"pigtail" poems
I thought the guy dressed up like a kingfisher
Didn’t really look like a kingfisher
His beak too long
His legs not yellow enough
But still he did a pretty good job of diving into the water
And coming up with a guy dressed up like a fish
Even though his fins looked a little too stiff to me
(No wonder the kingfisher caught him)
And the bull facing that matador
(who even had a pigtail like the one Hemingway kept mentioning --
Oh, I mean the real man not the man dressed as a bull)
He just looked too scared for a bull
Well that’s what I thought
And I’ve been to a lot of bullfights
Real bulls got more bravery than that
Sure they’re confused
But I’ve never seen one turn tail and run
Oh yeah -- and he forgot to put a tail on his bull suit
All in all it was a wash wasn’t it
Wetter than the guy in the kingfisher suit.
Still it was nice for us to dress up in animal costumes
To give the animals at least one day to have a day off
Maybe next year we’ll figure it out better
Both in our costuming and their cries
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 3:49 PM UTC
When I was a little girl,
Mama always put my hair in two pigtail braids.
She'd separate it so one was on each shoulder,
and then gave me a finishing twirl.
Never have I ever thought of what the hair felt like.
From day one in science class, I was taught it was dead cells,
nothing more, nothing less.
Never have I ever thought of how it felt to be pulled so tight.
It's taken a few years, and I've long since grown out of the pigtail braids.
Now, I make them more fancy, a french braid or a fancy one to the side.
Maybe this is a lesson, that things only get pulled tighter and tighter with hidden rage and growing age.
Never have I ever known how fast a stressed and pulled heart fades.
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 1:30 PM UTC
I hate how they never warn little girls
to beware the pretty boys
with eyes like gleaming jewels.
The boys with soft smiles
and music in their laugh.
They never warn
of boys with pretty faces
and blackened hearts.
The boys that leave little girls
crying in the dark.
The ones with words like honey,
sickly sweet.
The princes with big money,
who we dream of sweeping us off our feet.
They never speak
of boys with danger in their eyes.
But beauty true blue.
Little girls are never told
of boys of silver and boys of gold.
The little kings,
with angel wings.
The little beast neither soft nor sweet.
The beauty bombshells,
the golden adonis’s.
They never speak of boys
who run like the winds
under their feet.
The boys who shine
like the stars in the sky.
The boys with the world in their grubby mitts.
The boys with lips like cotton candy,
and sins warm and rich.
The ones who have our
stomachs doing flips.
The ones who seem to have it all
shoulders back, standing tall.
They never caution of
little boys with clever minds
and nimble fingers.
Of boys with Shakespeare's sonnets in their hair
and love songs in their whispers.
But little girl,
I am telling you now.
Beware the pigtail pullers,
fear the little Romeos.
Heed the heartbreakers
Shun smooth talkers.
Little girl,
don’t give in.
Little girl,
fear their sins.
Little girl,
run away.
Little girl,
don’t stay to play.
Little girl,
don’t stop and stare.
Little girl,
don’t twirl your hair.
Little girl,
please, listen to me!
Little girl,
loath the charming pretty boys.
For they are like roses
and like roses
they have thorns.
Apr 12, 2017
Apr 12, 2017 at 7:51 PM UTC
I fell in love with the weird, the chaotic.
I mean.
Have you ever considered what the shaky man at the end of the street was screaming?
Have you ever found order in the chaos of a Jackson *******
Einstein may have been famous for E=MC squared,
but he also determined that S=KlogW.
Order tends to move to disorder as time progresses.
Tell me you don’t warm at the sight of a toddler with ice cream down her dress, sitting in a mud pile with only one sock on one foot, one pigtail half done, and one smile plastered across her indifferent face.
The road of exes I’ve left behind is wrought with Star Trekkies, cult members, and bi polar ********
but here I stand begging for more.
My BFF Becky,
who’s really my therapist Karen,
says I’m seeking inspiration.
But the shaky man on the corner who sometimes thinks he’s God
says that I’m Galileo.
And I’d rather believe him.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 10:40 PM UTC
pulling on a pigtail
chewing on a hangnail
tucking in a shirt tail
your hearts on the line
turn to a stranger
look him in the eye
you feel a little awkward
you feel a little shy
your hearts on the line
ducking in the restroom
fiddle with your hair doo
looking in the mirror
though it never looks right
******* in your tummy
checking on your ****
well you know what
your hearts on the line
well you know what
your hearts on the line
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 7:48 PM UTC
Sitting in the cozy house,
Gazing out silently
At another rainstorm
Tugging on dry wool socks,
Tugging on slick rubber rain boots,
Toes warm and protected.
Dashing out the door,
Releasing a giggle, splashing
From puddle to puddle
As lighting reflects off
Miniature gleaming teeth.
Time is endless
For this moment is hers
Until the clouds fade,
Taking the flood along.
Pools of water form,
Still.
She dances in the storm
To the drumming of rain,
Applauded by thunder.
A little yellow poncho
Set free by droplets,
Dripping from her fingertips.
Tiny twirling legs,
Pigtail braids flapping wild,
She swirls.
Showers cease
With sun peaking out
Behind gray fleeting clouds
Puddles left behind,
Rippling under her feet,
Sparkling dimly.
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 10:06 PM UTC
I wore my frilly frock,embellished with stones bright
Tying my hair into a pigtail
I came out of my room like a strong gale
'Father!' I called out loud,
Again and again with a merry voice
I lacked patience and many other virtues
But all of it was unseen
For that day was my birthday
Mother came rushing to me
Held me against her *****
In a creaking voice she said to me..
'Ssh,my child.
He is out
He is out to make our country proud'.
I was 11, a child lost in her own dreams
of colors, dolls and things pretty
Never did I understand my mother's message
For I was a child void of the world of war
of blood and death.
The radio played,
My mother cried.
'What is happening?'
I thought.
The surroundings sulked in gloom
I shook my mother's arm
Tears gushing down her face,she looked at me
'General Smith , died a martyr..'
The radio played
'..served his country till his last breath'
it went on playing.
My world of pretty things bright
was no more bright
For the pall of darkness battled and won over all things nice.
Everything echoed in my ears
My father's name was being played over and over again.
They were singing praises of my father
'He was out to make our country proud' they said.
He finally came
Draped in a white sheet
He was there,sleeping.
Many faces unknown crowded my home
Cried they on the occasion of my birthday.
I went up to him and cried
'Wake up Father, its my Birthday.'
Tears rolled down my cheeks.
For he lay there silent,eyes closed.
'Oh' I muttered
and ran down the hallway
Shutting the doors behind me
I buried myself on the pillow
Praying to God for everything to be a nightmare
I wished for nothing but to fall asleep forever.
My world of pretty things bright
was no more bright
For the pall of darkness battled and won over all things nice.
I was 11 and innocent.
A stranger to the world of war,blood and death.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 5:11 PM UTC
“Mommy, why is the moon running away from us?”
A sigh from the front seat,
The wheels bouncing on the Michigan potholes.
“Honey, it’s not running away, it just appears to move with us.”
A moment of silence, except for the soft hum of the engine.
“But why, Mommy?”
A slight groan from the front seat as a speeding car passes.
“I don’t know, our eyes are just messed up, I guess.”
Bouncing pigtails from the toddler car seat, humming her song.
“Mommy, are we almost there? I’m scared that the moon will catch up with us.”
“I thought we were chasing the moon.”
“But now it looks like it’s chasing us.”
Trembling hands grip the steering wheel tighter, knuckles white.
“I’m excited to see Daddy. Are you, Mommy?”
“Don’t call him that.”
Her voice was dangerously low, almost the same pitch as the hum of the road.
More pigtail bouncing.
“But he is my dad, right?”
Pursed lips and clenched teeth.
“Yes. Just try to be nice.”
“Are you talking to yourself, Mommy?”
Attention taken from the road, eyes wandering up to the moon.
“Mommy, why are we running away from the moon again?”
A sigh from the front seat,
The wheels bouncing on the Michigan potholes.
“I don’t know, we’re all just messed up, I guess.”
Feb 22, 2019
Feb 22, 2019 at 10:05 AM UTC
Spoiled in more ways than one
For the record
I once was a pure white maiden
who wore their hair in pigtail braids
and only chewed tobacco on
Saturday evenings.
Sabbath never meant a word to me
The misunderstood don't understand
Mistakes are still made
Out of control
In the backseat beating to a drum
Sound coming from the heart
thrown in the glove box
I didn't mean to -
You chopped off my hair
with a rusty blade
left scars on my shins
battered not broken
for the record
rotten. In more ways than one.
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 4:04 PM UTC
what, your daddy was a drunk
you’re trying to take it out on me,
in order to keep me as filth and he as pristine?
oi freud! freud! get in here and sort this out,
i'm not minted enough for a recliner-couch,
i can stand in a queue for vine tomatoes
but i can't do it for a soul i'll be paid for
to analyse: just let me eat the **** tomatoes;
i too wished i missed the v.i.p. pass into the 27 club
though, with hendrix licking for slit tongues on
guitar strings, to no door, to no nirvana, only
applauded by charlie chaplin for the effort.
go on... play along with pippi langstrumpf
while i talk to your dear daddy about pigtail ******
and your crass concern for horrid images
but frail words needing censorship, ms. 'adism.
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 7:28 PM UTC
we were 5 years old
he wore spiderman velcro shoes
i wore pigtail braids
he had dark brown hair just like mine
we played tag together during recess
we would race to the swings
to see who could swing the highest
and then jump off
to either scrape our knees or laugh it off
he'd tease me saying "you can't catch me"
and wait for me to start chasing him around the dandelions
but now
i am 19 years old
and i forgot what my first love looked like
not even around the dandelions can i find my love
i forgot where he went and didn't bother chasing him again
so now i wait for a new love
to come find me not with pigtail braids
but instead find me here with my coffee and mascara on
Dec 3, 2017
Dec 3, 2017 at 5:11 PM UTC
comes a time, and time again, when you have to cut your eyebrows, if you want to be able to see at least a little more clearly through your deteriorating sight, I advise it, and I hardly ever advise anything, make of that what you will.
comes a time to cut finger and toe nails
the hair on your head, a tied pigtail makes this easy, but you decided three years ago to never cut your beard, ever again.
at some point your teeth become loose, and with a couple of months wiggling, I can testify, you will pull your own molars, out.
Yes comes a time when you become so relaxed.
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 9:12 AM UTC
I broke
a mirror, when we first met.
Our guilty reflections
fragmented
as we stared into the shards.
Barely a decade old,
but in my eyes you’d never be a perfect ten.
Back then you were
A pigtail pulling, cootie carrying boy,
A pigtail pulling, cootie carrying friend.
Two years passed then we were
split apart. Like crevices
between
reflective pieces. Another five and I saw
You.
In a mirror now fixed. Your reflection
the same, different.
Seven years. Spent growing up
apart. Yet growing closer.
Now
when you grab me, my hair. I scream
for the right reasons .
And holding hands isn’t just for
arm wrestling.
Shards of bad luck are swept up
into a metaphorical dustbin.
Sep 4, 2019
Sep 4, 2019 at 4:46 PM UTC
First of all I think it's an appropriate song for these times.
Kind of semi-tragic bittersweet beauty goes on
Caused, I think, by just the people
I've griped about - countercultures, youth,
revolution, the cult of the hippie
and I think that's good
that we're getting a taste
of a bro-ken-heart-ed mel-o-dy
I remember I felt so bluesy
and sad when I listened to
when it first came out
when I was going through a hippie stage
as an adolescent -
Cheerios - honey - tea - coffee with Mom for breakfast - sunflower seeds,
a small pigtail, an earring, bell bottom
blue jeans - I had my mother hem 'em up for me
Oh, well, anyway, yeah, Sassy
Sarah Vaughn and her song
This generation just might be sarcastic
if they sing along and blurt it
out in their dialogue.
It could be that I'm fancying
May 30, 2017
May 30, 2017 at 12:22 PM UTC