April 9, 1999 (for Ethelbert)
In Brooklyn when the flowering
forsythia escaped the concrete patterns
of tight winter days
I didn’t think about long
distances
or F-117s in contrast
to a lover or an army
on the ground
up close
and personal as washing out a shirt
by hand
the soapsuds and the fingers and the cloth
an ordinary ritual
to interdict the devils of 2,000 lb. bombs
dropped from more than 25,000 feet above
the children
scrambling from the schoolyard
suddenly aflame
until you called from Washington
D.C.
to say
'Oh, let me be
that shirt!'
poem by June Jordan
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Related quotes
The Shirt
The buttonholes were empty.
The buttons had all let go.
The shirt was now a remnant,
one he did outgrow.
The sleeves were short so he rolled them.
The plaid material was faded.
Now it was getting much too tight
as he saw his name brocaded.
The name was what she called him,
'Sonny, sonny boy.'
Her voice came back when he wore it.
It was a sound of joy.
He would have to give up wearing it
and pray that she would know
that no other shirt he'd ever wear
were what her hands did sew.
Mom. dear mom you come alive
everytime I see that shirt.
It helps me when I'm missing you.
It takes away the hurt.
Every other shirt that I have worn
could never quite replace
the feeling I get when I see it
for I see your loving face.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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No Shoes, No Shirt, No Problems
Ive been up to my neck workin 6 days a week
Wearin holes into the shoes on my feet
Been dreamin of gettin away since I dont know
Aint no better time than now..for mexico
No shoes, no shirt, no problems
Blues what blues..hey I forgot them
The sun and the sand and a drink in my hand with no bottom
And no shirt, no shirt, and no problems!
No problems
Want a towel on a chair in the sand by the sea
Want to look thru my shades and see you there with me
Want to soak up life for a while
In laid back mode
No boss, no polite, no stress, no dress code
No shoes, no shirt, no problems
Blues what blues hey I forgot them
The sun and the sand and a drink in my hand with no bottom
And no shoes, no shirt, and no problems
Babe lets get packed..tank tops and flip flops if u got them
No shoes, no shirt, no problems
No problems.
song performed by by Kenny Chesney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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No Shoes, No Shirt, No Problem
I've been up to my neck workin 6 days a week
wearin holes into the shoes on my feet
been dreamin of gettin away since i dont know
Aint no better time than now..for mexico
No shoes, No shirt, No problems
Blues what blues..hey i forgot them
The sun and the sand and a drink in my hand with no bottom
and no shirt, no shirt, and no problems!
No problems
Want a towel on a chair in the sand by the sea
want to look thru my shades and see you there with me
Want to soak up life for a while
In laid back mode
No boss, no polite, no stress, no dress code
No shoes, no shirt, no problems
Blues what blues hey i forgot them
The sun and the sand and a drink in my hand with no bottom
and no shoes, no shirt, and no problems
Babe lets get packed..tank tops and flip flops if u got them
No shoes, no shirt, no problems
No problems
song performed by by Kenny Chesney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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No Bombs Here
Gran said it isn't safe
to walk about the bombsites
Janice said
as you walked with her
off of Meadow Row
towards the bombed out sites
of WW11
there might be
unexploded bombs
she added
holding on to your shirt sleeve
there are no
unexploded bombs here
you said
to reassure
you paused midway
and stared back
to where the coal wharf stood
and coalmen went about their work
loading trucks and horse drawn carts
how do you know?
she asked
her hand gripping
your shirt sleeve tight
don't you trust me?
you said
turning your head
seeing her eyes wide
beneath her red beret
yes but maybe there could be
hidden beneath ground
you looked around
with hand above your brow
none I can see
you said
she released your sleeve
and touched your hand
her smooth skin
like soft silk
moved over yours
you mustn't tell Gran
she said
she's forbidden me
to go on sites
you sensed her pulse
tap along your palm
of course I won't
you said
and walked across
the bricks and rubble
and weeds between
even here
amidst the bombed out ruins
a touch of green.
poem by Terry Collett
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Shrinking
Have you ever had that feeling
you are growing,
or is it your clothes are shrinking?
You know when your trouser bottoms
start creeping up to your knees,
or your shirt sleeves
start climbing up to your elbows,
or your waistline begins to grow,
but your belt hangs loose,
or your chest is expanding
because the buttons keep popping of your shirt.
Oh yea, I know that feeling ever so well
as it happens to me all the time
just after my wife does the washing.
She follows the instructions to the letter,
but still they begin to shrink.
Nothing is unshrinkable when she goes to wash,
except once.
There always has to be one exception.
I had a nice towelin shirt
and when she had finished with it,
the shirt touched my knees
and looked like I was wearing a skirt.
Here I am six foot three,
yet my clothes will fit someone three feet three
and a lot thinner than me.
Now I am at my wits end wondering just what to do.
It feels like playing Russian roulette
when the next wash begins.
31 January 2011
poem by David Harris
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You Look Good In My Shirt
When you walked up behind me and covered my eyes
And whispered in my ear, guess who
I rattled off names like I really didnt know
But all along I knew it was you
And, the longer we talked, the more we laughed
And wondered why we didnt last
It had been a long time, but later last night
Baby, we caught up real fast
And maybe its a little too early
To know if this is gonna work
All I know is youre sure looking
Good in my shirt
Thats right
You look good in my shirt
Well now Im not saying that we solved overnight
Every way that we went wrong
Oh, but what Im seeing Id sure love seeing
Every morning from now on
And maybe its a little too early
To know if this is gonna work
All I know is youre sure looking
Good in my shirt
Cmon now
Aww thats right
Oh you look so fine
And maybe its a little too early
To know if this is gonna work
All I know is youre sure looking
Good in my shirt
And maybe its a little too early
To know if this is gonna work
All I know is youre sure looking
Good in my shirt
You look good in my shirt
You look good in my shirt
song performed by by Keith Urban
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Hero Among You
An unsung hero walks among you
But one That can't be seen
he may be black or brown or white
but the blood that flows is green
He is not a monster
nor a creature from the sea
he is a normal person
just like you and me
he has a normal job
sometimes a family to feed
but now and then he's called upon
to do his heroes deed
the thunder begins to crack
the flood waters begin to rise
everything is looking bleak
says the frightened look in your eyes
you hear a great loud noise
and you see a blinding light
you are cold and scared
you are shaking from the fright
your house is lost
you're not sure what to do
our hero suddenly appears and says
'here I will help you'
he grabs your hand and pulls you free
and you hold him with all your might
you step outside and suddenly
you begin to both take flight
'impossible' you think
no man on earth can fly
but then you look up and see
a chopper in the sky
what is going on you say
your thoughts are so alarming
you look down at your hero
His shirt says US Army
you finally touch dry ground
and as you cry and bow your head
your hero grabs your shoulder
it's your friendly neighbor ted
so when the ground begins to shake
and the evil ones draw near
know that there are those among you
who are taught to not know fear
they are national guard soldiers
the bravest in the land
when the twin towers fell they were there
to lend a helping hand.
PFC Jake Hatcher
US Army National Guard
poem by PFC Jake Hatcher
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A Rondeau
To iron a shirt, first lightly spray,
then left and right hand interplay;
with one to press and one to lead,
the path's prepared, the creases freed
and gathered wrinkles fade away.
The woman's old, in slow decay,
she's taken care of every day,
yet restless hands still feel the need
to iron a shirt.
Her mind now tends to disarray,
yet sometimes skills, long practiced, stay
and though she lacks her former speed,
her family and friends concede,
she's always known the proper way
to iron a shirt.
poem by Diane Hine
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Heaven Wore A Shirt
Suddenly she came
Like a come that comes and goes
With a sweetness in her eyes
And a ring between her nose
.
Walking down the beach
We saw a castle made of pain
We went inside
Rings were exchanged
And heaven wore a shirt
.
That said
I really, really, really ove you
I really, really, really love you
.
Suddenly it came
Into my mind not preconceived
A dream of many oceans
And not the God that I believed
.
But like the come that came and went
My mind just had to intercede
The need for repetition arose
Now heaven wears a shirt
.
That says
I really, really, really got to have you
song performed by by Live
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bury Me In My Shades
In a pad with no heat, up on Sullivan Street,
The last of the hipsters lay dyin'.
Wearin' his shades, so like no one could tell
Like whether or not he was cryin'.
All the junkies and loners
An' coffee shop owners
Were all gathered 'round his bed.
He took one last puff
Of some imported stuff
And this are the last words he said.
He said, 'Send my sandals home to Mom,
Hang my T-shirt away.
Burn my guitar
In Washington Squar',
'Cause I never learned how to play.
Give my pad
To some needy lad
And tell him the rent is all paid.
Keep my cash,
An' my stash,
An' my hash,
But bury me in my shades.
Bury me in my shades, boys,
Bury me in my shades.
Burn my guitar
In Washington Squar',
But bury me in my shades.'
He said, 'Give my Brooklyn chicks away
To anyone who needs 'em.
Give all of my poems away
To anyone who'll read 'em.
Dig me a grave 'neath the coffeeshop,
And let a sad folksong be played.
Get everyone high
On the moment I die,
Bury me in my shades.
Bury me in my shades, boys,
Bury me in my shades.
Burn my guitar
In Washington Squar',
But bury me in my shades.'
We threw his sandals out in the hall,
We left his T-shirt lay.
We sold his guitar
At the corner bar
To someone who knew how to play.
We smoked all his stash,
And spent all his cash,
And threw all his poems away.
And Bob got his records,
And Ed got his books,
And I got the poor beatnik shades.
'Bury me in my shades, boys,' he said,
'Bury me in my shades.
Burn my guitar
In Washington Squar',
But bury me in my shades.'
poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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Personal
Anything you want from me
Ill do
But first
Lets get personal
Personal
Personal
Personal
Lets get personal
Personal
Personal
Personal
Personal with you
Were sittin havin dinner at your parents home
Some of the finest food Ive ever known
But I need some sweetness on my tongue
And it aint a type of sugar oh no
So maybe we can go somewhere
Neighbour room girl I dont care
Wheres the bedroom
(its upstairs)
Ill meet you there in a minute
Girl so we can get
Lets get personal (ooh yeah)
Personal (tight baby)
Personal (maybe we can get)
Personal (just a little, just a little bit)
Lets get personal (ooh yay)
Personal (I wanna get personal)
Personal (come on baby, just trust me)
Personal (I wanna get)
Personal with you
Im behind you in your bedroom with your hands against the wall
But keeping one eye on the door
Got your t-shirt and your panties on
Ooh I feel so right, cant be wrong, no
I know you like it when I touch you there
Girl just keep it quiet or theyll hear
Feel the tremblin all down your leg
Id love to head to your bed
So that we can get
Personal
Shhh
Should I take off my clothes (no)
Put the lock on the door
Let go of your deepest inhibitions
Let me fulfil your fantasies girl
Like me touching you there (yeah)
The way that I play with your hair
Emotions running wild until we stop
Yeah
Lets get personal (ooh baby)
Personal (I wanna get personal with you)
Personal (we can do anything you wanna do)
Personal (whoah)
Lets get personal (when you rub and youre close to me)
Personal (feel the fire just like ecstasy)
Personal (girl and the way that youre touching me I want it baby all the time)
Personal
Personal with you
Oh I want to
Make love to you
So lets
Get personal
Let me be
Your fantasy
Youre all
I need oh girl
Lets get personal
Personal (with every little thing you do)
Personal (its like ecstasy baby)
Personal (when Im right when Im back next to you)
Personal (girl I dont give a damn about)
Personal (whos that saw, go downstairs)
Personal (I just wanna get personal baby)
Personal (so bad makes me wanna say)
Oh whoa whoa whoa
It makes me wanna say
Oh whoa whoa whoa
All of my people say
Oh oh oh oh
Oh oh oh oh
song performed by by Craig David
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bombsite Conversation.
Fay sat beside you
on the concrete stairs
of Banks House
looking out
into the Square
where young girls
played skip rope
or boys having toy guns
reenacted WW2
taking no prisoners
firing noisy cap guns
and Fay said
where shall we go?
where do you want to go?
you said
away from the noisy guns
and skip rope games
she replied
and so you both got up
and went out
into the Square
and down the slope
the morning sun
blessing your heads
she in her summery dress
of yellow and orange flowers
white socks and sandals
and you in your grey tee shirt
and jeans and battered
black shoes
and you walked up
Meadow Row
between the houses
on either side until you turned right
by the public house
and onto the bombsite
behind the greengrocer store
and there you both sat
on the remains of a wall
looking around the ruins
and wild flowers
growing between bricks
and broken concrete blocks
and Fay said
I wonder who lived here
when the bombs fell?
what did they feel?
you studied her fair hair
tied in a bow
her blue eyes
scanning the scene
the white and yellow flowers
the weedy green
scared I guess
you said
I would be
she said
my mum said
she hid under
the dining room table
with her niece
where she lived
when the bombs fell
and there was the sound
of bombs falling
and explosions
and bangs
and people calling
and children crying
you said
Fay put her arm
under yours
and squeezed it tight
and lay her head
on your shoulder
and she whispered
I'm glad we
weren't here then
glad we were born
after the War
me too
you said
and she squeezed
your arm tightly
some more.
poem by Terry Collett
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Answer A Question...
the grandfather 'frost' wanted to hug still
who will be of given, and it what, is of giving...
he didn't know that the winter had recognised him,
although he put the cap of the clown on.
it is an exceptional scoundrel, a winter said
till spring. but you, 'don't worry, be happy.. '
he is as the coward which is afraid of his own
shadow.
I will dropp the snowstorm, and what's more,
he will be enough, when it covers, a strong wind up,
he will be escaping there where sun
isn't reaching so quickly - hahaha.
the spring smiled radiantly, talking to the winter:
don't worry my friend. It will be enough,
that I for him will ask one riddle,
the reply to which a 'sharp mind' won't find it.
he will be escaping there where sun
isn't reaching so quickly - heheheh
and she asked, and he escaped, and
is looking for an answer up till today,
- what to do with
'shirt of the grandfather'
and the spring is laughing
heheheh
the winter was in the distance...
poem by Maria Barbara Korynt
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Tuck Your Shirt In
My name is Holly
And I like
I'm so glad that you asked me out tonight
Our conversation over dinner was really nice
But don't forget you still owe me dessert
It's 12 we missed the late show
So let's head over to this joint that I know
Everytime I take someone it's always such a ride
But there's a dress code
You've got to follow
There's no exceptions
And once you're in
If you want TMA
You better need to be
Oh baby
But before you enter
Tuck your shirt in
No way you'll get rid of
Other clothes
If you don't follow this
One moment
Tuck your shirt in
La la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la
We're probably gonna need to call a cab
Ten minute walk over there and back
But I think it's best we
Save our energy
Tonight I'm really on the grind
Otherwise I'd normally wait a while
Before I'd ask
Somebody to my party
But there's a dress code
You've got to follow
There's no exceptions
And once you're in
If you want TMA
You better need to be
Oh baby
But before you enter
Tuck your shirt in
No way you'll get rid of
Other clothes
If you don't follow this
One moment
Tuck your shirt in
La la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la
But there's a dress code
You've got to follow
There's no exceptions
And once you're in
If you want TMA
You better need to be
Oh baby
But before you enter
Tuck your shirt in
No way you'll get rid of
Other clothes
If you don't follow this
One moment
Tuck your shirt in
TMA
You better need to be
Oh baby
But before you enter
Tuck your shirt in
No way you'll get rid of
Other clothes
If you don't follow this
One moment
Tuck your shirt in
La la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la
song performed by by Holly Valance from Footprints
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Back to the Army Again
I'm 'ere in a ticky ulster an' a broken billycock 'at,
A-layin' on the sergeant I don't know a gun from a bat;
My shirt's doin' duty for jacket, my sock's stickin' out o' my boots,
An' I'm learnin' the damned old goose-step along o' the new recruits!
Back to Army again, sergeant,
Back to the Army again.
Don't look so 'ard, for I 'aven't no card,
I'm back to the Army again!
I done my six years' service. 'Er Majesty sez: "Good day --
You'll please to come when you're rung for, an' 'ere's your 'ole back-pay:
An' fourpence a day for baccy -- an' bloomin' gen'rous, too;
An' now you can make your fortune -- the same as your orf'cers do."
Back to the Army again, sergeant,
Back to the Army again.
'Ow did I learn to do right-about-turn?
I'm back to the Army again!
A man o' four-an'-twenty that 'asn't learned of a trade --
Beside "Reserve" agin' him -- 'e'd better be never made.
I tried my luck for a quarter, an' that was enough for me,
An' I thought of 'Er Majesty's barricks, an' I thought I'd go an' see.
Back to the Army again, sergeant,
Back to the Army again.
'Tisn't my fault if I dress when I 'alt --
I'm back to the Army again!
The sergeant arst no questions, but 'e winked the other eye,
'E sez to me, " 'Shun!" an' I shunted, the same as in days gone by;
For 'e saw the set o' my shoulders, an' I couldn't 'elp 'oldin' straight
When me an' the other rookies come under the barrik-gate.
Back to the Army again, sergeant,
Back to the Army again.
'Oo would ha' thought I could carry an' port?
I'm back to the Army again!
I took my bath, an' I wallered -- for, Gawd, I needed it so!
I smelt the smell o' the barricks, I 'eard the bugles go.
I 'eard the feet on the gravel -- the feet o' the men what drill --
An' I sez to my flutterin' 'eart-strings, I sez to 'em, "Peace, be still!"
Back to the Army again, sergeant,
Back to the Army again.
'Oo said I knew when the troopship was due?
I'm back to the Army again!
I carried my slops to the tailor; I sez to 'im, "None o' your lip!
You tight 'em over the shoulders, an' loose 'em over the 'ip,
For the set o' the tunic's 'orrid." An' 'e sez to me, "Strike me dead,
But I thought you was used to the business!" an' so 'e done what I said.
Back to the Army again, sergeant,
Back to the Army again.
Rather too free with my fancies? Wot -- me?
I'm back to the Army again!
Next week I'll 'ave 'em fitted; I'll buy me a swagger-cane;
They'll let me free o' the barricks to walk on the Hoe again,
In the name o' William Parsons, that used to be Edward Clay,
An' -- any pore beggar that wants it can draw my fourpence a day!
Back to the Army again, sergeant,
Back to the Army again.
Out o' the cold an' the rain, sergeant,
Out o' the cold an' the rain.
'Oo's there?
A man that's too good to be lost you,
A man that is 'andled an' made --
A man that will pay what 'e cost you
In learnin' the others their trade -- parade!
You're droppin' the pick o' the Army
Because you don't 'elp 'em remain,
But drives 'em to cheat to get out o' the street
An' back to the Army again!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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My Lover - II
I know she's tired,
Yet conceal it from me she's tried.
Kneeling down my side,
She brings a cloth to water,
Taking my battered feet onto her thigh,
Starts to remove the foul.
Patiently washing away my pain,
Makes disappear all the strain.
Cleansing, whilst healing my skin,
She soaks a cloth in water,
Releasing my body from aching.
I forget my exhaustion,
When touched with such caution.
Oblivious of my physical boundary,
She holds a cloth with water,
Allowing calmness to permeate me.
This water refreshing my feet,
Nurturing me, emotionally.
Aware she'd be my water, heed,
If thirst ever threatened me.
Just when I think my strength has ceased,
My lover comes, and fortifies me.
poem by Gina Borrebach
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Hannah Armstrong
I wrote him a letter asking him for old times' sake
To discharge my sick boy from the army;
But maybe he couldn't read it.
Then I went to town and had James Garber,
Who wrote beautifully, write him a letter.
But maybe that was lost in the mails.
So I traveled all the way to Washington.
I was more than an hour finding the White House.
And when I found it they turned me away,
Hiding their smiles. Then I thought:
"Oh, well, he ain't the same as when I boarded him
And he and my husband worked together
And all of us called him Abe, there in Menard."
As a last attempt I turned to a guard and said:
"Please say it's old Aunt Hannah Armstrong
From Illinois, come to see him about her sick boy
In the army."
Well, just in a moment they let me in!
And when he saw me he broke in a laugh,
And dropped his business as president,
And wrote in his own hand Doug's discharge,
Talking the while of the early days,
And telling stories.
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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It is a lonesome washing without a man's shirt in it.
It is a lonely washing that has no man's shirt in it.
Old Woman (Standing At The Sink)
old woman,
standing at the sink,
flannel shirt and panties....
washing dishes with knowing hands,
sunlight through the window dancing
on the strands of grey in her hair....
an old cat rubbing against her ankles....
bombs exploding, new world's emerging...
even the nails in the walls
whisper the coming change!
blackbirds carry the message of snow,
the old woodstove crackles and smokes....
somewhere they're painting banners
and buildings with freedom's song....
he sits motionless, brush in hand,
watching an old woman...
...standing at the sink!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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