Best Coiffured Poems
Behind the elaborate mask I wear
Beyond the depths of blue soulful eyes
Beneath the painted lips and coiffured hair
my tears flow into an estuary of sorrowful cries
I'm a ripe peach dangling from a tree
temptation before you, ready for picking
but rotted at the core, where you cannot see
I would defile your tongue upon your first licking
I'm a beguiling sampling of fine wine
a sniff, a swirl before reaching your lips
but by overindulging in the fruit of my vine
you may cause your own downfall, an apocalypse
I'm the delicate petals of a fragrant rose
A beauty to behold, but be vigilant of thorns
Drawing blood is a perilous danger they impose
For in all her regal splendor, a betrayed woman scorns
Back in time beneath gas light glow,
I watch where waltz music flows;
will you notice me all alone
too shy to make my presence known?
Awestruck by the sweeping beauty,
ceiling scenes painted heavenly
as though angels are peering through;
are they watching with me for you?
Pretty ladies in dresses fair
with feathered fans and coiffured hair;
color abounds in satin and lace,
echoed on each expressive face.
Handsome men bowing gallantly,
requesting hands respectfully;
enthralled am I seeing this world,
a gray oyster in shell of pearl.
Suddenly, you are in this room!
I shrink - fading wallflower bloom;
I doubt that you even know who
I am. How could I have dreamed you
would fall in love with one like me;
I turn to go, quietly flee.
Your hand touches my trembling arm,
your gentle smile dissipates alarm;
the room, quiet at your voice,
anticipates your happy choice.
Pumpkin coach, fairy godmother?
No glass slippers made to cover
my dancing feet; no prince charming
just you and a love, disarming.
Copyright, November 17, 2014
Faye Lanham Gibson
The Grand Old Dame sat at the table
with cream on the corner of her mouth
from a donut she ate as she sat in her chair
and a coffee she held in her shaking hand
A ribbon and pink visor donned her head
and a reddish hue sprinkled with white
was the color of her coiffured hair
reflecting from a ceiling light
from a diner in the urban night
At one time she was the elite
the meat
of notoriety of a certain group of society
where decisions were made
by a select few
Whom the masses never knew
that shaped the way the world would turn
The hand that shook once kissed by royalty
now wizened and palsied
picked up a crumb and stared at it
as if it were a gem
the jewels amassed as she recalled
in times of wealth
She placed the crumb in her mouth
and conjured up tastes when her palate was young
the delicate meats, the caviar
her suite in Paris
her gentleman friends
But all is gone now
Oh dear, she laments,oh dear
then she rises from the table and stands erect
befitting her character
and leaves the contents on the table
and the past behind
Ralph Sergi contest: NEW POETS OF SOUP 11/26/2013
I'm writing a torrid love story,
Full of scandle and intrigue and sex,
About film stars and beautiful people,
And who goes to bed with who next.
Their clothes are by famous designers,
They wear diamonds and mink and real pearls.
Their hair is just perfectly coiffured -
And that's just the chaps, not the girls!
The hero's in love with his uncle,
And his wife's had an implant or two,
Grandfather has married the housemaid,
He's eighty and she's twenty-two.
When it's published I'll make lot's of money,
But just for a while, till I do,
I'm a little bit short on housekeeping -
Can you lend me a fiver or two?
She breezed into the hardware store in a cloud of Chanel No. 5. With her coiffured hair and upper-class accent she was not the usual type of customer that we were accustomed to.
“Can I help you madam” I asked
“I want some sex” she replied
I was somewhat taken aback
I’m sorry madam, I said, but this is not the type of establishment that provides ‘sex’
“My neighbour says I can get excellent sex here” she retorted “and I want sex right now!” She exclaimed
At this stage I was feeling a little uncomfortable but I had to remember that the customer is always right
The owner’s son mends sewing machines I told her, and he gives them a good service and oils their squeaking parts, but I don't think ‘sex’ is part of his usual service
"NO! NO! NO!" you stupid girl she spat
"I want good strong ‘sex’, you know the thing …black plastic sex to put my garden rubbish in"
It was then that the penny finally dropped and blushing scarlet I lead her to the area where the black rubbish sacks were kept.
Total fiction write!
N/A in Premier Contest No 15 Sponsored by Skat A - judged on 1/29/18
Submitted to January stunner 2018
Sponsored by Line Gautheir
07-10-17
finely coiffured hair
blowing in fall's swift cool breeze..
for sale: crepe myrtle
a hint of fall's chill
tinges the leaves crimson red...
auburn curly locks
Some people wear smiles out in public
as if those smiles were sewn on their faces.
Often they are adorned by costly apparel.
The women, in flattering makeup and
with hair beautifully coiffured,
flaunt gowns created by renowned fashion designers
and accessorized with glittering jewelry
and expensive heels and handbags.
They are the rich, the “beautiful people,”
social butterflies in a rainbow of colors
seen attending their special clubs and functions
or charity benefits,
where they flit about with others of their elite class.
I have seen them on television
and representations of them in movies.
I suppose viewing them impersonally this way
is the closest I will ever get to them
as I sit watching them from my well-worn sofa,
knowing that nobody can have a life
so seemingly perfect
yet marveling
at their rainbow colored camouflage.
For the Rainbow Colored Camouflage Contest of Ir0nic ZiNk
SPRING GARDEN
wildflower blossoms
a coiffured carpet of moss
curlicues of vines
calligraphic bold sonnet
intoxicating fragrance
~
budding green love taps
from a small child’s fingertips
on each oaken branch
lucid tickle of sunlight
robin builds her newborns’ nest
3/14/2017
Carlton D Kennedy’s The Love Of Nature contest
Tanka Form
IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY - LXXI
LXXI
IF ever I had a country targeted by no refugee
And if ever I were appointed by the Inter-Planetary Committee KING of this territory by Inter-Galactic Royal Decree
I'd build wide-gauge rail-roads cushy chopper-pads air-strips twice the size of Kennedy-cum- Singapore airports spacecraft landing coiffured vistas fair-weather lulled-water harbours boulevards ten-times the girth of Champs Elysée
And there at migrant reception processing posts construct mammoth manufacturing plants rolling out rocks the size Sisyphus repeatedly rolled up Mount Olympus then down into the Aegean Sea
And proclaim by sovereign edict that any of my subjects caught FEEDING any rock-throwing migrant-refugee - though out of my great big charitable heart I'd authorise every refugee child left-over Halloween candy
I'd have him or her scorched by steel plate-melting torch and dipped into sizzling hot cauldrons of oil linseed and gingerly
That is, if ever I were enthroned by the Inter-Planeto-Galactic Consortium KING by royal decree over my territory
And this, even if I never ever had no country bed-rock to no refugee
© T. Wignesan - Paris, November 2nd., 2018
Little girls with coiffured hair dressed as fairies or pixies
little misters masquerading as gnomes and elves
all came running like hungry bees to flowers
to my garden resplendent with sunshine
that afternoon in early May
for my little niece’s birthday party
Fairy land was my chosen theme
so the kids could live their dream
My tulips danced to impress little guests
as their giggles filled the air
redolent with daffodil fragrance
Iridescent butterflies sought home at neighbors
Wise birds, playing obsequious hosts,
fled the feeder to watch from the maple
The little feet then stopped—
suddenly a pall of quiet
huddles and whispers
hither thither they started again
innocent eyes scouring every nook and corner
under the bush, behind the trees
Intrigued by the frantic search
there’s no treasure hunt, I assured
Looking for frogs to kiss, the girls confessed
a lone glass slipper, the boys’ quest
Written on 06/27/2016
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 storm has truly unleashed its full fury,”
The perfectly coiffured, newswoman says.
She is not worried about the low taste
Of purloining these old and outdated clichés.
Over and over the same words repeated,
Until sensitive folks shut the set off and leave
To pick up a volume of favorite poems.
Each knows in these pages, he’ll find a reprieve.
No good poet absconds with the words of another
To blatantly claim them as his thoughts alone.
He edits, revises and often will change them
Until he is proud of a work all his own.
It is only then he’ll unleash his creation
On eager readers to critique or to laud.
Praying the ayers will out weigh the nayers,
He’ll happily bow as they cheer and applaud.
Won a 5th
Today is April 1st. Transit strike.
Mayor Koch accepting the fact. Myself,
far from crisis central, in North
Manhattan, measuring the temperature
of my apartment. In the sun it is
warm. The crows have returned again
for Spring.
Today life and the city are o.k. Watching
cat in the morning sun. Drinking tea.
My 1300 dollars will melt like summer
snow, but in the meantime, like samurai
I do not show my fear. I remain still
as on the subway and prepared to fight.
I am sitting under the emergency brake
when a coiffured Latin woman rushes aboard.
The doors close but she decides she wants
out. She bangs on the door as the train begins
to move. I see it happen on her face,
she finds the red cord and pulls,
no hesitation.
Maybe someone's hand or foot was caught
in the door. Maybe she's just selfish and
impetuous, got on the uptown not the downtown
side. Maybe the friends she could have
been with didn't get aboard. Whatever
her reason, she acted and the train obeyed.
Some of the passengers sit through the
whole thing, some of us stand. Myself,
I stand, look for the hand caught in the door.
Later, walk home through the pouring rain.
Today is April 1st. Transit strike.
Sky blue, temperatures mild. Democracy
is great.
The Old Couple
There is an unspoken acceptance you share a silence no need
to be entertaining and you are bore telling jokes told before
It is an easy quietness each one has their own interest
And to avoid problems a computer and two TV
I do this, and you do that, and I carefully avoid sarcasm
Which is arrogance badly concealed?
There is much to learn from Soap Operas such as Hair- styles
dresses are worn by slim actresses where a plot is easy to follow,
why complicated a play to be academic writers are showing off.
dense lines actors have to learn when it is about looking good
show love and rage in five minutes intervals
Always perfectly coiffured hair stays in place.
Our secret is she is not listening to me nor am I hearing her
this is what I call perfect harmony.
Yet both know there will only be one of them a new silence
that will be a burden on shoulders bent by age.
My hair tries to define me
I laugh in her straggly non- curls
Hoping to shame me, she taunts me
About being messy and unkempt
Together we could be a social disgrace
except only she cares, wanting a brushing,
regular combs run through her, etcetera.
She is much more prissy than I am.
Unbothered by her begging and pleading,
I march on kicking the possibility of a well coiffured head
out of my way,
watching her hopes and dreams land in mire and muck.
She glares at me from a mud puddle
with ticks and lice hopping onto her.
I truly do not care.
Her cowlick promenades around
the bugs’ barn dance.
This does not concern me.
I will never define myself by my hair.
My hair tries to define me