in deep and slept in his face though the vessel awake,raced on in the night,
Tamale saw nothing until the Bosun cried, 'land of the starboard bow'
too late then, when Tamale awoke,the ship hit the reef line and the hull broke in two,
and Tamale the blue was thrown down to meet his very first day in the depths of the deep.
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 5:46 PM UTC
He falls to despair.
In his mind, his foremost thought:
"Today... what to wear?"
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 12:01 PM UTC
You could feel it in the atmosphere
Things were set to change
The girl from the Midwest was here
And things got mighty strange
She came from Kansas, the mid west
She was country through and through
But when she came in wearing that red vest
You never knew what she would do
She's a Kansas sized tornado
coming back from Kansas way
You couldn't click your heels
to get back home
This girl, she came to play
Like the storm that dropped
Upon the witch
This girl, she was a force
No red shoes there to help you out
You'd best get on your horse
Not a big girl..full of fight
You'd best stay back a bit
She was wound up really tight
And she knew just how to hit
Leaving damage in her wake
Seemed to be what she did best
Just leave her be when she comes in
And she's wearing that **** vest
She's a Kansas sized tornado
coming back from Kansas way
You couldn't click your heels
to get back home
This girl, she came to play
Like the storm that dropped
Upon the witch
This girl, she was a force
No red shoes there to help you out
You'd best get on your horse
Flying monkees in the sky
couldn't stop the storm she brought
She was nasty trouble, by and by
Like a devil can't be caught
You'd kick your heels and wish she'd leave
Back with the wicked witch
Cause when she showed up in our bar
That night would be a *****
She's a Kansas sized tornado
coming back from Kansas way
You couldn't click your heels
to get back home
This girl, she came to play
Like the storm that dropped
Upon the witch
This girl, she was a force
No red shoes there to help you out
You'd best get on your horse
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 12:13 PM UTC
there was a little ostrich he just loved to race
very fast was he with a very speedy pace
one day he decided to be an athelete
in the olympic games ostrich would compete
he put on his number on his racing vest
the number 29 was the one he like the best
he stood on the start line till it was time to go
then ostrich he set off starting very slow
he just took it easy till half way through the race
then ostrich he got faster and set his faster pace
ostrich won his race feeling proud and bold
then he took his prize a medal made of gold
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 11:56 AM UTC
My hands fly across the key board as I search around.
Not for anything in particular, just watching people cross in front of my eyesight.
A girl walking in circles in a blue fleecy vest, talking on the phone.
I remember my father telling me the importance of leaning to type without having to look at the keyboard.
I thought he was stupid.
I thought it was silly.
I ****** at typing.
I still use three fingers only, mainly.
Pinky for the shift key occasionally.
Right ring finger for the return key.
I don’t even use the thumb for the space bar
Like you’re supposed to-
I use my right pointer finger.
I always had to endure the agony of typing with
The Box
Over my fingers in elementary school.
My best friend can recreate fond memories of a 10-year-old me
Squeezing
My eyeballs shut,
Lining up my fingers, my tongue sticking out,
Only to discover
I had typed everything
Wrong
Start over.
But having entered the college age.
I’m happy to be able to
Glance
Around
While I work.
Makes it seem like some automaton is recording my thoughts, which I don’t even have to think About as I
Consider a flowerpot full of yellow flowers…pansies?
So the poet was right.
He was always looking out windows.
Like all his poems would come streaming through them.
Bits of cloudy thoughts captured on paper, because his
Eyes were free to wander.
Silly poet.
Silly little girl.
Asdf
Lkjh
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Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 11:00 PM UTC
the sun beams out of every single one of your pores
and i’ve never seen a smile quite as convincing as yours
but one day the pictures painted in your eyes will crack;
maybe stumble and fall and i’ve never seen a face as sincere
and pure. the world is your oyster, your catfish and squid
and your delicate soul is a masterpiece, it is.
i don’t wanna see your veins blow up in your wrist
or your hand pulling your hair out, tainted with fear
your life isn’t a movie it’s a merry-go-round and the
sickness you feel will one day die down, just hold on
to hope because it’s all we have left, hold on to my
jacket, my sweater, my vest.
i’m not a prophet nor a saint, not an angel at all
i’m merely a souvenir of disjointed, brooding thoughts
but you’re captivating and like a gust of wind, i’ll
hold your hand and take care of the strings that
are attached to you, like a puppet of beauty, don’t
let your heartache deface your sanity
because i know you’re tired
and aching
and scared
but take my hand, hold it tight and walk with me
into candlelight.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 9:25 AM UTC
Cytherea, thy dainty Adonis is dying!
Ah, what shall we do?
O Nymphs, let it echo, the voice of your crying,
The greenwood through!
O Forest-maidens, smite on the breast,
Rend ye the delicate-woven vest!
Let the wail ring wild and high:
'Ah for Adonis!' cry.
O Sappho, how canst thou chant the bliss
Of Kypris — after such day as this?
'Oh Adonis, thou leavest me — woe for my lot!
And Eros, my servant, availeth me not!'
So wails Cytherea, grief-distraught.
'Who shall console me for thee? There is none —
Not Ares my god-lover, passionate one
Who sware in his jealousy forth to hale
Hephaestus my spouse from his palace, if he
Dared but to lift his eyes unto me.
Not he can console me, Adonis, for thee!'
Wail for Adonis, wail!
4.4k
In the springtime
Come walk with me
Hold my hand
Hold me close
Walk under trees
With new buds blooming
Walk over puddles
With old ice melting
Walk along pathways
Of bustling microcosms
Walk through fields
Of flowers reaching for sunlight
__________________________________________________
In summertime
Come walk with me
Hold my hand
Hold me close
Climb up the mountains
Breathe in thin air
Descend into valleys
And search Nature’s secrets
Let flames warm you
Let stars awe you
And never stop growing
But stay as you are
__________________________________________________
In autumn
Come walk with me
Hold my hand
Hold me close
Botanical tableaux
Delights all the senses
And reminds us
Nothing stays the same
Don’t fight the breeze
Let your curly hair surrender
But in joyful revenge
Crunch leaves under foot
__________________________________________________
In winter
Come walk with me
Hold my hand
Hold me close
Wear a vest
To keep your heart warm
But dance in the snow
And honor every ray of sun
Speak only in whispers
So I have to lean in
And visit me often
Because a year seems so long
__________________________________________________
I miss you
Come walk with me
Hold my hand
Hold me close
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 4:28 PM UTC
*After five good years of drought
It rained kisses and warming hugs
After my heart emaciating from rejection
I have experienced a resurrection
She kissed me wholly and deep
She sowed and had to reap
Could not recall the feminine grip
Even how to undo a lady zip
She kissed my upper and lower lip
Then around my body took a trip
Tore my favorite shirt,no time to unbutton
She ate my skin softly hard as a glutton
Not sure it was her mouth on my ***
Cause I couldn't open my eyes as she did it
She passed her soft fingers on my chest
Luckily I hadn't on my fitting vest
Crawled about my belly like a worm
While my ****** heart beat loud as a drum
She said something I didn't hear
Because passion had blocked my ear
She then undid my belt and my trousers
Quicker than all internet browsers
Then...then put the muzzle in her mouth
Was she aware of the bullet, I doubt
She cleared all the rust through the years
While in pleasure I cried happy tears
She knew how to hold the whistle and blow
Between where she knelt down low
Her palm around me was a soft tight glove
Felt she's the one that I deserved
Like a snake she crawled back up
And astride the volcanic plug sat Asap
Not afraid of the sharp edges causing harm
She kissed me violently and hurt my gum
I just couldn't care less at such a moment
Of a soothing ride, a welcome torment
Soon overtaken by my inner animal
I realized I could not take it anymore
And took charge of the walk to heaven
While the clock alarmed, think eleven
She arched tout like a hunters bow
And her eyes brightly seemed to glow
My journey deep was careful and slow
But the return as swift as Pacman's blow
I loved the way she clawed her nails
Into me, she reopened all my wells
I wanted to take her for a longer ride
But the wave of passion killed me,I died
Even when we were done I remained inside
Watching her skin as pale as transfiguration
Out of the joy we had shared, I'm glad
I received my emotional resurrection*
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 5:03 PM UTC