"coiffed" poems
the committee
has convened
(kangaroos corralled)
the agenda
is set
(scapegoats framed)
the politicos
are preened
(perfect patriots)
hair coiffed
teeth whitened
(fangs sharpened)
correct talking
points bulleted
(minds closed)
puffed chests
perfectly postured
(bombastic bravado)
freedom fighters
stand firm
(Constitution usurpers)
American flag
lapel pins
(sparkling bright)
liberty's spirit
and tolerance
(roundly condemned)
special interests
are watching
(payola earned)
partisan lines
clearly drawn
(democracy doomed)
Music Selection
Cream: Politician
Oakland
10/1/10
jbm
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 7:46 PM UTC
In class the big black and white tick-tock pinched
my mid-morning belly. When everyone else
borrowed numbers, my pencil lead and yellow paint
scratched out hunger. Minutes chugged like school
buses. Even columns of three-numeraled numbers
minused the bottom line, scold of lunch.
A borrowed quarter and dime from the office,
meant a secretary’s red-lipsticked mouth, bent
and accusing. Her coiffed curls shook my dreams.
I would starve before sailing into that office
for my little belly, but forever yearned for the secretary
to pet my hair. Say, “There, there,”like to a character
in a book rosy with girls in gingham dresses.
But, for all those lovely boats of hot lunches: meatloaf
with crusts of catsup like a winter cap, buttered beans,
dinner rolls
and cold-cartoned milk, not watered down--
Missing lunch, I'd hide out in the cold storage
room of sack lunches next to the playground.
While the others ate, I'd escape at the right tick
into the recess of blacktop and tetherball.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 2:28 PM UTC
— and from basement entries
neatly coiffed, middle aged gentlemen
with orderly moustaches and
well-brushed coats
2.9k
The night becomes you -
hair coiffed in fashion
illuminated eyes reveal attraction,
the scent of body oil
pervasive,
ambient music evolves
persuasive
savory rhetoric,
cabernet erodes my inhibition
no contrition, turn the ignition.
The night becomes you -
you wear it well
an amalgam,
ardor and insouciance -
redefining glamour,
ephemeral moments
dial down the sunlight,
I am slain - voice and accent
weave their spell;
black dust coat, white hat,
a pair of posh boots
they live to tell.
The night becomes you
rhyme scheme - lyrical poetry
sophisticated venue, table for two
ensconced, the
leather lounge,
similitude within difference;
undulation - cadences of
counterpoint -
poise and peril of duality
we inhabit the floor.
Postprandial, conversation extempore;
machinations of intoxicating discourse,
I could drink your words -
artistic milieu- beguiling imagery,
sonant susurrations
penetrate my being.
The night becomes you -
theoretical locutions
phrasing depth and humor,
undiluted amour, tensions resolve
frame by frame,
solidify the affair
and validate the rumor
subsumed in sequence, pulsating,
igniting the sapid interior flame
silver screen ending,
effusive reviews
two hearts collide and form one;
the cherub's arrow finds its aim.
©2008 & 2011 W.S. Warner
Sep 22, 2011
Sep 22, 2011 at 10:34 PM UTC
John Scalla remembers
plain–clothed white coiffed nuns
in sunday school classes
who were the sweetest things
you’ve ever seen with a razors edge
carried proudly from an emerald isle
John Scalla spent his sundays digging
through big soft Bibles discovering
a father who loved everyone
as equally as he was thorough
a son born to wear a crown of blood
but never lost his most sacred heart
and a universal spirit’s open-armed
quiet embrace of your trembling frame
John Scalla was born to hold a communion
with something far more complex or
precise then our poor sweaty coils
wondering how bread could be body
and blood so eagerly consumed
John Scalla stole from complex pages buried
deep beneath outdated expressions
and miscommunicated messages
a simple cypher that condenses
all the rhetoric down to it’s square root
love
John Scalla locked the cypher
in that secret spot between heart
and stomach holding it close
dreaming on distant playgrounds
where it was slowly worn away
by bullies still casting long shadows
like limestone sphinxes now noseless
John Scalla’s distant playground dreaming
of a personal relationship with God are gone
because if He was there then that makes him
a single string of an infinitely intricate
vast woven narrative where he is only aware
of adjacent pieces unable to take a firm grasp
of the situation continuing to grow
John Scalla weaves narratives through
his prayers sending them nowhere
because they wouldn’t know where to go
with so many far-off stars dead and leaving
cosmic vibrations both here and everywhere
making it hard for them to escape with
their best intentions unmolested
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 6:12 PM UTC
In the 2nd grade
a puppy love
crush on the
teacher steeped
deep in me
to my delight
her clear eyes
recognized the
promise of a
chubby boy
in all of his
quaint simplicity
her gentle
voice, friendly
and firm, filled
with caring instruction
the giddy class
attuned to her fresh
brunette bouffant, bunned
and perfectly coiffed,
speaking style and
youthful whimsy,
not a strand of hair
out of place
her svelte figure
flowed through
classroom isles
filling the space
with scented graces
of prescient carnations
that afternoon she
was abruptly called
from the class
when she returned
our beautiful princess
was sobbing
she concealed her face
then turned her back
on the class, crying
in a corner to dismayed
blushing blackboards
regaining composure
she turned
exposing her tear
stained cheeks
and dissheveled hair
to an unsettled class
“the President
hurt his back” she
announced. “He’s
in the hospital.”
Whoa… I thought,
the President hurt
his back. That's
terrible I surmised.
our beloved teacher
dismissed us
and resumed her
tearful grief
when I arrived home
my mother was
sitting on the bed
weeping. “President
Kennedy is dead”
she blared.
my mother’s rumpled
housecoat and
tousled hair flattered
her flowing tears and
anguished sobs.
the tears of women
marked the end
of many puppy loves that day
Bob Marley & The Wailers
No Woman No Cry
Oakland
10/15/13
jbm
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 1:13 AM UTC
My love, your eyes are nothing like the sun,
your long lasting gaze is dull and dazed,
as for intelligence; you possess none
and you leave me annoyed and unamazed.
The way you make me feel is disgusting,
sandpaper is smoother than your skin,
and I just can't stand to hear you laughing,
when all good humour you've forsaken.
You are oblivious and selfish too,
and you know I use this odious tone
my dear because I truely detest you!
so go now please and leave me alone,
Take your coiffed hair, and your crooked nose
go **** yourself and your asinine hoes!
Sep 29, 2011
Sep 29, 2011 at 11:24 PM UTC
*before you start reading, please not that the Barbie in this poem is not the registered trademark that is the Barbie doll (all is revealed in the notes)*
When Barbie wakes up in the morning
Even the birds stop chirping in fright
She makes her way to the wardrobe knowing
What is inside will start the day right
First to be donned is her barbarian bra
It takes quite a task to fill
She really is ever so grateful for her bra
It keeps all the best bits subdued and still
The bras must always go on first
Without it she would be in trouble
If the briefs went on first without the bra
To this day she’d still be bent over double
Next on are the bountiful bootylicious briefs
She worries that they may have shrunk
Mayhap she should stop putting them in the dryer
They are essential to keep all her junk in her trunk
Over the top of the barbarian bra
Goes a sweater with the deepest V neck you’ll find
The cleavage that is on display is important
It keeps the focus from straying to her behind
On go the boots and laced up tight
These babies were made for walking
But most days they are just for comfort
Unless she’s up for some stalking
Last of all on her perfectly coiffed head
She settles her beautiful hat
It looks a little like a large table umbrella
In fact, once upon a time, it was actually that!
She’s now ready to start her day
And the birds resume chirping like a choir
Barbie is ready to face the world dressed in her
Barbarian Bra and Bountiful Bootylicious Briefs and
Other Amazing Attire
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 2:03 AM UTC
Into the Seasons of my mind I wander.
The gentle laughter that teased my tender ears,
Of my grandmother and her friends meeting,
Like ladies used to do.
The aroma of fresh baked cookies, cakes and pies,
Wafting in the cool Autumn breeze.
Back when women baked and were proud of it,
Back when there was Time...
Time to gather and just be glad to be together.
No harmful gossip, just the joy of friends
Willing to help each other through trials
That Life throws.
The strength of velvet bonds
Tied together for the common good of all.
Leading by examples, not needing to pontificate
On the deportment young ladies should show.
And me, proud to be included.
My Grandma's Shadow, adding my
Youth and exuberance to the occasion.
Learning about Life on that vine covered porch.
My apron was sized for my small frame,
I wore a dress, like the ladies present always did.
My hair coiffed, just because
I wanted to make my Grandma proud.
Oh yes, those were the days.
Before emails and internet,
When we spoke to each other and
Learned how important communication truly is.
Days, when it was good for girls to look like girls
And be proud of approaching womanhood.
Not subservient, but a partnership
That made men proud.
Yes, those were the Days!
Unforced laughter,
Able to face the world without fear,
Because we knew "Good" would win.
I'm grown now, I don't always wear a dress.
I live in a "Man's" world, contrary to my early years.
But I still smell the baking cookies, pies and cakes.
I still sit on my front porch .
My heart remembers my childhood
Though I must adjust to this fast moving Life,
I will always carry in my Soul,
As I long for the days of Poise and Ivy.
Deb Nixon
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 3:18 PM UTC
Elegantly tall and slim
The face a cool façade
Of competence; no-one sees in
The world is far too hard
Hair of gold, expertly coiffed
Her nails are manicured
And filed; pretty but not to soft
Her aura: self-assured
She reclines against her chair
Commands of the garçon
A thé-au-lait; a regal stare -
He runs to be her pawn
Dark glasses reveal soft eyes
A smile touches her lips
Her true persona she must hide
From work relationships
Her life may not be easy, but
One pleasure's undenied
To sit on the Champs-Elysées
And watch the world go by
May 12, 2010
May 12, 2010 at 6:01 AM UTC
Forget the apprehension,
Let your clouded breath hang
On the rearview you see from
Your memories
Move in that direction
As tears
Dangle, restless, longing for solid earth
Dewy, un-coiffed grass
Emblazons today, still
Underneath can be beyond…
Above can be behind…
Shrouded horizon spins unnoticed
And all-encompassing endeavors
Bending light ‘twixt fate’s fingers
Like moments through a color-arch
Acrid rumors, sweat
Spew from our stolid, misshapen bodies
Soaring, metal box with wheels
Over holt, into the harbor
Hence comes the tide;
Hence comes the tide!
Underneath becomes beyond
Above becomes behind!
Anxious melody of air-springing
Pervades the cacophony of living
Can you forget asphyxiation,
So long
As saturated lungs keep breathing?
Nov 2, 2010
Nov 2, 2010 at 6:57 AM UTC
The manly cowboy
continued his travels
across the land,
of merry ole England,
drinking a little mead,
riding his steed.
Walking along one day
beside his horse,
says to his horse,
a question this way,
says he.
"What's your name?"
"Randall." she replied.
for his steed was a she.
"WHAT did you say?
What the hell kinda name is that?"
"And please pardon me for my language,
your answer took me by surprise."
"For your information kind sir,
i am highly educated
and well brought up.
what did you expect?
some silly name
like Bay
or Susie?
or ,
if i hailed from
your part of the world,
Cochise
or Blaze
or Cimmaron?
Oh no, i know,
you might
have very well
named me
General
Blueberry."
Scratching his head,
the manly cowboy
just looked askew,
completely anew,
at this fine steed.
Randall!
Off they trode,
adventures to be made,
fast becoming fine friends,
as they were
running the roads to the ends.
Many a new sight did they see,
then one day they happened upon
Queen E.
"That's one fine looking six shooter
you have there."
said the great ruler with
the neatly coiffed gray hair.
"May I?" asked she,
her royal hand outstretched.
Happy to oblige,
this woman who
has ruled so long,
seen so much.
Handing her his gun,
so carefully,
he inquired,
"Do you know how one of these things works Ma'm?"
asked he
"Don't be so silly
you manly cowboy.
Of course! "
said she,
With that,
she turned
and shot
every chamber bare,
six apples from
the tops of six heads
of her many heirs.
"Here, come join us."
said she,
"We're out for a ride
to look at the tide."
So the manly cowboy
threw in with the royal
mob for the day.
Riding far and wide
treated to vast
expanses and views,
and the eternal tide.
Having so much fun
shooting and riding,
out in the fresh air,
out in the sun.
At last evening approached
too fast and suddenly.
"What a day i have had,
one to always remember,
to recount over fires
many a coming night."
With that,
he took his leave,
tipped his hat,
and bowed to Queen E
so very gentlemanly.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 12:34 PM UTC
Red tights,
Flowing cape,
The city is calling,
It's not too late.
Spandex briefs,
Form fitting suit,
Humans are appalling,
**** **** Loot.
Well defined muscles,
Girly boots,
The Joker and Penguin
Are in cahoots.
Carefully coiffed hair,
Gigantic chin,
Perched about the town,
Waiting for crime to begin.
Invisible car,
Cool technical gadgets,
Oh! He got away!
Curses! Almost had him.
A steel man,
The speeding bullet,
My weakness is this string...
Please don't pull it....
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 12:14 PM UTC
On one side of Alexander Palace Papa stroked
his coiffed whiskers, pacing back and forth
in his simple study.
Ikons and photographs of family
Watched him all waiting in anticipation
for the news.
On the opposite side of the palace, Mama clenched
her dainty jaws, tears of joy and pain
streamed down her face.
Grigori led the Monks in chant, murmuring
prayers to the Theotokos, asking for protection
and health for the imp-child.
The imperial sheets matched the mauve room.
The resurrection child was born.
The news reached Papa thirty minutes later.
Disappointed in her grandiose arrival,
he delayed their first meeting.
The parade outside the palace
Dispersed, they too disappointed.
Jun 26, 2010
Jun 26, 2010 at 5:53 PM UTC
In every art and artifacts,
I'll still find that is pleasing to my eyes,
Like seeing lychee that makes want to crave,
Craving for resentment in someone's eyes,
Turns out I was seeing myself in solitude,
This time, it was no ordinary day,
I think of every word I have to say,
But I had none to lay,
Instead of laying in those eyes,
Thinking myself what I bargained,
To be the highest bidder.
Meaning to say, I wasn't looking at any art,
I saw something that pleased my eyes,
In a quiet place that made it felt like home,
Glass panes are all I can see but a single sight to see.
A sight that I won't lose till its wings spread
A statue that I'm willing to mold by a thread
Humanity restored in my eyes.
By a single whip of your coiffed hair
Like the morning brew that struck me
By the color of your hair, that is full of bliss
Nevertheless, I'll still get lost in those eyes
Making every gaze in my mind
A dream that i made, to get lost by the so-called life
Moments that i'll spend, for me to keep it from being tainted
Savoring every beauty till i faint.
Jul 12, 2020
Jul 12, 2020 at 9:17 AM UTC
There's a hell, darling.
It's in you.
Your perfectly coiffed hair
hides a mind so evil,
the Antichrist should be scared.
There's a hell, darling.
It's in you.
Behind your beautiful blues,
Are intentions so cruel.
There's a hell, darling.
It's in you.
With your sparkling tan, and your Tiffany necklace,
No one would suspect a heart with hate filled to the brim.
Jul 25, 2011
Jul 25, 2011 at 5:49 PM UTC
You were an heiress,
inheriting a life time trust fund
from a fortune made
manufacturing waxy kid's coloring thingamajigs.
Your mother drove you each school day,
in a classic powder blue Mercedes coup.
She was beautifully coiffed,
high bred serene, great skin,
And you were blond, blue eyed, smart and smiled.
When I saw you I always felt -
I felt not worthy of living on your planet.
A few years after graduation we met,
I had had a few beers so I told you everything.
I am sorry for causing you those tears.
Jan 18, 2011
Jan 18, 2011 at 6:33 AM UTC
shoulderBlades meekly scrunched, hard, together shoulder blades.
Before me shoulderBlades and spine curved up to head, raven coiffed,
hair pulled, lipbiting, shoulder blades: you've got monsters inside you
've
got pain, cuts, and bruises inside you
've
got pretty eyes and dimples and you like to wear flats, tanktops, and skirts.
But i like how your monsters taste like molasses and sulfur, they taste like
fingernails(turquoise)rending. And your cuts feel like lace and razors they
feel like your waist in hands thick with me deeply in you: shoulderblades.
Apr 17, 2012
Apr 17, 2012 at 6:22 PM UTC
What else can I cover my mouth with
Other than clear, cherry-flavored lip balm?
It stains, otherwise
Goes where I ask it not to go
Its' gradients are as spread and varying as strands on a feather
I prefer, to be different, to taste better than I look
After all, it's my story that always wins
It was never Red Riding Hood
But the enigma beneath the cloak
I am one of those girls
Hairy and imperfectly coiffed
Veiled in nudes, beiges, and understatements
When men look at me, I wonder what their gazes snag on
There's no snare of life about me except the berry on my fingers and toes
These chipped, bright nails are my calling card
Through the cracks in the polished veneer you can see
**** me filtering through
I hide my hands , tuck the berry away
This is not what I want you to see
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 9:24 PM UTC
The world is still.
Her artfully perched hat,
Elegantly arranged atop
Perfectly coiffed hair
Belie the workings of the
Mind within.
Gears grate--
Stuck, attempting to turn.
Striding the balance between
What-was, What-is, and What-will-be,
She is overcome,
Contemplating the
Embellished promise of
Yesterday's tomorrow.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 12:47 AM UTC
She was fished out of the river just beneath the mighty span.
Her clothes suggested affluence. Her death bespoke despair.
I sent two men to search the spot from whence she took to air.
Her dead face poses the challenge; can you find out who I am?
Her prints? Not in our database. No purse and no I.D.
She wrote no note that we can find before she took her leave.
Was this some broken love affair? Is there no one to grieve?
The witnesses to her leap are few and contradictory.
Her hair is blonde and shoulder length, neatly coiffed and trimmed.
I notice that she bit her nails, but never will again.
She should be off in college; a new beginning not an end.
The M.E. bags the body. Soon the autopsy will begin.
I look through missing person files, to match a face and name.
I dread the call I’ll have to make to drain some parents’ hope.
To lose a child by her own hand- how can a parent cope?
The tox screen shows no drugs present. I had thought the same.
Female Caucasian, about nineteen, no birth marks and no scars.
Our Janet Doe was pregnant. Was that motive for her leap?
Did her condition make her desperate for this forever sleep?
Surveillance footage yields a clue. To pursue I’ll need my car.
The Tap room reeks of Guinness; the night is near its end.
I show her picture to the barkeep- This girl was here tonight.
There’s a glint of recognition and new facts brought to light.
He doesn’t know her name, but he surely knows her Friends.
They are sitting at a table, looking somewhat worse for drink.
I get her name and address. She is “Janet Doe” no more.
Celene attended N.Y.U. she had been majoring in law.
I left them deeply grieving and not knowing what to think.
This morning I will make the call, the saddest one of all.
“Can you come in to identify the wreck of your hopes and dreams?”
“We think your daughter took her life, at least that’s how it seems.”
To hear her mother’s sobbing is the hardest thing of all.
For thirty years I’ve worked this beat, but today I cried.
I’m not inured to suffering or indifferent to pain.
I’ve seen the broken bodies and think it such a shame
whenever wingless angels try to fly.
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 8:27 AM UTC
The first time I saw her she wore these perfect boots.
They were brown and expensive. This beautiful woman was perfectly coiffed.
Her smile was tight and it wanted to break through her lips...
she wouldn't let it be real.
Her mother told her, " Honey you need to relax and wear something else"
She wore these expensive boots and this tight smile, I wanted to love her. She was pretty and had money. She thought she was smart and liberal, but she was smug and small.
Beautiful woman.
I wanted to love her ...but I didn't even like her.
KT
July 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 1:29 PM UTC
Why won't you touch me.
Please.
coiffed paragon
from across the jeep
Introspection prehends
Imagining my hand as the shift
Your palm ensconcing my own
Dactyls distributed
Fitting between winged-knuckle
Wind-diffused curls
Beckon solemn contact
Grazing my temple with instinctive tendril tuck
Saccharine lips
Memory of their meeting mine
Gone
Your visage bores into my periphery
Vicinity defies expectation
I hold my own hand, and let my hair yell.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 8:46 PM UTC
Lisas and Cheryls in halter tops walk the
Halls of Stoughton High full
Throttle, coiffed fleece fiercely feathered,
Tonys and Tims trawling in tow, toting
Texts.
Tims and Tonys slip
Slyly away, skip shop, talk
**** **** a doob behind
Bob’s Baitshop’s garbage dunes, tunes of
Geils and Seeger and Stones, applaud
Lisas and Cheryls, laud deserving
Donnas and Dianes (but dude, don’t
Let on!)
See,
A solitary Tony takes to one shapely
Cheryl’s sultry swagger, staggers, blathers
His rathers, turning her hair’s fair feathers
A-flair, she helping his hand higher up her hip, her
Cup, her concupiscent luscious lower lemon-lacquered lip, he agog, a *****
Dog with a bone. And a libidinous loner
Lisa prefers a particular turgid Tim, digs
His Doors tee tucked
In to tight tan cords, affords
Herself a longer linger as his fingers
Dangle, thick thumbs hooked in belt. Looked at,
Felt, ***** his hip, flips a nod, draws a
Sneer, paws her rear, she his
Haunch, he steady and
Staunch, Steady and
Staunch
Not gonna
Launch
Steady
gawdamnsunuvabitch!
Thaws the sneer
Right there.
High gears it outta here.
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 5:44 PM UTC
What else can I cover my lips with
Other than clear, cherry-flavored lip balm?
It stains, otherwise
Goes where I ask it not to go,
It's' gradients as spread and fine as strands on a feather.
I prefer, to be different, to taste better than I look.
After all, it's mystery that always wins.
It was never Red Riding Hood
But always the darkness beneath the cloak.
I am one of THOSE girls
Hairy and imperfectly coiffed
Wrapped in nudes, beiges, and an ocean of understatements
When men look at me, I wonder what their gazes hinge on
There's no snare of life about me
Except the berry on my fingers and toes.
These chipped, bright nails are my calling card
Through the cracks in the polished veneer you can see
**** me filtering through.
I hide my hands, tuck the berry away
This is not the me I want you to see.
Aug 4, 2015
Aug 4, 2015 at 8:34 AM UTC