"clippers" poems
Manning up in Texas
Geldof overdose
needles at the bed stand
starlet comatose
California dreaming
killer meets demise
hurling in a taxi
puke fee on the rise
Fighting in the Gaza
Jordan's holy war
rebels on a mission
Jihad underscore
The North Korean riddle
pales in grand design
crisis on the border
planes fall from the sky
Cooking on a deadline
tempting tapenades
herbs are in the spotlight
wines that give a nod
Google maps the body
DOW at record highs
Uber comes to market
corn is on the rise
Apple on its earnings
Caterpillar dead
European sanctions
banks have **** the bed
Clippers threaten boycott
Longhorns follow purge
Lynch is out of training camp
James is on the verge
Leinart taking *** shots
coughing up a lung
lions take a licking
fans are throwing dung
Another day in Vegas
Primm from A-Z
rolling out an ankle
a flying SUV
Quiet tempting spaces
made better by design
multi color pea coat
silence fuels the mind
Stabbing in the subway
goat caught in a well
apes are selling tickets
(but leave behind a smell)
Puberty on trial
a man without a head
teachers feel alone
lets take them to the shed!
Jonah's tomb destroyed
wreckage in Mumbai
Sugar Daddy sites
Freedom 85
The immigrant debate
Russia's mounting toll
unions on a mission
heads are gonna roll
Beaches for the nudists
hotels on the cheap
the best generic brands
a list you have to keep!
Planning your estate
questions from the camp
a mansion up for sale
where once they filmed The Champ
Midwives threaten action
aboriginal act
truckers want concessions
that train has left the track
Sharks are found in Fundy
a prized but perilous catch
food we love to hate the most
an irrefutable batch
A family on the brink
I want my kids to fail!
politicians drains all hope
a ban on Israel
Follow out each headline
let the columns be your guide
all these things did happen
the day that Newhouse died
Aug 2, 2017
Aug 2, 2017 at 10:29 AM UTC
Just a little off the top.
Drawin' a dotted line
'round the skull
takin' your shears
just above the ear.
Cuttin' a close crop.
Burrowin' into the skin this time
'round the skull
now your clippers
smilin' so chipper.
Leavin' a head clean smooth.
Whistlin' at a near-finished work
'round the skull
peelin' back the skin
bravin' a peek within.
Grabbin' that comb with its fine tooth.
Unfurlin' that pink mass of quirk
'round the skull
eyein' where tendrils append
trimmin' the dead ends.
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 12:25 AM UTC
Gardening The Forest: A Work In Progress
I garden the forest.
Walking everywhere – like Johnny Appleseed –
I keep my excellent Swedish clippers at my side,
And when I eye a roadside tree
With branch too low, so’s I can see,
I make the lower branches go,
Prune and clear selectively,
Clip high as I can reach,
Which,
Being five foot one
And using muscle of the female kind,
Is always kind to undergrowth,
Seduced by ‘further’,
Blazing paths that never were,
So light can filter through.
It wants for sun. It makes for light.
The woods and I are one;
But I can’t tell a soul.
Wandering on until de-celeration
Starts to take me over,
Signs I’ve learned to recognize
When fervor starts to waver
And observer me says “Rest!”
Works in progress never cease.
It is a forest,
After all.
Work In Progress: Gardening The Forest 11.28.2006 revised 1.18.2014/again 4.20.2015
Circling Round Nature; Circling Round Nature II:
Aug 25, 2016
Aug 25, 2016 at 4:47 PM UTC
Off To The Gym
More hours alone
I'll enjoy my workout
And the Clippers game
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 3:32 PM UTC
I look down at my feet,
toes adorned with chipped nail varnish,
a pitiful plaster clinging to the sole,
and I grimace at the
purple marks, reddening blisters,
cicatrices of stories long forgotten.
The ***** of my feet are thin and worn,
my heels rubbed raw from
shoes I have loved and shoes I have detested,
faded scars from childhood accidents.
I have aged hating my feet,
the discoloured skin, dotted with odious callouses,
my throbbing, wrinkled soles.
They have grown with me,
from tiny clumps unrecognisable as a foetus,
to wide, long size 7s.
My toes are misshapen, twisting this way and that,
freckled with sun kisses from foreign countries.
They’ve been battered and bruised
repeatedly,
victims of my hurtling abuse and mortal neglect.
I have punished them
with verruca socks and freezing ointments,
pin ****** small shoes, razor blades, nail clippers and
not once
have I nurtured them, soaked them with praise.
These feet have walked me up mountains,
aided me in athletic championships,
withstood six inch heels on weekends,
ran me through marathons,
enduring my never-ending physical torment and though
they may buckle,
with weeping blisters and aching pains,
dry skin, broken bones and sprained ankles,
they will recover,
rebuilding the scabrous skin.
Regardless of how unstable my life may become in later years,
whether I am stranded on a deserted island,
or walking the ***** streets of the city, no room to call my own,
my feet will always,
undoubtedly, lead me to safety.
And when I am old
and withered, an exhausted heap of human life,
with my last dying breath,
I will thank my durable, reliable feet.
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 11:28 AM UTC
So, you're sitting in a doctors room, wondering why you can't stop crying,
When he enters saying"It's good news" a result from all that trying.
In a haze you drive to tell your mum, she knows from the silly grin,
And there and then, you buckle up, this journey is about to begin.
So, vomiting and painful ******* and screaming at your husband,
Is part and parcel to this little nightmare, nature calls pregnant.
Oh, don't forget the stretchmarks, and the piles that grow like grapes,
And mood swings, constipation, and eating sticky tape?!,
And now you're halfway through your quest, you look so beautiful,
Your hair and skin look radient, maintaining health is dutiful,
Then little kicks bring on the tears as both of you embrace,
And watching as the tv screen shows up a tiny face.
As weeks turn into months, you begin the preparation,
With practise runs for when its time to get to the nurses station.
Your feet have disappeared from sight, no need for the nail clippers,
And lack of sympathy from him, as your feet look like fluffy slippers.
The lack of room within your womb means little or no sleep,
The inability to get up, so give in, stay in the seat,
So here we go, your waters break, and hubby thinks you've peed,
You tell him"Get the car, or i will squash you like a seed!".
The pleas for pain relief and stupid questions from the nurses,
You try to answer politely, between the frequent curses,
The final throes are happening, you're screaming like a pig,
And out she comes, the miracle, "Oh look, isn't she big?!",
Then suddenly all the pain and grief are suddenly forgotten,
"A boy next" Those famous last words of your poor husband!
Nov 1, 2009
Nov 1, 2009 at 3:39 AM UTC
A crazy ************
got in my face
the other day.
"This is my shop!,
I put the work in this ************
see ya'll young people come in here
trying to mess up my shop,
this is MY SHOP!"
"Mmhmm," a fat ****
in the corner affirmed.
Crazy *************
are often your
barbers.
He's pulled this **** before,
I've seen him do it.
He'll just throw the clippers down
and get in somebody's face,
while they flip dumbly through
Sports Illlustrated.
It's funny as hell.
He had spittle
in cakes at the corners of his mouth
that wiggled
like eggs on an unbalanced beam
and fat lips that looked
like rotten peach slivers;
all brown and ugly pink.
He's in his forties and stumpy.
But all he ever does is yell.
I punched him
right in his lips.
His teeth were hard and scratched my knuckles,
but he backstepped,
gave me one of those crazy people
"I might just cut your head off" looks
and walked to the bathroom to clean himself up.
Crazy *************
think
they're the crazier than everybody else.
Dec 23, 2011
Dec 23, 2011 at 9:28 AM UTC
It takes about
two hours
to make it through
airport security
nowadays.
If they catch you with
a pair of nail clippers
they beat you
with a rubber hose
in the back room.
Yet in every terminal Ive been in
they sell ceramic mugs.
You ever broke a ceramic mug?
That **** is crazy sharp.
I mean they make those Japanese
super sharp chefs knifes outta the ****
And I cant bring a ******
disposable razor with me.
Security my ***
Jun 19, 2012
Jun 19, 2012 at 7:27 AM UTC
a forest grows roots in my scalp
a baby touches the soft short bits and laughs
like there is no greater delight in her world
my spirit swells in her beams
i walk shoulders forward
collar popped
half-sneer that says “yeah that’s right
i’m a badass”
nobody sits next to me on the bus
once this bleach-blonde spent half an hour worrying
nail-biting, foot-tapping worry
before setting the clippers to my head
like she might hurt me
i intimidate the thing in me that is vulnerable
staple a wig to it, put it in a dress
build it safe bridges out of my body
so that on the street
the people who do manage to worm their grubby fingers
through the cracks
are ************* psychos
and i can imagine driving their nose up through their brain
without feeling guilty
or shameful
even though that is scientifically impossible
due to the density of bone
and this charred twisted gargoyle on my shoulder
who tells lies as long as the mississippi
like “you deserve this ****
on really bad days my hair turns and shouts
“back the **** up gargoyle! you make no ******* sense!”
even when i decide to trim it
when i’m ****** out of my tree on sudafed
and haven’t eaten solids in five days
and it looks like, well, this
i am a magnificent peacock
swanning down the street
and everyone is a little bit better
for having walked through my glow
now if only i could make eye contact with the cute **** on the bus
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 8:41 PM UTC
the clippers buzz a drone against my skull
the hair falls like dead flies
into the sink and onto the floor
loose curls crawl down my shoulders and back
tickling my neck
afterwards i stare hard into the mirror
searching my own face
for someone i could love
or at the very least live with
Jun 26, 2023
Jun 26, 2023 at 6:53 PM UTC
I do not think much my place upon this earth,
I am second, and you are first,
and when your voice is louder than mine
it is a familiar for me to sink and recline
into my chair, wilful to listen
to your unappealing, witted opinion
and programmed flair -
from which your talent glistens,
and has always been there.
Oh to be part of your vision.
I walk comfortable in high heeled shoes
that inscribe me a waggling soft tongue,
and when your pace is faster than mine
in brogues, and trousers that are looser,
I am simply undone,
at your ease to summon as the prime task-caster
of more tasks to come.
Your achievements are set with a slapped wet plaster.
Oh that you share a crumb.
And when you laugh, it is a big bellied echo
that chimes in my throat to strike and produce,
a small bit of fruit, just for you.
As I mimic your billow in an octave but lower,
that feels like part of the very same tune,
but my chuckle is actually a choke,
and what I could say would only provoke.
Oh you laugh much harder than me.
My almond eyes are softer than yours
and in the day you lock them only for an answer,
to some chore which requires a limited goal -
don’t get me wrong – I am no prancer,
my shoes are far too tight, and I’ve been taking the toll
of your papers, your personal sciv, your faxer.
A sniffing, weezling mole.
Oh I could dig deeper…
You **** much harder than me.
And when you *** you look in the mirror
at yourself in white unbuttoned shirt, heavy brow, so chipper
that when your sun sets it does in a vulvonic decree,
but you do not know that when I go home, I secretly scissor
in a way that would make your morning clippers shake violently.
Oh I love much harder than you,
I am better than you,
but somehow you are better than me.
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 5:23 PM UTC
"Opportunity," this American Dream life we so believe in,
The limo stops at the hotel, the rich people get in,
A set of old jars full of coins, a leaf blower, men with picks,
A brush put through ones hair, make up, vitamins, drugs,
The people sit in a park, the time passes, the clock ticks.
Stock market books sitting on the shelf, a church ***** playing,
A magnet stuck to the fridge, pictures with people smiling,
A war machine, the newspaper, a set of playing cards and a
Distant smile. A set of hedge clippers, a ferry crossing,
Solitaire.
A man on the curb with torn clothes and nothing at all
A set of file cabinets, clocks, the sent of a bank,
Golf clubs, a set of business magazines, a Barbie Doll,
Swaying hammocks, and one guy in the background
Who is losing it because he can't ever "take a fall."
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 5:17 AM UTC
I sit with my afro, tall and round like the trees
I sit with my afro between my mother's knees
And I cry.
She thinks it's because she pulled my hair
I let her feel guilty but really that's not fair
Because it's you.
So as my mother glides the comb through my onyx curls
Your web of lies begins to unfurl
And all at once you were my world
But now you're nothing.
My mother's hands twist my hair into braids
Partings in more ways than one have been made
Memories like my brother's fade
But not for you.
Yours are stronger than my mother's hands
Yet as soft as my Indian strands
And how I wish I could get the clippers and shave
my head and watch my memories of you fall away
But I can't.
So as my mother braids my hair down my back
I remember you and try to forget the fact
That you ran your hands through this Raven hair
Shielded my now tear streaked face from the frozen air
Forget that you loved the coarse strands
As much as the Indian; soft in your hands
So I lock away these memories with each braid
And try to prove to myself that I'm more afraid
Of losing my afro than losing you.
I tell myself that it's my mother pulling that makes me cry
But you and I,
Know that's not true.
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 8:35 PM UTC
Let me tell you a bit about me
A bit that I haven’t told anyone
Here goes nothing…
I listen to Lady Gaga
A lot
The smell of whiskey doesn’t burn my nose
Rather it smells familiar, similar to maple syrup
I love to dance a lot when no one is looking
And really provocatively
I doubt my ability
Yet fear my potential
I kissed a boy in first grade
But don’t know why I have literally hid this all my life
The book “Charley and the Chocolate Factory” changed me
And I never like chocolate until this year
I am afraid of dogs
I grew up with dogs all of my life
I really dislike my arms from the elbow up
But play off my flannel shirts and hoodies as a fashion statement
I bite my nails but not nervously
Rather because nail clippers make my nails feel weird
I watch ****
No one really admits that one but most of us do
I love not washing my hair
But I hate going out in public that way
I love most people but pretend I don’t
It’s easier that way
I love the feeling of crumbling sheet rock
Especially if it is wet
I have cussed since I was probably 7…
I think I cuss less now than I did in fifth grade
I generally admire those farthest from me
They are what I’ll never be
I could see myself as president
But just as easily a stripper
I have to try really hard not to cry when I think of my childhood
Especially young memories
I have tweezed my eye brows
And my toes
I have worn makeup while no one was home
Mainly just to try it
I love eating raw sugar
Especially chewing it
I am pretty sure I was delusional as a child
But sometimes I feel like either I wasn’t or I still am
I don’t feel like people ever really know me
Especially my family
There is a chunk of me
Please don’t waste it
Apr 2, 2013
Apr 2, 2013 at 10:36 PM UTC
I don’t get haircuts anymore because they’re too traumatic.
I panic at the thought of clippers clipping loudly,
buzzing past my naked ear, flesh freshly exposed after
months of muffled confinement like a prisoner in a
third world country hidden away in dark quarters
then pulled out in bright light and pushed around by
a man with rough hands and sharp instruments.
Jun 8, 2012
Jun 8, 2012 at 8:00 PM UTC
Rows of red, and blue and green,
Confectionary ordered pointlesly,
Only to fall, one by one,
Or all the large to the left,
and the small stacked up.
Coins in stacks of one pound,
Unless it's pennies, Then in stacks of ten.
Books piled, large at the bottom, towering up,
Pens lie in rows,
Invisible borders prevent touching,
Keys too untidy, remove from ring, arrange in circles,
Food cut into bites, counted and ordered,
Fridge ordered by food group,
Or colour,
Depending on the day,
Lighters in rows, standing tall,
Zippos together,
Clippers and disposables,
Flints in a pile,
Wicks in the little paper sleeve.
Fuse wire in the little round tin,
The one she gave me,
The one that opens with a POP.
Jun 8, 2010
Jun 8, 2010 at 12:41 PM UTC
I am a silent monstrosity in the heavy and deep belly of the earth
I sit, carving my teeth out with
Nail clippers, chiseling bone like soap
I melt through my tongue with acetone
Like wax
Like wax, I am, like wax
Still and dripping, falling faces and hiding places in the darkest parts of museum floorboards
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 11:54 PM UTC
The phone crazed against its plastic receiver.
Tossing her clippers on the counter
with an exasperated sigh, she picked up.
"Mary's."
She began to pace around her paisley-floored
salon when she read the Caller ID.
Crosby General Hospital
The cord stretched further across the room
with each diagnosis like a tightrope that was
threadbare from decades of grim news and heartbreak.
A single thread kept her composure.
When word came across that her daughter
had died, the wire snapped and her faced turned
scarlet like she was crying barbicide.
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 11:06 PM UTC
Christina Twistleton-Wickham-de-Fluff
couldn't decide what to do with her ****
Wherever she went the darned thing would shed
she even found hair from it inside her bed
So she took out the scissors and trimmed it a bit
but did a bad job and her **** looked like shhh....e had messed it up
So she took out the clippers to give it a trim
fired them up and got stuck right in
Be she lost her attention when a friend of hers called
and now theres a spot thats totally bald
But panic she didn't, nor get filled with dread
She simply decided to wear gloves instead.
Aug 11, 2010
Aug 11, 2010 at 2:39 PM UTC
“We make our meek adjustments,
Contented with such random consolations
As the wind deposits in slithered and too ample pockets.”
Hart Crane, “Chaplinesque”
A footstool in the desert.
A napkin in the netherworld.
A coffee stain in the margin.
Perfumed remains.
Systematic garnish.
Dorothy Stratten climbing Mt. Suribachi.
My late father’s toenail clippers.
Pale clouds over Slauson Avenue on the day after the L.A. riots.
A rhetoric of purpose.
A philosophy of decay.
A poem written to an audience of one.
©David Adamson 2015
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 8:33 PM UTC
It was spring time after a long hard winter in Idaho and my family and I went to Nebraska to visit my folks. This was more than 20 years ago but in my memory is as if it were yesterday. I remember this time because when we arrived the weather was warm and my dad was still wearing his long underwear. He had not been taking very good care of himself and I offered to give him a bath. The long underwear came off leaving patterns on his skin where the underwear had pressed against his skin for a long time.
While the rest of the family and visiting family were talking in the living room, Dad spent some time soaking and getting the winter’s accumulation off. He was rather pink when we were all done. I noticed that his toe nails had grown long and down under, it could not have been very comfortable. After getting him dressed in clean cloths we went into the living room. I prepared a wash basin of water to soak dad’s feet some more and got out my trusty nail clippers.
At some point in the 30 - 45 minute process all the conversation going on around me disappeared in the background and I was left with the feeling of being at the feet of Jesus and washing His feet. It was one of those moments in life that defines something in your life that you haven’t noticed before. Even now, I can sit and reflect on this moment, which happens many times throughout a year, and imagine Jesus washing the feet of the disciples. It is difficult to describe in words the emotions of this brief time in my life. It had a profound effect on how I looked at those around me. The opportunities were there all along. I just had to open my eyes and “see” what God placed before me. We see what we want to see most of the time. Some place along the line, life changed from being “about me” to being “about Him”. It was so liberating and freeing in my spirit.
Did anyone in the room realize what I was experiencing? No. This was something that was between my Lord and I and for a long time I kept it to myself. If I remember right, the day I relayed this moment to my wife, she had tears in her eyes. Maybe you have experienced moments that could inspire someone to be open in their walk with God. Tell them. You will be glad you did.
Jul 5, 2010
Jul 5, 2010 at 12:24 PM UTC
there is a moment
between the decision to make a mistake
and actually making it,
when you think about
how the power lines
make lace spiderweb shadows on
the sidewalk
and how the the sunlight and
the moonlight have the same
sparkle
and you wonder if your choice really
matters,
because daisies will still have
candied orange centers and
it will still take fourteen hours to drive to
Bangor to an airport with
one bathroom and airtight security
so they can take your toe nail clippers
before you board your flight home
and realize you
left an hour before sunset
and somehow it's underwhelming
to be so far above the
sun.
there is a moment
between the realization that you've gone too far
and taking the step over the line
when you see the cracking
of the pavement
and go to buy a roll of duct tape
because there's nothing duct tape can't fix
so you spread a thin layer of
love and adhesive
on the concrete
to keep the edges of your heart from
splitting open,
but you trip and fall into the hole
you were trying to bridge
and you're right back where you started
trying not to break your momma's back
but the gap is too wide to jump
like those kids on the playground
tracing cloud colored circles
in sidewalk chalk around your head
just trying to make you understand.
so before you decide
to make that mistake
trace the lace shadows on the
roadways and
tape your
heart together
so you can draw a
staircase to understanding
and
follow a trail
of innocent eyes
to a place where you
don't feel so lost.
because there are no mistakes
only choices to make
and now is the
only moment
to make them.
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 3:21 AM UTC
Under the ancient sofa
among the kingdom of skittish dust bunnies,
I searched that strange underworld
of my living room.
I looked behind the refrigerator,
found old bits of a doughnut
and some new species of insect
and the toenail clippers.
Next to the oldest pile of boxes
in the dampest section of the basement,
found three oddly colored socks
and an ant's nest.
I searched the whole house--
I found no words.
Nothing for the sight of you,
walking away
as the clouds melted
and poured from the sky.
Apr 2, 2012
Apr 2, 2012 at 1:26 AM UTC
In the old days,
you could sit
next to the galley
& get really juiced.
Pretty stewardesses
would slip
you small bottles
of fire water &
you could live large
in any seat.
And you could
actually relax,
talk with the pilot &
eat some grand meals.
Oh, did I forget to say
that check-in
was a breeze,
if you sneezed,
they said,
"God Bless You."
But now
they ain't playing games,
it seems stress has taken over.
How insane,
we're questioned
about our first born
& where we come from,
prodded & searched,
4 ounces of this,
4 ounces of that,
is all the liquid
that they allow.
Holy cow,
no nail clippers
& you can't even quip,
'cause they're not smiling.
O Jesus, I miss
those good old days,
back when flying was fun
& now they **** with all of us,
to keep a few terrorists on the run.
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 9:08 AM UTC
On Saturday night I didn't go out to dinner with my family because I discovered a new, big bald patch.
Right in the front of my hair line, on the other side of where my bangs used to be.
Except with this one, I can't cover it up.
I kind of jokingly mentioned it to my boyfriend, and he told me I looked fine.
But then my fingers kept attacking the same spot, and my brain began to get mad, and then scared.
Why do I let it get this bad?!
Why can't I just stop?!
I'm going to have to shave my head.
For real this time.
So, I told my boyfriend I was gonna go lie down and take a nap.
I really just couldn't stand being inside my head any longer.
I really scared myself. That was one of the first times I actually lied to my family as to why I couldn't go out. I lied about wanting to take a nap because I was about to take the clippers to my hair.
It was one of the first times I felt this thing really taking over me.
Oct 24, 2016
Oct 24, 2016 at 4:40 AM UTC