Best Bouffant Poems
Image: Cloud Fantasy, by Susan Lawrence
On spring's green carpet I repose, revitalizing the soul
passing slow minutes pondering the sky
The lake whispers a morning meditation
as memories abound of cloud fantasies
a thousand ships of condensation dreams
Assorted sizes, shifting shapes
capriciously changing contours and colors
white, dun, pewter gray, dusky purple
magically mirroring my many moods
Fleecy, flitting, tiny, quiet, wispy cirrus all alone
like first day of school in a new town
Thunderheads colliding with cold fronts
hurling lightning in angry retribution
resolute battleships storming towards war
Stratus clouds, flat and unruffled
soothing, like grandma holding a cookie sheet
embracing landscapes like a comforting blanket
hugging hilltops in a friendly fog
Misting up at a feel good story
spilling tears on the gloomiest of days
A nimbostratus orchestra performing
a symphony of snow for mountain dwellers
a reverie of rain for desert denizens
Bouffant hairdo like a 60's prom queen
strutting across the sky adjusting her tiara
cotton ball cumulus, billowy like a verbose uncle
enhancing sunsets with colorful stories
.....
The soul of the sky is Sol-
our daylight and warmth, essence and marrow
The stars are sky's artists painting our stories-
archers, dippers, swans, seven sisters,
scorpions, lions, hunters, heroes
The heart of the sky is Luna-
a nightlight for sleepy children
a lamppost where lovers meet
a lantern for the darkest of trails
but clouds are the personality of the sky
written 24 May, 2022
//Inspired by the wonderful art of PS member Susan Lawrence, after viewing her landscape paintings at susanlawrence.net. Each landscape is framed by a different personality of cloud; I encourage all to pay a visit to her website to enjoy her portraits and abstracts as well as landscapes ~ John//
Affluent and formal
pink lilies deck the tables;
we await the
sweet, affected
laughter of our friends.
Bedecked in bouffant hair-do's
perfumes, ermines, jewels
brocades and buckled shoes,
we dazzle, yes! We dazzle
with our mirrors, and our decals,
our precious art, and plaster,
exotic candelabras,
but I can't wait to make my
exit to wander in the gardens
and let the scented air restore
my soul
To get completely
lost in moonlight and
fragrance of the night
never to return,
to that balcony, nor
endure, the boring empty twitter
that temporary glitter.
I can barely wait till daylight to
mount my noble horse
and gallop miles and miles
and miles away.
To feel the solid earth resound
beneath his flying feet.
I have crossed that fragile threshold
into madness.
I can no longer be a Duchess
Suzanne Delaney
I slept with my guitar,
I guess was inept.
I was not in accord,
my guitar slowly wept
I slept with my piano
—such a torrid tease,
it tinkled with my tuner
and slew me with its keys
I slept with my bassoon,
it ruffled up my hair.
Un fétiche pour bouffant?
I didn’t really care
I slept with my recorder,
in between the sheets.
The score became discordant
but the music sure was sweet
I slept with tenor sax
kinky though it seems
Did I get the ax?
Or was it in my dreams?
In this decade: pizza, soda,
Colonel Sanders,
burgers only fifteen cents;
"Tutti Frutti,"
sock hops, "mooning,"
Rock and Roll (monumental consequence);
Rosa's bus ride,
suburbs, fluoride,
escalating sales,
vaccine for polio;
Mickey Mouse Club,
Haley, Hitchcock,
Davy Crockett,
drive-ins,
Fats Domino;
Causeless Rebel crashing car,
bouffant hairdos,
"har dee har har;"
Elvis on TV
and ME.
Chapter 1;
THE LIGHT THAT COULD NOT BE EXTINGUESHED
They say that demons can be generational, that they can attach themselves to a family for decades with such a stronghold, that the individuals are blissfully ignorant to the forces that are working against them. Ours dug themselves in like an insatiable tick sucking the very marrow out of our family life. And it was just normal to us.
The nurses nicknamed me Rosebud when I was born because I only weighed 2 pounds, and was not expected to live. I was always told that my mother had taken a fall and went into early labor, it wasn’t until 40 years later I would learn the heart wrenching truth that helped set me free.
There are a few fond memories that come to mind during my early years, going to the beach outside of Exeter New Hampshire. I can still clearly see my mom with her bouffant hair do and pokadot bikini. Coal black hair, blue eyes. She was beautiful.
Running through the mossy green creeks of Shickshinny Pennsylvania, chasing frogs. But the most vivid memories are from our journey to the west. My Father was a welder that afforded him the opportunity to venture out west to the Four Corners area of New Mexico when the oilfield was booming in 1978. Dad was born into a wealthy family. The Hickok bloodline, as in Wild Bill Hickok. I can still hear him shouting after several drinks of Importers vodka; YOU GOT HICKOK BLOOD RUNNING THROUGH YOU VIENS, AND DON’T YOU FORGET THAT! But my father was a spoiled brat and he ended up squandering his inheritance, in a drunken stupor. Leaving us kids, nothing but a stiff upper lip. I had 3 brothers and 1 sister.
To be continued...
Even before the arrival of the first snows, so brilliantly candid,
we climbed mounts less dangerous than the Alps's;
and we proudly chalked it up to our experience.
Now the snowy cliffs with bouffant boulders,
have lost their captious and so beatific image,
and quite too often we got pinched by burdock,
distracted by the robins chattering on a coarse descent;
I champed on crisp strawberries, while he challenged his strength.
My buddy never castigated me for my bizarre behavior,
and I admired him for displaying humor without repulsion,
or retort, and with chisel and hammer we engraved faces of historic men
on the smoothest rocks which were replete with their handsomeness.
Those adventurous afternoons are repealed when we look up,
and recreate them through our Male Chauvinism, cheery not dumb;
we felt like cave men making rudimentary drawings of their hunted animals,
while their women picked wild chicory for an early dinner.
Chums we were, resembling cowboys with wide hats in a chiaroscuro,
drinking in a bar filled with fashionable ladies frolicking and saying hello;
and chili con carne we ate, and plenty of beers to wash it down.
After our money was all squandered, our pockets were empty and we felt alone,
dazed...wobbling with fear, afraid to face our witless wives at home;
we were two idiots wooing empathy and some undeserving love.
And didn't they seem two witches ready for vengeance in their frown,
trying to squeeze the truth out of our silent and pretentious mouths too fulsome?
Frost will bring winter soon, and the snowy cliffs with bouffant boulders will be covered,
our hair have turned almost white to match the bright color of the deep snows,
as this river is freezing up, to become a sheet of ice, where no boats or barges pass;
and we play chess, the intramural game of a confined life, without those clandestine affairs.
Our darlings approve with sweet intonation, intensifying their affection so amorous;
and we embrace them with that tenderness that they have long desired...
staring at the snowy cliffs with bouffant boulders that these two climbers made their own,
remembering the cold and the shivering...coming down to a valley of comfort and domain.
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
(alternately known as the Doubting Thomas Crown
Taj Mahal Cupid Affair)
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Fortunate (for me) thee bona fide "FAKE" Cupid
(aka Decoy Donald Duck
and side kickstarter Jay Rad,
colluded donning one alias,
which (former and latter)
amounted tube bing disguised incognito
as the cingular "Ivan Ha Bea Robber Baron),"
while same above placed
their System Of A Down on high alert
whereby, they unwittingly, fortunately,
and accidentally discerned disquieting "noise"
i.e. static electronic crackling
purportedly from nemesis, asper sans above
whereby broadcasters colluded
confusingly, congruously, and convincingly
as thee infamous digital (duplicity)
faux "Big Mac" Trump.
The chalkboard scratching, hair sprayed bouffant,
and knuckle crackling
appeared tubby the handiwork cleverly disguised
(as tinpot dictator antics of Moscow's version,
sans Putin on the ritz),
which decrypted garble (a fluke) as iterated above
strongly emanating via polygamous,
prestigious, and pseudonymous
pull no punches ploy
innocently convincing feigned
duo code named "Ashley Madison and Bert"
disclosing (when uncovered),
a heartless conspiracy in concert
with Sesame Street studded lesser known Muppets
pretending tubby oil tycoon Bedouins
intent to fleece "sensitive"
top secret military defense contracts,
which Russian motley crue ace double agents
intended this act of espionage thence sabotage
feted as a Black Sabbath Lupercalia feint
not for the faint hearted clubby fete
where Cupid given free rule of the roost
allowing, enabling and proffering
Cyrillic chattering Cherubim
hook cooked United States "figurative goose"
lock, stock and barrel, which stratagem
captured president unawares
and did significantly boost
Eastern Bloc reconnaissance (on par
with the Philadelphia Eagles
winning 2018 Super Bowl LII
which surprise clenching championship
wrought frenzied hoopla, gala, and bacchanalia
where barenaked ladies
cavorted nsync with beastie boys,
whence City of Brotherly love hoopla found
nearly every man, woman and child soused
(analogous to each person garnering
an early Sainted Patrick's pot of gold.
**Disclaimer: This is strictly satire-tongue-in-cheek-written before I became a poet- sort of. An opportunity to laugh at myself but poets, rock!
Poetry Defined
Poetry is tedious
with its
silly syntax and similes and symbolism
and analogies and allegories and…alliterations.
Stein said, “a rose is a rose is a rose” until it isn’t, claims Magritte.
Why does it have to be
so…
abstract?
It isn’t a game show-
Don’t make me guess;
what has velvety concentric circles when dried creates
mind numbing potpourri?
Poetry is bouffant.
Marie Antoinette pompous and full of itself.
Rhythm and rimes- iambic pentameters or haiku
just tell me the story.
It’s laborious and lengthy-
ever read a short poem that said anything?
Poetry is frivolous –
all the skipping throughs and dashing off to sunsets
and crossing ponds.
It short circuits the brain and takes liberty with
punctuation and lack of paragraphs
with its stops and starts
and no periods or commas
to know when you can breathe again
or drift off or get a snack.
Never put an exclamation point in poetry! (exclamation point noted)
That’s excitement;
poetry is nonchalant; like a lazy tabby reposed on a tattered couch.
“ I’d rather not be analyzed,” declares the poet.
“I have a shrink.”
For me a simple story will do
like,
My “once upon time”
won’t really rhyme
and at the end
you will see
they can still say
“I love you”
without sitting under a tree.
Plagued with signs of aging
Only the eyes bore a semblance
These were faces I used to know
Yet I barely see a resemblance.
Hair that once was wavy and long
Now barely grows in sprinkles
The face that never had a flaw
Now creased with lines and wrinkles
My eyes slowly traveled the room
Trying to look so nonchalant
Reveling in all the rounded figures
Sporting an out-of-date bouffant.
And to think I once was jealous
And made to feel so out of place
By this very group of matriarchs
Without a sign of youth to trace
How gracefully I’ve aged
As I compared myself to these
How much younger I appear
I’ve sailed the years with ease.
The sound of voices intermingling
Draws me back to reality
Scarcely believing what I’m hearing
They’re saying the same things about me!
We were sitting in a restaurant
having enjoyed a marvellous meal
I caught sight of a man sitting near us
His hair was bizarre, no way was it real
As we’d never seen a bouffant so big
Hubby declared that it must be a wig
I said it looks like a ferret that’s dead
When suddenly the ‘ferret’ slipped off his head
He desperately tried to catch his falling hair
And his frantic hands flew up into the air
Alas it landed slap bang in his soup
He fished it out, covered in gloop
He nonchelantly placed it back on his head
I turned to hubby, and then I said
'It was very wrong of us to stare
but it wasn’t a ferret... it was really a hare!'
A lot of poetic licence but based on seeing a man with the most bizarre ‘rug’ on his head
11/8/18
She struts out of the golden elevator
like the Grand Marshall of Macy’s Thanksgiving parade
Crystal high-heels rhythmically clicking
on the gleaming marble floor
Pompadour bouffant hair
that’s styled so platinum electric
Purple Persian silk dress
accentuated by a
diamond studded heart-shaped necklace
Sashay walking with such sexy flair ...
her haughty, ice-chiseled chin held high
Looks that carry a distant, superior air
She’s letting you know,
she’s the Grand Poo-bah —
she don’t dispense hellos
She’s queen caliph, empress shah ...
She’s just letting you know,
she’s the Grand Poo-bah
Her affinity for making grandiose entrances
into boardroom meetings is legendary
She loves telling the bigwig execs to pipe down,
to park their ego tubas
She’s orchestrating the show,
she’s the Grand Poo-bah
Making sure that you know,
she’s Miss Machiavellian maestro
She never dispenses any rah-rah,
it’s so unbecoming of a Grand Poo-bah
Her title didn’t come by proxy or election,
it was bestowed by a hereditary designation
Like Papa, like daughter ...
She issues grim decrees,
telling you to get your business house in order
She loves having underlies lay the red carpet down,
to give royal reverence to her ka
This lets everybody know,
she’s the imperial Grand Poo-bah
Yo baby, show lots of skin.
Sexy, trashy girly glams,
crank up classy. Young fun,
ultimate goal appear buff,
why focus on the candies.
Looky stark naked unsightly scene Hoochy coochy hot mama
Transition to a feature film,
sexy big bouffant 'fro,
Road kill, hopping show.
Tinsel town’s Christmas ornament.
Singing siren in a tree,
Style star, cheeky mood,
mesmerized pool reflections,
love with self the only goal.
Very Hollywood spreading wings
in Armani, puce, puke, puked.
Burn the house down Bo delicious
Bo peep lost her sheep,
Bo constrictors ate them all.
Sweaty salty songster sandwich,
More then the audience can eat.
Fierce frumpy funky fuzzy What’s that, that’s who,
Sizzling siren out of her mind.
SHA-ZAM, POW, HOLY ICONS!
Here on our very own stage,
Byzantine rituals make you cringe
Golden idols will make you singe.
Spend wisely but buy Chinese.
Here is my whine, now pass along the cheese!
My list is short on things that do not please.
But greatest of those few that bring unease,
is weather with a twirling, whirling breeze.
A summer wind or one in winter freeze
may call for me to search my bag and seize
that item needed to then help appease
my whining when I'm feeling ill at ease.
You see, it has to do with the degrees
it moves around stands up, or flows and flees...
my hair that is, coiffured and firmly teased,
in wind, will make you laugh, fall to your knees!
Thank god for scarves and covers' expertise...
the large bouffant with ties most times agrees
to help confine my mane in windy sprees.
So there's my whine, now pass along the cheese!
Sandra M. Haight
~NA~
Premiere Contest: Here's My Whine, Now Pass the Cheese
Sponsor: Philip Garcia
Judged: 08/15/2016
The 60s brought changes to hair
Today, they would make people stare
Bouffant look was in
Made puffy from thin
And teasing- it was the big flare.
I was one of those who partook
In those days, it was the best look
But when it was done
I still had some fun
In styling it by my own book.
These days, I still tease it a bit
Shaped smoothly, it will nicely sit
And hold fine all day
A touch of hairspray
I'm good to go, well-groomed and fit!
A radiantly coiffed bouffant was mine,
fit perfectly and curved to the nines.
I stood taking in the awe of counterparts
let them eat cake I chuckled in my heart.
The spring roll rumbling in my center
drifted to the lower parts no longer indentured.
I held my breath and prayed
that no sound or scent would stray
I wanted to drop to my knees
Oh God, please, don’t let me sneeze.