"pigtails" poems
They brought them
from the hollar
to the barge
to the field ~
into the wallows
in prayer
skinny little pinkers
cropped by ivory gates
buzzed with hot wire
hooked on bug worm
whistling dixie
around scrummers
and **** pen
peckers squawk
down eden lane
(nipping at jean lint
and fraystring)
deep in the hollows
a mad crow
(with steady tap)
the snouts high
on grunters
and squealers
stomping past
the feather pack
folded fingers
on the gatekeeper
(an engineer by
trade they'd say)
pigtails and
slack line
down the dusty lane
a snap of the jawbone
and lawn chairs settle
(facing north)
the bold script
and chimes
uneasy
Jan 6, 2017
Jan 6, 2017 at 1:11 PM UTC
there once was a young girl with green eyes
who wore her soft blond hair
in braided pigtails
at the age of seven,
she watched her older sister
stand in front of the mirror before school
and pinch her stomach with a disgusted face
neither of them ate breakfast that morning
at the age of nine,
she watched her older brother
make fun of a girl with glasses
for reading on the bus
she went home and hid all her books in the attic
at the age of twelve,
she watched the older girls at school
with straight hair and short skirts
put makeup on in the bathroom
and discuss how boys would only like you
if you looked perfect, like them
the next day she arrived with red lips, short shorts, and no braided pigtails
at the age of fourteen,
she watched her father hit her mother for the first time
her mother cried when she saw her standing in the doorway
and told her daddy didn't mean it
the next year, she told herself that her boyfriend didn't mean it, either
at the age of sixteen,
she was paper thin and empty
with straight blond hair, red lips,
purple flesh, and lifeless green eyes
while staring at her reflection in the bathroom mirror,
she thought to herself "at least i'm normal."
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 12:54 PM UTC
Her dark chocolate skin is an aphrodisiac
Yet I cannot taste
Awakening the beast within
Dormant for so long
He longs to play
Her chest expands with every breath
Beautiful skin tone and gorgeous smile
Hair the way I like in pigtails
Reaching down to her buttocks
And her eyes?
Big brown eyes
They pierce through me like a sword
Never letting up their gaze
Seeing through to the beast within
Roaring with intensity
I long to feel,
My hands travel freely to antagonize
I long to taste,
The forbidden fruit
I long to see,
Her body move beneath my touch
I long to smell,
Her chocolate skin moistened by the heat of immense passion
I long to hear,
Her moans and cries as she comes undone at my hand
The beast wants to torture my beauty
Whips and chains await you my dear
Let's explore your pleasure together
JM 4/26/17
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 8:25 AM UTC
when i want inspiration to write poetry
i watch a heaving tempest of kisses
they have a better flavor
than cooking shows
what's prettier than pretty pretty
in pigtails
shaking her delicious
derriere whipped Soufflé?
i'm kissing butter princess
witchy ****
spread lickity splits
eating her
with a big wide **** eating grin
like an open face dagwood
whats more poetic than that hopeful glaring
of
Adonis's plumper in paradise
filling Cleopatra's slathered meringue?
ga-ga-ga-gag me, daddy
merciless, pa-leazze
fluttered big wet talking eyes
like pools of blue honey
getting it zigged zagged
hard against a redraw mouth
throttling fluted gullet
while eager throat gasps
a symphonic music of the spheres
in relentless staccato chokes
lovin her big devil **** splashing
all gym built wonder-boy
a litter of ****** and tongues
licking pig greedy
rapturous milkshake waterfalls
whimpering
mmmmmm
oooh big daddy
oh my ****** god
pillar of colossus
you Tunisian donut you
pierce me like a spoon
through summer guava
who screams like that eating lunch
but a half ate apricot?
better than a football game
I'd rather take her greek
more fun than math or small talk
preferable to a pat on the back at work
or a ridged procession at a funeral
oh beautiful dark fig
squatting crotch candy
bubbling tapioca ***
queen of
spun sugar ****
all pyrotechnics
and fluttering sinews
if you asked most
do they watch ****
they'd grow smug like a senator
or punch you in the mouth
outwardly high-minded
refusing the blessing of a
video **** parade
of pirouetting vaginas
and glistening areolas
for the glory
of the secret ************ ceremony
the *** moralists
only good for a secret ******
living their lives
with passions submerged
and nothing to confess
except for guilty offerings
as they wander through dreamland shopping malls
wanting to know
Victorias ***** little secret
seduced
but not caressed
by
a mouthpiece for castrated dreams
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 4:05 PM UTC
my heart
will never be as heavy as the ones of the
children who are forced to learn the anatomy of a gun
in two seconds
flat. it doesn't matter if you believe in
god. god finds calm in
violence, god doesn't come
here, to the schools that are named after presidents and
townspeople who've done good
deeds, places
that were supposed to be
safe.
my heart
will never be as heavy as the ones of the
parents who sent their kids to
school in dresses and ironed
khakis and two little
pigtails and got them back in
body bags. there are no
flags here. no Purple Hearts
for the kids who couldn't wait long enough to find
god.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 7:05 PM UTC
I remember her as a little girl walking into a classroom with pigtails and a hand full of green glass bangles, today she is the bride and her smile breaks the reality of adulthood and powerlessness of human life to run back as children.
Nov 20, 2015
Nov 20, 2015 at 8:34 AM UTC
"Boy toy
or girl
toy! Don't
make me tell
you again, Pedro!"
I have committed a felony
within the land of the Golden Arches.
I have gone through
another patient's order
and forgotten which gender
to assign to the child
standing right next to them,
as if in need of another
fresh new coat in
traditional roleplay,
as if these little ones
were the cattle of tradition.
How foolish of me to assume
that the tiny calf in pigtails
would enjoy the strong-willed,
goal-setting, leadership-evoking
action figure instead of the sanitized,
goal-admonishing, vapidity-provoking
fashion doll.
I wouldn't want to lose
another valuable customer.
Jul 1, 2010
Jul 1, 2010 at 9:43 PM UTC
She danced across the sidewalk
Her tiny boots splashing the puddles of color
Blue, pink, green, yellow
Her pigtails smudged with paint
Brown, blonde, black, red
She dances through the rainbow rain.
He walks to work, leaden, heavy
His shoes are black, but polished
With red, and orange, and yellow
His hat is dark blue and his coat is green
His smile is coal, traced in red,
His face white, with eternal teardrops
Etched on his face.
The boy and girl, young, shy
Their hands delicately intertwined with strands of purple
Strings of yellow electricity
Jumping from heart to heart
Red raindrops fall up from the sidewalk
Gravitationally drawn to them
Tracing their faces before flying away.
The seagull collides with clouds of orange
His wing tips blue and wispy
His beak green as the sea
Purple fog tints his stomach
As he tumbles through aqua wind
My window only filters mango light
My ceiling the color of honey
The air above the floor is black
The space beneath the ceiling is white
And everything in between covers my body
In rainbow rain.
May 22, 2012
May 22, 2012 at 10:55 AM UTC
horns squawk
rainforest avenues
exoskeleton
of cars
arteries clogged
with unlovely taxi cabs
fat green fruit
for sale
five languages
merge into a knot
hisses kiss vowels
kiwis apples pears
black guys basketball
debt rises like blood pressure
stocks tumble
but we walk
brogues clop on concrete
count brick after brick
sun cascades
over roof slates
mind cracks in slabs
(you say
Monroe stood here)
heat quivers
men are dominoes
suits for the office
a funeral
designer sneakers
daddy paid for
pigtails cheap thrills
violet octagons
on a stranger’s neck
(behind the closed doors)
today
I drink purple water
aubergine lips
remind me
of a Tuscany Superb
list the names
Houston Charlton
Leroy Sullivan
Perry Cornelia
Dominick and Jane
(ladders lead
away from me
close to
you)
and back again
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 12:24 PM UTC
No second chances!
No do-overs!
That is one of the regreatable rules of time.
No more pigtails & pretty dresses,
No more Horsey-back & Piggy-back rides,
No more Tee-ball & Soccer,
No more Marry Poppens & Wizard of OZ,
No more Popcorn & Video games,
No more homework & bed time stories,
No more marshmellow roasts & snipe hunts,
No more sand castles & sand dollars,
No more Sparklers & Pinwheels.
No time to pause & reflect!
It can only cause regret!
Enjoy it along the way while you can.
Everything is temporary.
Oct 12, 2012
Oct 12, 2012 at 11:57 PM UTC
“…the grandfather’s camera with the last pictures of the youngest Colorado theatre shooting victim was stolen and the family’s sorrow has compounded…”
Veronica, why did you love Anne Hathaway
And why did you not go refill the popcorn,
Veronica? You ate it all during the previews
Though I warned your stomach would hurt.
Sweet Veronica, how did you know to hate Bane
And why did you not go to the bathroom,
My dear. The hand-dryer’s scream is loud
But it dries, unlike your wetting, red screech.
Veronica, why did you insist that you were old enough
For this fate? And how could I have agreed,
Cold Veronica. Pigtails were meant to be springy,
Not limp with blood, Pepsi, and regret.
The Bullets.
The Cape.
The damning shot
Would have slapped
Even Batman
Dead.
Young Veronica, why is the memory of you
And your innocent flesh fading fast,
To red Veronica? Wet too young and too alive
For the four-foot long coffin we buried.
Yesterday.
Cop lights.
My camera with
The last shots of you
“Stolen, sir.”
Wail, Veronica from the camera screen
In the hands of this thief, oh, convince him,
Stab, Veronica, with your pixilated smile
Until the guilt brings your smile home, to my eyes.
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 6:22 PM UTC
Pink balloons
Glitter nails
Glossy lips
Fairy tales
Frilly dresses
Pigtails with bows
"I have a secret"
No one knows!
Flowery handbags
Sweet perfume
"Can't keep it in "
Need to tell you soon!
Sparkly jewellery
Ballet shoes
"I know what you're about to lose"
"Tell me the secret I here you shout"?
Ok
''Closets open." I'm coming out!!! .....
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 7:40 PM UTC
balking, then walking into the suburban night,
I have escaped the TV, the PC, the clutter of memories
and the last two hanging, breasty incandescent bulbs in the galaxy,
soon to have their filaments burn out amid the indifference
of florescent pigtails and their infinite, incessant hum
I have escaped into this night
marching on, marching on
the sullied, sacred sidewalk squares
past the dentist’s house, past the woman whose husband was murdered
by his best friend over a case of beer, and had her eternal fifteen minutes on Dr. Phil
past the retired educator, past the woman who…hell I don’t know what she does--she drives a gold Avalon
and never retrieves her Sunday paper before noon
marching on, marching on
I count cadence, move as if I am headed
to another battle, and I am, but I won’t see my enemy tonight
he is yet on the black horizon, waiting for me, and you
marching on
when I pass the widow’s house a second time, a third (?) time
I smell her cigarettes and see the orange glow in her garage, like
a lonely firefly moving to and fro, in the universe she creates for it
before flicking it to her oil stained concrete graveyard, stomping it out
never to let it fly again, though by my next circle she will have birthed a new one
and given it a foul fickle journey of its own
marching on
a truck passes me on my final lap
its fumes mixing with the cool moonlight
I hold my breath, wanting neither lunar light
nor carbon monoxide for my evening repast
when I breathe again,
the scent of tacos soothes my olfactory,
I do not know its greasy origin in this dark place
nor do I care, but I inhale again more deeply
daring the odor to tease me again
and help me forget what
I escaped to find
marching on
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 9:33 PM UTC
he waits by the window, everyday
for the little girl to come home and play
she's his favorite, he likes the smell of her
the way she runs her fingers through fur
and talks to him, even if he doesn't understand
she's never rough when giving a command
it's more like a question, a please do this
she tops it with a pat and he gives her a kiss
she lets him sleep in her big warm bed
gives him baths and makes sure he's fed
she listens, even though he doesn't talk
plays ball with him, takes him for a walk
somethings different, it doesn't make sense
no big yellow school bus pulling up at the fence
no little girl with pigtails and a happy smile
maybe he should just wait a little while
same thing happens day after day
why doesn't the little girl come home to play?
and the humans cry, the house is always too dark
and he knows now what its like to have a broken heart
he stops eating, though they all try
he just waits by the window as the days pass by
he doesn't understand how she can be gone
leaving him so desperate, feeling alone
because she was his, his one true friend
and he feels the changes in the wind
and how the world seems empty without her laugh
the roads look scary without her dancing down the path
and every sound makes him bark
when he can't find her hand in the dark
she was right, innocent and she was good
and now tennis ***** don't bounce like they should
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 11:22 PM UTC
first kiss
18 year old, diving,
hurt.
lavish styles (of) discipline.
long stories,
instruction:
teacher and student.
(a) bar bathroom:
pure teen punished
sexually broken:
alice.
scarlet underwear,
redhead pigtails,
(and) b grade movies.
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 5:31 AM UTC
Valerie
She's a pretty girl
Betcha never see her in pigtails
La dee dee
Dee la dee la
La la la dee
Valerie Valerie
Valerie
The light of the moon
Doesn't shine as bright as you
La dee dee
Dee dee la
Dee la la la dee
My Valerie
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 6:54 AM UTC
Night beckons to strange people.
Actually, if you can accept this premise,
then the mind makes everyone strange.
And still yet, there is something specific about darkness,
I cannot put my finger on it,
that sends odd sparks of real life
on a mission to city street corners.
I hide in my car after leaving the café
with the hope of seeing, "The Pigtailed Man."
This isn't his name.
However, I need say no more to any stranger
for him to envision my character.
We objectify him and his image becomes clear
even when spotted in narrowed alleyway darkness.
He has a beautiful wife
with locks past her shoulder
of auburn and lillies,
and two wonderfully bright children
who sit on his knee when listening
to nighty-night, bedtime stories.
Their ringing laughter illuminates
the darkest corners of their happy home.
They'll never know why he needs
to go bye-bye at dangerous evening hours,
hunting sour scowls from passers-by.
He's unkempt: legs unshaven, chin covered
by midnight shadow, beer belly hanging over his
plaid picnic-basket red schoolgirl skirt,
and his face sags as if a topical novocaine
was applied generously to his chubby, rosy cheeks.
Upon seeing his aimless strut
and dead-to-self eyes, I wonder: Where does he dress?
Does he put his outfit on from plastic grocery bag
around the block from the lamp-lit looks of
the neighbors' friendly daytime greetings?
More importantly, if I were friend
and was to catch him in the act,
would I say anything?
Darkness calls out the most intriguing creatures.
We're afraid to call them "human beings,"
because being human most certainly
does not look like this.
Or, does it not look like this?
Shadows claw walls around all
because not one body projects light.
There are some who know, and some who appease.
The pigtails hang to his knees as he stares
at the mannequins of pretty women
in the window of the closed department store.
Aug 17, 2012
Aug 17, 2012 at 4:05 AM UTC
I own a hula hoop
it's red with black and white racing pattens circling around the red
like something a person could use for a race
I own a hula hoop
shockingly i am not a little girl with pigtails who uses it
no i bought it at 19 at a fair
and people stared while i just didnt care
I own a hula hoop
not because it seems like a new age thing to do
or simply because its a good workout tool
no i own a hula hoop because i love the way it moves with me
i love the tricks and turns i can do with it
i own a hula hoop because it makes me feel in the moment
in turn with myself and my surroundings
it makes me want to buy another hula hoop
Jul 1, 2016
Jul 1, 2016 at 6:41 PM UTC
In the beginning there was light
and so much fight to be drunk into
our very bones, not an eye sunk in,
nobody drunk except on finger paint
and what the stars might taste like
when we thought stars were small,
when there wasn’t far to fall,
before the white-tiled kitchen floors
grew too far away for us to notice
the texture of the black mortar
that held them in place like Elmer’s glue.
School is a bright maze of halls
that we walk through hand in hand
and mark our heights against the wall,
unsure whether to fly or to stall and stay close.
Our eyes are level as we hopscotch
round the ankles of women and men;
I think we’re going to be friends.
They weave a Charlotte’s web of pigtails
and bright red balloons, but isn’t it just
true that we feel safe close to ground,
tempted upward by gold and warmth
but torn, for the kitchen floor is close
and nice and cool, and doesn’t burn us
to the touch.
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 1:03 PM UTC
Aesthetic I wish I was
Pathetic I am now
Putting myself in misery
Hurting myself constantly
With two pigtails and a waist the
Width of 30 inches
I lay in my bed waiting to
die before these *******
May 9, 2019
May 9, 2019 at 2:01 PM UTC
Zip up the tux
and put it back
in the body bag
it came in
we danced, but
it didn’t make things
more real
i, with my
fake, dead skin –
someone else’s –
and you with your
cute pigtails
“make sure
you return
the body,”
mom said.
this is all we are
skins under death
someone else’s passion and style
we fit the frame
triangular shoulders
show stability
i hope:
please tell me you notice
death provides me with
a sense of being
just because it reminds
others
of someone i’m not
I hope you notice –
Now, this:
This is who I am.
I am capitalized,
With proper grammar
And order.
Oct 15, 2010
Oct 15, 2010 at 1:14 PM UTC
Later,
there are tears,
a sorrow slender
as a bellflower at first,
and opening its slow & delicate way
to grief, fluent as the soul
falling toward you, wet
and gasping, an agony of willows,
late in August & hemlock,
tear strung, haunted,
in the deep blue scythe of hours
you carve out of our secret,
a totem fossil of wild horses,
abandoned & impaled upon a carousel,
that bear a garland of snapdragons
for reign and bridle,
as they open their tiny pink throats to the night,
the calyx trill of tree frogs,
with their penchant for silk
& pink ribbons, pigtails
& sequin dreams,
I am desolate now,
my body a bramble
tangled in its curfew of snow,
upon the window pane,
the incessant thump, thump
of these **** ivory moths,
on each wing, a word I speak in dream,
returns to me, cleft
of blue light, scissor in darkness,
fierce to extinguish the stars
with their vehement lash of wing
to glass, to glass,
your pain is my familiar,
my envy,
my assurance,
and I am calmed
solely with the lace of spanned hands
at the throats small and fluttered vessel,
come, to besiege
the innocence of Summers stray tears....
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 3:13 PM UTC
_A_ _fat_ _little_ _girl_
....
A small little child with curly brown hair
Chubby, pink cheeks with skin so fair
Eats, enjoys, indulges and more
Everyone says "she's full for sure"
_A_ _fat_ _little_ _girl_
....
A sweet little girl, with long pigtails
Sees all the girls, and wonders why she fails
They all have friends, but why doesn't she
How come they're all so happy
_A_ _fat_ _little_ _girl_
....
A shy little girl, afraid to face her school
Everyone laughs, she's fat and 'uncool'
Sitting alone each and every day
Wondering why they treat her this way
_A_ _fat_ _little_ _girl_
....
A mature little girl, much for her age
Looks at the number on the scale enraged
Hating herself and what she's become
Wishing to see all her bones such as some
_A_ _fat_ _little_ _girl_
....
A fat little girl, no food on her plate
Determined as hell to lose all this weight
Her friends and her family, see her each day
More and more frail, withering away
_A_ _sick_ _little_ _girl_
....
A skeleton of a girl, who once was happy and bright
Her eyes now dark and hollowed at night
Clinging to life with her small, bony hands
Regretting all childhood reprimands
_A_ _dead_ _little_ _girl_
....
A dead little girl, now merely a corpse
Leaving everyone behind feeling remorse
A closed casket service, nothing left to show
Wants to be be remembered as we all know
Jun 21, 2017
Jun 21, 2017 at 3:23 PM UTC
Where does the innocence
of childhood go?
a time when mom was
all it took to sooth life's sorrows
when rocks and trees were
the foundations of our
imaginary castles
when we used hugs and kisses
as our currency of choice.
was your best friend was the one
with pigtails who you just meet
on the swings?
or was he the one who no one
seemed to like, but always made
you smile.
how is it that we've lost this part
of our being?
does it flee with the passing
of time? or the coming of age?
does it retreat due to a compromised
simplicity? or does it surrender to
newer and grander things
some it seems are able to retain
a sliver of their youth and
have that eternally vibrant glow.
but are they not frowned upon by
those of us who grew up too soon?
Feb 8, 2011
Feb 8, 2011 at 10:14 AM UTC
*** 101
by Michael R. Burch
That day the late spring heat
steamed through the windows of a Crayola-yellow schoolbus
crawling its way up the backwards slopes
of Nowheresville, North Carolina ...
Where we sat exhausted
from the day’s skulldrudgery
and the unexpected waves of muggy,
summer-like humidity ...
Giggly first graders sat two abreast
behind senior high students
sprouting their first sparse beards,
their implausible bosoms, their stranger affections ...
The most unlikely coupling―
Lambert, 18, the only college prospect
on the varsity basketball team,
the proverbial talldarkhandsome
swashbuckling cocksman, grinning ...
Beside him, Wanda, 13,
bespectacled, in her primproper attire
and pigtails, staring up at him,
fawneyed, disbelieving ...
And as the bus filled with the improbable musk of her,
as she twitched impaled on his finger
like a dead frog jarred to life by electrodes,
I knew ...
that love is a forlorn enterprise,
that I would never understand it.
Keywords/Tags: first, love, *** lust, passion, desire, school, bus, foreplay, ********* odor, musk
Apr 27, 2020
Apr 27, 2020 at 4:29 AM UTC