"hairstyles" poems
despite all those new hairstyles and haircuts
to make yourself forget about him and move on
girl, you can never change it to the way you want life to be
or cut him out from your life
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 10:07 AM UTC
Maverick ex-cop (Green Beret /Navy Seal /SAS/Ranger)
Twiddle of the fingers to crack a 64 bit hexadecimal code
Shot but can still beat up bad people and run
15 people firing automatic weapons and they all miss
Database that searches the planets population in 2 seconds
And has photos of their children and plans of their building
Regardless of the crime scene sample, always a rare element that pinpoints location
Car chase where a truck can keep up with a Ducati motorbike
Organisations that only employ attractive people in lead roles
Ugly people are tech specialists sometimes allowed to be ‘quirky’
Even the uglies are attractive people disguised with glasses and bad hairstyles
‘I dream of genie’ gendre were they flirt but never get it on, unless it’s a hospital series
Watchable, funny programs that always succumb to sloppy sentimentality
High schools complete with intolerance, marginalisation, bullying, and hell on earth,
The most disturbing and darkest crime sent to titillate mid evening family viewing
Endless humiliation for fatties, chefs, performers, builders, restaurateurs, and troubled teens
Dysfunctional law enforcement agencies that never work together under any circumstances
Enough, if we need this thick coating of unreality, perhaps its time to switch off?
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 5:34 PM UTC
In the face of persecution, one can drift away into dreamy fabrications of swishing and gorgeous hairstyles – jealous of the seagull as it dismounts the lofty perch of the streetlight and gracefully swoops away into the distance.
The moment of self-loathing and raging sabotage is nothing more than a serial false loyalty.
I validate your alphabet where there is simplicity within the intricate complexities, and where the yearling suckles the lactations of its mother.
Trauma has pre-natal connections where silent screams ripple throughout eternity. Therefore, calmly observe the stiff upper lip of deluded professionalism, and describe the realistic mirage before you. Participation in laughter is not always rooted in sincerity.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 10:40 PM UTC
They squirm inside their clothes
tweed, chiffon tiered skirts, and bows
of their grandmothers’ sepia, halcyon days
with lumberjack flannel and Kerouac quotes,
but it’s more a matter of age than size,
these charging, listless, candid creatures
with hairstyles that can only be described
as gravity readily defied and self-cut,
frequently dyed to shades that swing
between black coffee and New York poetry
deep imagism and social realism against the backdrop
of American Apparel ads on scratched up Macs.
They slouch up and down trafficked Newbury,
dropping names like Morrissey and Bukowski
pausing now and then to pick up on the ennui
of twenty-three, and how they will one day live la vie
Dharhimian, running on American Spirits,
James Dean, Truffaut chic,
a monthly check from their parents,
an apathetic sneer at holding anything too dearly
and how they hate that word—hip-ster.
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 6:44 PM UTC
My biggest fear has nothing to do
with monsters, the dark, death,
or any of those usual frights.
No, my most intense scare comes
from the anticipation that one day
you may see me the same way
I see myself.
For you see I'm not the girl that guys
conjure up in their daydreams.
I could never hope to pass as one
of those flitty girly-girls who know
of quizzical things such as
make-up
cute hairstyles
or fashion.
My blemishes show, and honestly
I haven't a clue how to hide them
anyway.
I look at braided hair, beachy waves,
and effortless updos with envy
My hair has two styles: up or down.
I've never in my life looked casually cute,
and am obviously uncomfortable
in a dress. Please just pass me
my jeans and t-shirt back,
I'm much more myself in them.
How does one even walk in heels?
I'd like to think I'm one of those
"cool" girls that guys claim
they love, the low-maintenance
type chick, but I don't think
I'm "cool" at all, really.
When guys describe those chicks,
they do things like
play video games
quote Star Wars
read comic books
like some ideal gorgeous geek.
Well that's **** sure not me either.
I **** at video games,
love Star Wars, but
I'm terrible with movie references,
and have never read comics.
Does manga count?
I'm kind of starting to get into that...
I'm not the nerd's epitome of perfection
either, the everyman's ideal.
So what am I? I'm just boring,
little ole me.
I love to read, and would rather
spend the night reading
or watching something than go out.
I'm shy and self-conscious to a fault,
so don't try bringing me around
friends, I'll just bring you down.
Honestly, I'm basically a child. I love
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles
Gargoyles
Tom & Jerry
Animaniacs
and cartoons in general.
I'm quiet and contemplative, often caught
writing in my notebook,
detailing my observations
about the world around me.
I have a ***** mind and a messed-up
sense of humor, giggling
of the worst times occasionally.
But all in all, I think of myself
as pretty boring. Laidback,
but with the most capricious of moods.
I'm both low and high maintenance.
I don't know why you think positively
of me, but I anticipate the day
you realize I'm really nothing
special at all.
The day you discover the truth
I already know all too well.
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 3:56 PM UTC
Let me write you a poem
Between blue lines and red crosses and silly hairstyles
A poem that will eloquently tell
How you shone like dim stars on a pitch black beach
Figuratively
Full of HYPERBOLES! and synecdoches
About your misaligned teeth and your roaring, cackling laugh
It will drown you in allusions,
In perfectly crafted hybrid adjectives
That will tell
How you got caught in revolving doors
And how I laughed.
I hope you have seen the Spolarium
Because the poem will use it to denote
How I knew you were fine
But I never knew you'd be so huge
If you haven't,
We can see it together
The poem will trump Poe and O'Hara and Bukowski and Neruda
They will call it God's gift to Poetry
Studied and deconstructed
For the next few centuries
It was found taped under a desk they will say
And they will scour the world to find
That lovely mysterious beautiful person in the poem
Let me write you that poem
So that when they find you
Only the greatest people on this planet
Will read it to you.
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 5:30 AM UTC
The way we dress
The way we deal with our feelings
The way we talk
The way we walk
Our hairstyles
Maybe even the activities we want to try
The people we fall in love with
And the people we chose to stay in love with
Everything is because its comfortable for us
Everything is because its who we are
And we don't want to hide anymore the truth
But this gives chance to others to persecute
To others, it seems we are wrong
Maybe we are, but who'd really know?
Even though we never pointed fingers at anyone
But what we seem to them is a walking wardrobe malfunction
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 5:31 AM UTC
There was something about her
that stilled a room,
that stopped them dead in their tracks
and pulled them into the eye of her storm,
confused them
so their focus landed on sweaters and hairstyles;
and they never put it together,
never pieced you into her puzzle
and ever acknowledged
that the way she wore you,
the way she draped your gaze across her chest,
proud, like quiet couture,
was what made her startling to watch.
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 5:16 PM UTC
people swarm past me
in hallways
all trying to fit in
all wanting to be their own person
they all look the same
a sea of people that
blend and blur to create
one unrememberable person.
i fear that very fate
i want people to say
"remember that one girl"
i want teachers to like me
people to know me
for what i do.
for the right reasons.
thats why i wear those uirky glasses
thats why i get those extream hairstyles
thats why i follow my endeavors
sorry if you dont like it
Feb 14, 2010
Feb 14, 2010 at 6:50 AM UTC
He wants to run down hills
But his legs won’t cooperate.
He wants to go all night dancing
But 10p.m. is way too late.
He wants to go to Bar-B-Q parties
And eat until he wants to pop
But after a plate of that food
He know he had better stop.
He wants to read a book a day
By a great American author
But he knows after an hour
He’ll be asleep, so why bother?
He wants to go out drinking beer
On Saturday with his buddies
But that was way back before
He turned into a fuddy-duddy.
He used to be able to tell jokes
And leave the guys in stitches.
Now the only stitches he deals with
Are those letting out house britches.
He used to comb his thick burly hair
Into some becoming hairstyles
And now to beat it into some shape
Always takes quite a little while.
He remembers being able to sleep
All the entire night through.
Now, that is simply not what
His old body is going to do.
He’s going to get up at least twice
If he have a drink after three p.m.
Otherwise, it’s off to the john.
He accept this, says, “It’s who I am.”
He has to remind himself a lot
That he’s been around a while
And should be greatly thankful
That he can be this old and smile.
So he doesn’t ***** all that much
That he is no longer all that hot.
He doesn’t count what he no longer has
He celebrates what he’s still got.
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 4:30 AM UTC
In Summer it was hot
Too hot to cuddle but the sunsets were breathtaking
We went to the beach and swam in our underwear
Stayed up all night smoking and listening to Mr Suicide Sheep.
In Autumn we would walk
Through leaves the colours of our everchanging hairstyles
Our gloved hands mingling, letting passers by know we are in love.
In Winter we kept warm to the sounds of Melancholy
Skin on skin, snotty noses rubbing
Laughing at our misfortune of finding the hot water bottle with our frozen feet.
In Spring we took sick days together
The colds couldn't stop us but the hay-fever sure will
We adopt baby mice and curse at the moody weather
We watch each other grow like the lambs and bloom like daffodils.
Spring is nearly over...
I hope our next season is even better than our last
And every season to come
x
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 3:32 AM UTC
She begins to gather her hair,
making sure not to miss
a single fiery tendril and
secures the strands with
her favorite yellow hair tie
that she can wrap around
her thin stream of hair
nearly four times.
She’s afraid
The worn circlet of elastic
Might snap soon.
The widening yellow band
has known six years
of hairstyles:
the super high tail
worn while cheerleading
back in high school
that waved like a flag while
jumping in unison into the splits-
the tie off to the side
of the base of her neck
holding back her perfectly curled twists
for her first date with her
future husband-
the sensible low tail
that she wore to the job
she hated
as a librarian
because it was not what she wanted to do.
She wanted to write.
The glued in place up-do
She wore to her wedding.
Her mother cried
Because of how beautiful she looked.
The first time
he didn’t show
to the poetry reading
she worked
so hard to get into.
The late nights of
being tied in a messy, asymmetrical bun
when he claimed to be
working late
but she knew he was with someone else.
To now,
when she is leaving him
with her hair half up.
But as she gathers
her hair one last time,
the bind snaps.
Instead of searching for another
she decides
to let her tresses
flow, cascading down her back.
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 4:31 PM UTC
There are too many things in the world
Too many objects
Too many people
Too many places
Too many sounds
Too many smells
Too many words
Too many letters
Too many feelings
Too many lies
Too many books
Too many countries
Too many faces
Too many sites to see
Too many tourists
Too many dishes
Too many personalities
Too many hairstyles
Too many theories
Too many stars
Too many films
Too many chairs
Too many trees
Too many computers
It's truly a shame.
There's too many things in the world;
I could never experience them all.
Oct 6, 2023
Oct 6, 2023 at 3:45 PM UTC
Recently I've been reading a book about American Bandstand from Philadelphia 1957-1963
and it's given me what I call the Bandstand Blues
where I recall a bygone era
when things were much simpler
and wish I was coping now
like I did back then
rather than being swarmed under by the undercurrent of
the jet age and the age of the computer,
where I had teen crushes
on the like of Arlene Sullivan, Carole Sealdeferri, and Trini Giordano
such that I daydreamed about being famous like they were someday
and going off and meeting them and dancing with them
Unfortunately that dream never
came true
Being a loner back then, I was envious
of the teen parties all the regulars had that I read about in the teen magazines
I would have like a
social life like that
wanting to go with what were considered the truly neat girls in school,
and vicariously imagining
myself up there as one of the
regulars in what seemed like
their bump and grind dances
and discovering my puberty that way
rather than through several girlfriends I had in school
a little bit
admiring the nice story of
**** Clark and wanting to
emulate him someday
which I fell far short of
as I grew old
although like I say, I managed to acquire some
wealth later on in life
Wanting to have trendy clothes
and trendy hairstyles
like the boys did
rather than being
rather dowdy in my opinion then,
and imagining what it would be like
growing up in probably what was a little more
sophisticated atmosphere back east
as I could tell from family vacations there
But I do cherish the fascination
The good side of bandstand in the book
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 11:52 AM UTC
tourists with cider
avoid sludgy leftovers
briny exhalations
of the unknown undulations
sun-pecked - wrinkled as though
Christmas wrapping
sand slobber
up to a young girl's toes
left its fluorescent residue
as hairstyles for rocks
water's unravelled applause
where dogs aren't allowed
Sep 3, 2023
Sep 3, 2023 at 5:23 PM UTC
We love to change clothes,
we love shoes for running, hicking and strutting on the catwalk.
We love to smell sweet, **** confident and **** plane mad.
We love costumes to look like angels or monsters.
We are a slave to change,
we complain when wear same for so long.
We seek out illicits, to get the variety.
Anothers mind and soul, is what we seek. But the self loath.
We give testimonies, of how I was and know how I am.
We change hairstyles, upgrade our accents.
We long to experience others, in yourself.
This mire and bog, has seen great minds simplified.
Seen whelps turn to fierce dogs,
Has seen urchins turn to masters.
Has seen those who bow, being bowed to.
In our quest for difference, we take alters and influencers.
We stimulate and live our imagination,
Till we become trapped and eventually lose ourselves.
Though we flirt, with drugs, alcohol, religion and mantras
let our aliases not take over us.
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 12:02 AM UTC