"straightening" poems
Hours
Spent
Straightening her
Tangled blonde hair
Thousands
Spent
Taming her
Wild
Golden locks
Ages
Spent
In front of a
Dishonest
Mirror
That lied
And lied again
About her
Beauty
Within
Don’t you know
Those curls are a treasure
My curly friend?
When I play with them at
Night
Again
And
Again
Wrapped round my fingers
Feeling your original curly sin
Don’t you know
Those curls are a pleasure
My curly friend?
As they tickle my
Soul
In their
Serpentine
Intent
I want to mess your
Proper blonde
Into a wild naked disarray
Curls and more
Curls
A field of windswept
Growth
I want to bury my nostrils
Into the heady bare
Perfume
Of your silent
Curly
Oath
And
I
Won’t
Let
You
No,
I
Won’t
Let
You
Defile those curls
Again
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 6:12 AM UTC
Breathe in and blow everything out of proportion
A manic artist versus the abstract composition
In my head this all looked as perfect as imagination
The challenge was blending the line between fantasy and reality
To get the inner critic to agree
Worlds colliding this one into the next
Dreams manifested to the forefront
of a visionary gone inside himself
Throwing myself against the walls of my mind
In an attempt to think outside the box.
Even in our own heads they've got us on lockdown
With the chemical constraints constricting creativity
These straightjackets of sorts
Straightening out the free-thinkers
A fourth wall broken
Pretentions are high
On the artist's plane
Subjectively selling ourselves out to a shallow medium
The mainstream
The water we should be walking on
We're drown out in.
Drawn into the background of the bigger picture.
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 6:48 PM UTC
I reemphasized myself again
this time straightening my back
to become as tall as possible
to intimidate and deliver the
words like heat seeking missiles
aimed for earth’s ever-beating
heart and before I could begin
I heard a baby giggle
this made me giggle
and the whole bowlful of crowd
laughed along with us as I let
the doves flutter out of
my hat
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 3:28 PM UTC
I’ve O’D’d on Glucosamine Sulphate, so much I’m mentally scarred.
It’s escalated now I’m 70… I’ve mainlined on my Senior Railcard…
I bow down to the Norse God Voltarol… He eases all my pains…
and there’s Deep Heat, Germaloids, even Anusol for the other stresses and strains.
The wondrous Winter Fuel Allowance! That’s what lights our lamp these dark days - ahh, those twilight hours!
But after the logs, it’s not Leccy or Gas we crave? No! We buy ***** with ours…
the Whisky, Gin, ***** Wine, a drop of Brandy too. It all helps us numb the cold
whilst memories of happier times gone by - brighten up this ****** growing old.
Supplements, sterols, statins, aspirin, beta blockers… All the heart meds - life’s a battle.
In the 60s it was *** and Drugs and Rock ’n’ Roll… Now there’s less *** and a lot more rattle!
****** fails to make it now - “no more”, after the last time - she said!
These days the only thing it does is stop me rolling out of bed!
The bus pass lets me roam the world… from John O’Groats to Land’s End.
But these days I travel locally Southwick, Lancing, Steyning; oh yeh and a cousin in far Gravesend.
Further afield; abroad perhaps? Well no…Back then it was Newhaven for the Continent.
But now I’m over 70, well, it’ll just be Worthing for the INCONTINENT!
And… did I say? Not that I was ever in the habit of measuring it you understand - or straightening out the kinks
I’m pretty sure that these days - and ’no’ it’s NOT just the cold… but, your once adequate **** - it shrinks!
I'm sorry...Your ******* It ain't so long!
Dec 28, 2018
Dec 28, 2018 at 4:15 PM UTC
When I was young,
I had long curly hair
That cascaded down my back
Like an ominous waterfall;
So dark and thick, it seemed to go on forever.
But, when I was in school, it was always tied up.
It was a challenge for my mother to tame it with a brush
And keep it in the confines of a bun.
She said it was to keep my hair
from getting to my and others’ faces.
But some people still managed to make me feel bad for having such “unruly” hair
when the most it’s been exposed is when I take out my hair tie just to tie it back up again.
For years I tried to straighten it;
Hair rebonding every year,
Straightening iron ever morning,
Damaged hair and damaged pride every day.
They say a woman’s hair is her crown;
She must wear it with her chin up
And flaunt it unabashedly.
This is to the girls who do.
This is to the girls who dye their hair magnificent colors
To match their colorful personalities.
This is to the girls who cut their own hair
Because hair salons charge so much for a trim.
This is to the girls who shave all their hair for charity
Or for support of the girls in chemotherapy.
But this is also for the girls in chemotherapy,
Who are still thriving even though they’re suffering.
This is also to the girls whose hair are being treated like an anomaly,
Their braids being pulled and afros being patted.
This is also to the girls who can’t land a job
Because their skills were degraded by their “unprofessional” hair.
A woman’s hair is her crown
But a queen does not need a crown.
A queen is not just some girl with a shiny thing on her head.
A queen is a figure of power, compassion and grace.
She wears the crown, not the other way around.
Jul 23, 2017
Jul 23, 2017 at 5:51 AM UTC
I remember the first time
that I was called pretty.
I was eight years old.
I remember feeling
a bubble of insecurity
hover around me,
like an ant
under a microscope.
At eight years old,
I had experienced
my very first wave
of expectations of women
in a male dominated society.
I had no idea
that would be the first
of many by the time
I reached womanhood.
I was just a child.
I loved playing in the dirt,
and capturing bull frogs.
I was a girl
who played like a boy.
I never thought I was pretty,
not because I had
low self esteem,
but because
I was eight years old.
I was to young
to have pretty
wrapped up in my identity.
Fast forward
eight more years.
I am sixteen now.
I am no longer
playing in the dirt,
or capturing bull frogs.
I am painting my nails
bright pink,
and dying my hair
every two weeks.
I am trying to be pretty.
I am no longer
feeling the bubble of insecurity.
I am living in it
twenty four seven.
I am always concerned
with how I look,
how I act,
and what I say.
I am a girl
who is no longer a tomboy.
I am just a girl.
I no longer know
who I am,
because I am
not allowed
to be who I am.
I am expected
to sit quietly
in the corner,
straightening my hair,
perfecting my makeup,
so that a boy
who loves my body
can tell me he loves me,
and make me his wife.
Fast forward
4 more years.
I am twenty now.
I am numb
to the insecurity.
I am now expected
to live in a suburb,
raise three kids,
clean the house,
love my husband,
and my white picket fence.
I am just another girl
who is seen as pretty.
I am living a lifeless life.
I am at a crossroads
to either stay down
under the weight
of societies expectations,
or burn my picket fence
right down to the ground.
I am remembering
that tomboy I was
before I was called pretty.
I can either reconnect
with her fierceness,
or hide beyond a mask
of beige concealer.
I can either be a dove,
or I can be a phoenix.
I think
the choice is obvious.
Mar 29, 2017
Mar 29, 2017 at 2:38 AM UTC
you like it
when daddy
washes your hair
the shampoo
the water
my hands
massaging
your head
i know
you do
you lean
your head
back
pressing
into
my fingers
moaning softly
i kiss
your neck
shoulders
you turn
around
kiss daddy
on the lips
i stand you up
in the tub
rinse you off
wrap you up
in a towel
lift you up
in my arms
put you down
on the bed
comb your hair
gently
untangling
the knots
brushing
straightening
your hair
you are
my angel
but most of all
you’re
daddy’s little girl
Feb 27, 2021
Feb 27, 2021 at 9:43 PM UTC
Now the rich cherry, whose sleek wood,
And top with silver petals traced
Like a strict box its gems encased,
Has spilt from out that cunning lid,
All in an innocent green round,
Those melting rubies which it hid;
With moss ripe-strawberry-encrusted,
So birds get half, and minds lapse merry
To taste that deep-red, lark’s-bite berry,
And blackcap bloom is yellow-dusted.
The wren that thieved it in the eaves
A trailer of the rose could catch
To her poor droopy sloven thatch,
And side by side with the wren’s brood—
O lovely time of beggar’s luck—
Opens the quaint and hairy bud;
And full and golden is the yield
Of cows that never have to house,
But all night nibble under boughs,
Or cool their sides in the moist field.
Into the rooms flow meadow airs,
The warm farm baking smell’s blown round.
Inside and out, and sky and ground
Are much the same; the wishing star,
Hesperus, kind and early born,
Is risen only finger-far;
All stars stand close in summer air,
And tremble, and look mild as amber;
When wicks are lighted in the chamber,
They are like stars which settled there.
Now straightening from the flowery hay,
Down the still light the mowers look,
Or turn, because their dreaming shook,
And they waked half to other days,
When left alone in the yellow stubble
The rusty-coated mare would graze.
Yet thick the lazy dreams are born,
Another thought can come to mind,
But like the shivering of the wind,
Morning and evening in the corn.
3.1k
Girl,
You’ll be a woman
Soon, so start
Straightening your hair
So it’s smooth and shiny
And cake on your cumbersome
Concealer because
Acne is for boys.
Browse bras in Victoria’s Secret
The ones with plentiful padding,
Push-up, so your cleavage
Screams: “I am a grown lady”
Even though you’re only thirteen.
Trade your sweats for slimming
Jeans that squeeze, skin-tight
Telling you to take a trot to trim
Your waist because you weigh
More than a delicate number.
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 9:56 PM UTC
a tear dropped
from the face of despair
and wove it’s way down
it’s entangled hair
weaving through waves
of dry dead strands
it untangled the knots
the braids and the bands
sliding ever so slowly
soothing out like oil
every curve and curl
of every anxious coil
straightening the stress
as it falls to the ground
shaking your head off the mess
let your hair hang down
Feb 26, 2024
Feb 26, 2024 at 4:22 AM UTC
I am a carousel going
too fast.
The grey sky is my envelope,
when it opens
it pours
with belated emotion and fiery.
Ironing out the creases,
straightening my mind,
I am okay
“I am okay”
I. Am. Okay.
I repeat
over and over .
This is a temporary glitch,
The carousel is slowing,
slowing
but
my mind
it goes
faster
and
faster
until!
The carousel reaches its impending doom.
Delayed reactions,
my head is still spinning
my hands are holding so tight
onto the horses beautiful deep black reins.
The carousel with its supposedly fairytale ending,
riding on the back of a horse into
a state of complete relaxation and calmness.
I hear the neigh of the horse before
my head hits the floor and I enter the black hole
my mind.
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 10:21 AM UTC
the hailstones were falling like dragons
attacking the windows of the North Tower
it was a New Moon, the beginning of a golden era,
the end of a long shift
his arm stretched, brought the sun from the dungeon
tied one of its rays, gently to my little finger
and nailed it to the sky with a swift move
the clouds collapsed like a pack of cards
(Queen of spades fell to pieces, like it never existed)
and then he held my hand, his sword and shield
leaning peacefully against the rest of my world
once again
I watched my children play ‘it’, my women washing linen
in rivers flowing into oceans I never knew I had
while men sat in a circle quietly sharpening their arrows
straightening their bows for tomorrow’s hunt
is there anything you ask in return milord?
my fingers touched his arm
for the first time in a thousand years
his eyes whispered in love-tongue, his lips kissed my handkerchief
which gently fell to his feet and caressed the earth he stood on
it was late and we had to close the gates until the next morning
when we woke up, drank coffee and lived
happily ever after
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 2:22 PM UTC
I invite thee, I invite thee;
to sit by and tell a story.
I shall be comely and pretty;
you'll be tempted to flirt with me.
I shall leave behind the crude waves;
and my underwater bleak cave.
I want to see lands and be brave;
seek the prince I've so longed to have.
I shall turn into a human;
a fair-skinned rosy young maiden.
I shall wait for thee by that rock,
while straightening up my dark lock.
I shall wear my long black hair down;
I shall be dressed in my red gown.
I shall sing my love song to you;
Whose lyrics are so clear and true.
I shall blush at the sight of thee;
I shall turn red and be naughty.
I shall make thee feel heavenly;
I shall make thee fall in love with me.
I shall look deep into thy eyes;
As dusk falls and night turn to rise.
I shall lay my head in thy arms;
be swept and swirled lost in thy charms.
I shall taste the scent of thy lips;
Kiss the curves of thy fingertips.
My mouth driven 'round thy sweet tongue,
As thou embrace me all along.
I am but thirsty for one love,
love that consoles, love that can heal.
Love that makes me stronger and tough,
love that understands what I feel.
I am hungry for a lover,
who can kiss and love me better.
when far rolls a pernicious storm;
He shall calm me and hug me warm.
I long to meet but one sincere;
One whose heart gentle and tender.
Whose heart has neither grief nor rage;
Sweet and mature for one his age.
I am in search for a husband,
who's willing to learn and listen.
He shall make everything bad good;
he lights my charm; he tames my mood.
Such a flawless husband like him,
is indeed every woman's dream.
He shall be my wise companion;
not just oneself of temptations.
Such a generous man like him;
perhaps lives only in poetry.
But I believe as weird it seems;
I shall find him in reality.
He shall indeed be my dream man;
both a husband and faithful friend.
He shall kiss away all this pain;
he shall keep me safe by his hand.
He shall be my one truest king;
for whom I write, to whom I sing.
Be his lifelong and faithful wife,
from now on; 'till the afterlife.
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 11:40 AM UTC
I waited 8 periods, 7 hours, in between searching for you, running around the corridors,
Like a psychosis affected patient running trying to find reality through delusions,
But "planet", ironically you are my delusion, miles away from the brutal reality.
My excuses to see you were drying up; sprinting to the top floor that maybe you‘ll come across,
Ecstatic like a 5 year old kid, when his rents buy him a toy helicopter,
Disappointed like the poor kid as his helicopter crashed on the first day itself.
You’re nerdy, the only guy studying java and oracle with interest, enticing me with your mint and cedar scent,
This infatuation is eating my heart up, slowly and slowly, like cancer
I came today only to see you, desperately clinging to the belief that maybe you’ll come to see me too.
But I was left alone, with the burning sun as my only companion.
I woke up hours early, straightening my hair till my hair were singed, applying mascara till my eyes burned.
I fancied, that possibly you might think of me too, day dream of me too,
but darling curse me for being a hopeless teen, as its getting me nowhere.
Everyone keeps telling me its never going to happen, I’m a junior and you a sophomore
& when your azure lids never glance my way, my face turns ashen, even during the Indian summer.
And who am I to even try to fight with the bitter truth,
for it’s always destroying our little fragile hearts and drowning them in acid and absinth
It was so silly of me to even give into these treacherous day dreams, to even let my pride escape.
I was absurd enough to even like you, knowing even then, that I will never be able to solve this Rubik cube.
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 6:37 AM UTC
i gravitate towards you
like a dusky desolate deposit of dirt
to its glimmering counterpart
of lapis lazuli, ridden with veins of gold
i reach and reach
to no avail
and i watch as you spin quickly away
stumbling and straightening before slipping into another stagnant spiral
how do i catch up to one
so quickly moving amongst the stars?
celestial bodies they may be
but i am a mere moon, reflecting light for your gaze
i can feel my muscles expanding and stretching
tendons taut with tension and
heart pounding and pounding away at the pavement
as i move forward and grasp outwards to you
but a mere millimeter of air becomes solid
and my knuckles crash against nothingness
instead of the warmth of your palm
which i'm not truly sure was even there to begin with
the darkness of this dying universe
is colder and more derelict than i have the capacity
to understand; and so i curl inwards
alone amongst pebbles and freely floating matter
because a moon without a planet
is simply an orb named vesta
or a goddess called hestia:
frequently forgotten and oft omitted
by those who claim to be scholars of myth, keepers of lore
and by extension, the very children she presided over
overseer of life and hearth nevermore.
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 2:00 AM UTC
I am a
plenipotentiary
of your heart
but not your tongue
Which whips
with shout
Inflicting
all this
doubt
--
Try not to see my glaring mistakes
when uncaring I am trumpeting arrogant aches.
--
I became lost in channels of the self and now-
I have smoothed out my spikes,
inverted my aversions, diluted my delusions-
I have incrementally expanded my positive mentality.
I am the Xenolith within the conglomerate
uncomfortable with chafing sand.
Displaying dependability with the straightening of back,
gone is lithe youth's unbecoming stand.
I shall trust inappropriately and love exponentially.
I shall treat you, The Stranger-
even stranger
like family.
Apr 5, 2011
Apr 5, 2011 at 5:51 PM UTC
My jet-lagged self sleeps early,
wakes early, sleeps again, reads.
Having watched one movie too many over summer
I relish the sounds designed above- a click
of a door handle, bare warm socks gliding
across wooden floor, the scrunch of toothbrush
against the rusting metal straightening yellowing teeth,
the few lone cars across the street, that hazy
early sound that only light can make as it
becomes aware of itself in my dorm room. What
kind of camera lens would make this moment more
livable and is it already dead?
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 4:39 PM UTC
“You’re beautiful,” he says,
his voice a gin-soaked amalgamation of every
listlessly aging boss,
lonely husband in the shoe department,
loveless 3a.m.-hard-cocked stranger.
“Why don’t you smile?”
I widened my eyes
in an attempt to appear likable,
yet felt my mouth
straightening,
my upper lip sealing
the bottom like
a Tupperware lid.
I willed them to curl
upwards, unassumingly;
I wanted to smile the way
women seem to smile
while masking
ill-fitting intentions.
My mouth remained
firmly rooted,
obstinate railroad tracks running
the shortest distance
between the two plotted points of
left cheek and right cheek.
Behind these pretty lips lay
two rows of crooked teeth,
a cigarette-stained skyline
against the starless horizon of
tongue and epithelial tissue, ugly
and wholly my own.
To smile
would be a betrayal
of my own trust,
and if any man
were worth that
it certainly wasn’t
this one.
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 1:06 AM UTC
life is untidy fragile *****
escaping gradually
in instant beginning
life stings curiously small
timid vastly
open flutters
life
newold
life abruptly coiled
in the precisely fragrant mess
of each young thing
nice, tall beautifully muscles
deft unclean
that struck by sunlight shake
loose shimmering deeply
(
like serious approachable foil)
and though for straightening endlessly
still curls
(half small languorous )
'gainst the mortal stuff
in
toomuchclothing
swaggering with tight comely
L I F e
Aug 11, 2012
Aug 11, 2012 at 12:25 AM UTC
Pop bottles. Boxes of them.
The old man brought them home.
He collected them on the construction site, between lifts.
Sometimes it would be days between lifts,
So he filled time collecting bottles.
*Hires, Fanta, Tab, Fresca, 7 Up, Mountain Dew,
Canada Dry*...
Emptied by men, like him, from all over.
What conversations did he have with them
When he picked up the empties.
Did he indulge? He'd have liked Vernors.
Pop bottles were as good as gold.
Large bottles, a nickel: Small, two cents.
He kept us busy, weeding, straightening nails, digging, mixing cement, building fences, painting them, and the house;
Root cellars, garages, additions;
In fair, wet, or hot conditions.
Winter had it's own cuffs.
We'd cash in the bottles at Walker Bros.
Every Sunday he'd leave for weeks,
Up North, to places like Kapuskasing and Hearst.
He must've been thinking about us up there,
Collecting our bottles,
In fair, wet, or hot conditions.
May 7, 2018
May 7, 2018 at 10:03 PM UTC
he was always told not to be afraid of the Big Bad Wolf;
the big bad wolf and his big bad claws and his big bad fangs and the wicked way his eyes would gleam r e d in the dark.
*do not be afraid,
liebling*, his mother would say,
brushing his hair from his forehead before kissing him goodnight.
he would curl under the covers,
curl in,
curl in,
curl –
oh, no.
do not be afraid of the big bad wolf, he tells himself,
staring at his mother’s coffin as it is lowered slowly into the ground.
(it was not an open casket. could not be an open casket. her lip was split and swelling and the bruise over her eye was too dark to cover and his father’s knuckles are still red and raw to the touch.)
do not be afraid of the Big Bad Wolf,
but when his father lays a meaty hand on his shoulder and squeezes,
he shivers.
“i am not afraid of the big bad wolf,” he says into the mirror,
staring at his own split and swelling lip.
he meets felix and loves felix and does not bring felix home with him –
until the day that he does.
“he’s not the big bad wolf anymore,” felix says when he tells him what he’s done.
his clothes are rank with smoke and burning flesh,
and he remembers his mother, and the closed casket at her funeral.
“i know,” he says, straightening his tie.
(this casket is closed, too.)
there is no such thing as the big bad wolf,
not now, not today, not when the time for fairy tales has long since passed.
now, his hands itch for a gun,
now, his fingers itch to pull the trigger,
now, he is restless and he is ****** and he is a criminal.
(who’s the big bad wolf now?)
“my father was a monster. and so are you. and so am i.”
his funeral will be a closed casket, too. he smiles.
kala weeps.
he sticks the gun in his back pocket and thinks of his mother.
*do not be afraid,
liebling.*
i am not, he wants to tell her. i am not. not anymore.
(but still he sleeps with the gun beneath his pillow still he dreams of retribution from hands dripping with blood still he wakes and forgets that he is safe still he breathes and is afraid, deep down, is afraid of the wolf he has become.)
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 11:53 PM UTC
"The telephoto lense is slightly cracked,
But everything else is in pristine condition,"
I said, straightening up.
"She's served me well over the years."
You raised your eyebrows.
"She?" you asked, quizzically.
"Well, of course she.
Actually, Bella.
She's named after my grandmother who..."
I caught myself.
"Oh, you don't want to hear this."
"No, please go on."
I took a deep breath, and continued.
"She was named after my grandmother, Bella,
Who first introduced me to photography.
Grammy Bella gave me her old Polaroid
For my eighth birthday.
It was just..."
My voice trailed off,
"The coolest thing."
You smiled.
A picture perfect smile.
Flash.
I continued,
"My life is a series of documented flashes.
Lost my first tooth; flash!
Played in my first concert; flash!
Sang a solo for chorus; flash!"
"Wow," your voice cracked,
Nothing more than a whisper.
" I think I'd like to buy it."
I stumbled through the filing cabinets
Of my subconscious mind,
Thumbing through old flashes...
"Actually, it's not for sale."
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 6:28 PM UTC
Flip. Fold. Straighten.
Flip. Fold. Straighten.
Flip. Fold. Straighten.
The same
Ugly embroidered cotton shirts.
The same colors
Fabrics
Stiff stain-proof pants.
Eight hours
Of flipping
Folding
Straightening.
This is my life now.
May 22, 2010
May 22, 2010 at 6:35 PM UTC
working for others
makes one poor..
special identity denied
one's voice deeply hidden
inner beauty suppressed..
livelihoods are exile
protections are dear
yet servitude keeps rule..
a new time
demands correction
straightening posture
a new discovery..
each of us stands
as connector
of many and one
one's voice found at last
exile ended
though we.. remain
here...
Sep 1, 2012
Sep 1, 2012 at 10:52 PM UTC
RESPECT
Mr C Penguin the head of the house
Wears a uniform and listens to Strauss.
Seals plonked by the door as a draught excluder.
Chimps are taking tea in the parlour Room.
Judging how many cakes they can consume.
“Get a brush Foxy and sweep up those crumbs,
I will be charging them double when the time comes”
Mr Badger making endless trays upon trays of cakes
For the ignorant posh chimps and the mess thy make.
“Bag the goose and send the felloe to me,
I will give the chimps something to do for free”
The penguin cracked his knuckles and gave a cough
He had told the chimps he had taken the day off.
“The goose is here” half smiling “the goose is here”
The chimps shook, gulped and felt a trifle queer.
The goose frog marched in and the chimp went limp
“Right you posh lot, eat nicely is that clear chimp”
“I’m not old fishy pengy” he snapped straightening his wing,
“no hanky panky on my watch, nothing, no anything.
“I run a tight ship chimp, my rules old chum.”
The chimps heard right and put an end to the fun.
“Respect, respect,” the goose patrolled his little space
The chimps now ashen with a worried look on their face.
It is all about respect
Jun 22, 2013
Jun 22, 2013 at 1:02 AM UTC