Best Parlors Poems
The low suffer most the blow of the law
And no better do they fare with its flow:
From injustice to injustice it carries them
But none ever calls this a flaw.
For like that, perhaps, she can’t help to be,
Born of the mighty as she is.
Once, though, every eternity the cords of
patience snap:
Justice is demanded and swiftly she comes.
It's time for revolution, the clash unto ash
between the classes.
By saw and seesaw there'll be newness abroad:
The old system teeters as its sinews are severed
And from cakes of blood springs another;
That long denied by law is now seized by claw,
And from star to tar the mighty tumble
As their thrones are lowered for dwarfs to
mount.
Upwards go the erstwhile low
To be class dwarfs no more
But the mighty of the land.
Amidst this newness, though, an old song
soon intrudes:
In voices faint and mournful we hear it sung
By those from star to lowly tar fallen.
In fields and taverns, at work and at play,
It dwells on lips bright and sullen;
But up above behind stately walls where
stands the palace
None but the children dare sing it—
The song they once heard old papa sing,
Which loosened his lips like a wicked brew
But now binds them shut like a glue.
When from frolics they break
In their playfields green
And in palace parlors
At once warm chants from their breasts erupt
Which with glee and charm they long sustain
Till every soul feel their lips beguiled
To render accompaniment in a whistled melody.
Then swirls the music about every ear, and all can
hear the palace ring:
“The low suffer most the blow of the law
And no better do they fare with its flow:
From injustice to injustice it carries them
But none ever calls this a flaw.
For like that, perhaps, she can’t help to be,
Born of the mighty as she is.”
Categories:
parlors, class, power, strength,
Form:
Free verse
For thoose of you who may not know.
Just call me gonzo I write the absurd for life is insane and sometimes
it takes a madman to speak the truth so very clear.
I write for the broken vacant faces that have lost all hope.
To the dreamer who's well is slowley running dry from everyone
telling him to stop wasting his time.
I write like a endless highway fueled by whiskey and wild women
every adventure leads to pain but life is pain and i love in spite of it.
I thirst for every unseen mile the desert my brother it's people dwell
in the spirt of the west the opium parlors and brothels spirt still linger.
I write with a hint of danger and a promise of disaster.
Im a blues player whos trying to out run the devil.
Im a outlaw riding to cross the border a woman looking to the
empty range for my return.
I write because I breath in a world were the creative air has gone
stale.
The bottle sits apon table and I welcome any strangers company
I just rather that stranger be a warm woman instead of a
unfriendly amigo who is a little jelouse.
Write to be more than just part of the highways landscape.
Some may call me crude crazy insane some even vulgar and
liar and thief.
But aside from thoose compliments.
No matter what you may call me.
Dont ever forget to just call me gonzo.
Categories:
parlors, adventure, funny, introspection, life,
Form:
Narrative
It was the Main Street hangout for the teenagers of its day.
For a nickel they could dream as they heard the jukebox play!
Wispy white metal chairs surrounded tables topped with glass.
(There were secluded booths where lads could woo their lass!)
From the tin covered ceiling hung a fan with its whirring blade,
And arrayed along the soda fountain were the tools of the trade.
Symmetric white and black tiles covered the spotless floor.
A gleaming steel and marble counter completed its bright decor!
Presiding over all was a guy oddly named the "soda jerk."
Clad in impeccable white, he took great pride in his work.
He was a wizard at his craft and when his sorcery was done,
He'd whipped up a heavenly treat that couldn't be outdone!
A Hamilton mixer, scoops and ladles were the tools of his trade.
In a trice he'd make a root beer float or some tasty lemonade,
Hot fudge sundae, banana split, soda or strawberry shake,
Cherry coke or any such concoction you'd ask him to make!
The "soda jerk" did his duties with consummate skill and grace,
Always with a ready quip and a contented smile upon his face.
Fast food joints or drive-ins today do not have that elegant flair,
That yesteryear's soda fountains and ice cream parlors had to share!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
Categories:
parlors, nostalgia
Form:
Rhyme
Pine needles fall on manicured lawns
on quiet streets where elm trees grow
But in their midst a demon yawns
And screams through veins from which it flows
Hypodermic illusions line the curb
where cars are parlors for getting high
Overdosing in the suburbs
The inner city has no alibi
A nightmare on elm street
and Freddy Kruger is nowhere in sight!
But the boogeyman does not retreat....
yet some will not awaken from the night!
Categories:
parlors, addiction, drug,
Form:
Rhyme
LaLaurie house of slaves with it's beauty of grand parlors that
glowed with hundreds of candles to light your way while guest dined and danced,
lived the Creole lady Madame LaLaurie.
It was graced with carved iron work and mahogany doors of carved flowers that
adorned the majestic home with it's small alleyway.
She was known as the most beautiful women of New Orleans with porcelain skin
and hair of fine silk, who entrusted her slave Lia to brush each night as she
listened to the waters of the Mississippi river sway.
Lia of only twelve would humbly brush each strand of locks until one night
it caught upon a knot.
With the whip in hand and in a fit of rage she chased Lia to the roof top of
it's polished ledge.
Lia being so fearful of her wrath and the striking of the whip plunged to her death
in the shadows of the dimness night.
With never a scream only the last gasp of life, her mind on a freedom she
longed and dreamed.
She's now resting among the flowers and vines beneath a Cypress Tree that
gently brushes her somber grave.
Creeping and crawling
over walls and paths of stone
broken vines spike deep
Silence weeps farewell
as blossoms sleep deep at night
tranquil Lia now blooms
Contest Sponsored by: Lin Lane ' A House in New Orleans' 1/18/2016
Placed 4th
Categories:
parlors, abuse, beauty, death, house,
Form:
Haibun
They shouldn’t need to make caskets only four feet long
Pediatricians shouldn’t have to specialize in oncology
Scarves shouldn’t be worn by ten year old girls
To protect their bald heads as caused by radiology
Little arms shouldn’t bare puncture marks from IV needles
Fifth grade homework shouldn’t be delivered to hospital beds
Last rites shouldn’t be given before her confirmation dress is worn
Parents shouldn’t be praying that they were the ones dying instead
She is too innocent to fear her impending death
She is too young to regret having never fallen in love
Watching your child suffer through this torment and pain
It is easy to lose faith in a merciful God up above
Get well cards shouldn’t have Hello Kitty on front
A last wish shouldn’t be for a Happy Meal
When they remove her lifeless body from this hospital room
They shouldn’t need to prepare it for another sick boy or girl
They shouldn’t need to make caskets only four feet long
Easily carried by just two men
Funeral parlors shouldn’t be crowded with the grade school staff
And a roomful of crying children
For the "One Silver Tear Free Poetry Contest". Written and posted on 7/23/2012.
Categories:
parlors, sad,
Form:
Rhyme
I look back on my life, what do I see,
a life time wasted playing video games.
What I didn't know then, I can understand now,
living a false sense of fulfillment because I lacked satisfaction in myself.
What started as fun and games ended up a place for to me hide,
within the world gaming it felt like was accomplishing something with my life,
countless nights of broken sleeps, still seeing games when I closed my eyes,
all they really gave me was a sore head, and blurry eye's.
Attari under 5,
Comadore 64 under 5,
Calculator games 5-12,
video parlors 6,
Astro wars 7,
Hand held games 6- 12 as well,
Sega 12,
Sega mega drive 13-18,
Nintendo 13 too 18 ,
Back to Parlors 13-22 ,
Ps1, 21,
Nintendo 64, 22,
Ps2 23,
Ps2 slim line, 24,
Poker machines 24-30,
Computer games 27-35
Xbox, 33,
Xbox 360, not yet,
psp at 34,
Nintendo Wii, 35,
now i'm on Ps3.
If you wan't to take it a bit deeper,
psychologically I mean,
the three main reason I play so long were:
Control, lack of fulfillment and anxiety.
Control was something I never had, In the games I did,
they also gave me the fulfillment I was lacking in the life that I lived,
anxiety is what pushed me to the games, within them I could hide,
this is why I stay addicted, addicted for a life time.
Me and video games, Yeah we been round the block,
I just shake me head now, O.M.G what a waste of time that was,
I don't play games often now, maybe twice a month I guess,
I just decided to find better things to do with myself.
M.Mahauariki © 2012
Categories:
parlors, education, life, games, life,
Form:
Pug noses in designer hoodies
Wicker baskets on beach cruisers
Leather sofas doggy devoted
Grooming parlors and pet hotels
Best pooch in wedding tux
Nip and tuck, no more nuts
Hollywood glitz for puppy shitz
LA doggy style
Westside!
Categories:
parlors, funny, satire,
Form:
Prose Poetry
“Branded”
The world’s smithy’s fire burns hotly
their brand is being fashioned for you to wear,
surely they know all about your “kind” you inside and out
and by affixing that brand to you they’ll swear.
Maybe you’ve come from the wrong side of town
or from parents not too smart or too rich,
and many in your school had turned up their nose
not wanting you to join their click.
On goes the struggle of wanting just to be belong
you try different clothes and even a change of the color your hair,
seeking and seemingly all doors are shut to you
and finally you cry out in despair.
What is so wrong with me and why don’t I fit
why I’ve tried to slide into their mold,
and turning myself inside and out, crying buckets of tears
but still I cannot on that style of life lay hold..
The world’s finer life with limousines and the latest fashions of Paris
would, you’d think, cause you now to fit in,
and if you possibly reach its height yet by nightfall
you’d be again crying from all of the bondage of your sin.
The tanning salons, tattoo parlors - no matter how chic, all kinds of piercing
is now the world’s branding and the latest rage,
but really there is nothing new under the sun
just the beginning of the new era and end of an old age.
But the branding you have always longed and sought for
was really at your reach,,
it is the Seal of God by Jesus Christ’s cross
as all along the Bible did teach.
Written by: Marilyn S. Jennings
August 18, 1999
Categories:
parlors, appreciation, devotion,
Form:
Free verse
Wrestling in kitten-covered lawns,
Driving through your potato heart,
What did we begin?
When did we start?
Smoothing into your pixilated hair,
Bending into the fields with angels,
Why have we softened?
Where are the angles?
Ambrosia Wednesdays, Alfalfa Tuesdays,
Send me your message in big, bright colors.
How have we forgotten?
Who now sits in our old parlors?
Categories:
parlors, humor, humorous,
Form:
Free verse
Did oz turn its posterior, when Dorothy stole those ruby shoes?
Something over the rainbow’s smelling pretty ominous.
Opposites attract, like evil and good. a conflict’s brewing -
The west’s witch is rolling out her plans over a drag’n coffee.
The Rainbow Sun, reports a stirring, of the proverbial pot.
Manicure parlors and parades, shut down in Emerald City.
The horse of many colors has been dyed brown - his cover.
Wizard is wise, to the thievery ways of the “Jayhawker”.*
Glynda, “the goody goody”, sells lies like lemon drops,
And rainbow spectrum opposite, is “crazy” for green.
Dorothy, now “Dot”, begins a band called the “Polkadots”,
Promotion of forward movement, to take over Oz’s perimeter.
The “Ruby Shoe Movement”, an agenda to eradicate “good and evil”
Uses cursory verbiage, to rid the land of a “horde of witches” (two)
Flight line lights up, with soldier monkeys ready to attack.
Those who join the Kansan side, the Polkadots croon, while
“Rubyites” applaud, break out in rainbow song - waving banners.
The horse shakes his mane in dismay, a spy for the arcadians.
Amidst the Rubyites - a cowering lion, a heartless can of tin,
a befuddled scarecrow, and a toy dog. Excepting the dog,
All were acquired on the jaundiced road. It stretches between
The Emerald palace and the village of fisher price people.
Dot grew courageous, when she took a lucky shot;
She steered her cyclonic house, killing the witch of the east.
She swept the streets, greedily shaking hands with
Cheery munchkins. Pulled off the shoe heist like a pro.
Not a witch, she claims, but clicking the butane of her heels,
Catches oz by surprise, chaos ensues. “Get the balloon”,
The wizard blasts, “I will distract her and her Rubyite buffoons”
He sends them chasing after brooms in the gloom of night.
Fortune returns, delights in her prize – a melted wicked witch, and broom.
Henchmen throw weighted bags over Dot’s crew, retreating them back to Kansas
Categories:
parlors, humorous, imagination,
Form:
Couplet
Tiffany lamps
were invented by
girls in 1888,
to soften the walls
of quiet parlors
where men were
hushed and sat
politely with hands
between their knees.
.
The grace was
stolen in 1992 when
the symbols of New York
Jets replaced the flowers
and Tiffany
lighted laughter
on the bars
where trumpets blare.
*I recently started a home job of ghost writing little articles
for company blogs and promotions.
I made a poem from one of the essays about Tiffany sports lamps.
Categories:
parlors, football, history,
Form:
Free verse
I trip to the O,
For grease monkey fries and a 40oz,
Scaling the Cathedral of Learning,
This is Oakland.
A roll of the die,
Stadium of choice,
Clemente Bridge connects us,
This is North Shore.
Fat Heads,
Tattoo parlors,
A thrift shop heaven,
This is South Side.
An Incline ride upward,
Pricey housing here,
Best view of the city,
This is Mount Washington.
Carnegie Hall,
Monty Python monthly,
Music and theater are alive here,
This is the Theater District.
Nightlife rays,
Morning meat shops,
Fresh food, legendary sandwiches,
This is the Strip District.
Extreme movie luxury,
Shopping for dropping dead,
Adjacent to one of many flowing rivers,
This is the Waterfront.
Culinary capacities,
PNC bank abound,
Fear of death by rubbing alcohol,
This is Downtown.
The only bar to attend,
Ice skating around a Christmas tree,
Mirror sky-scrapers,
This is PPG Place.
Three rivers,
Connected in a field of green,
The most amazing fountain on the edge,
This is the Point.
This is Pittsburgh.
Categories:
parlors, dedication, happiness, life, places,
Form:
Free verse
Doc Holliday truly amazing
Sick to death and two six guns blazing
Though his blasting appeared not to be phasing
The calmness of his gelding equine’s grazing
This be the glory, how the west was won
By house of ill repute, and the six gun
Plenty of action, was never boring
Funeral parlors, were businesses soaring
Stank of many bodies in pine boxes
All human life was generalized poxy
In the west, principle way of the law
Generally how fast every man could draw
These early days were quite chaotic
Wyatt Earp’s moves were a bit methodic
The saloons were filled with poker tables
And many big bosoms of dance hall mabels
Indians drank of white man’s fire waters
Sheep herders were known as only free squatters
The winning of the west, was quite a quest
Reservations put Indians to the test
America has it’s many stories
How our west was won by many glories
So greatly was the west romanticized
We wonder how much was only lies
Well documentation of westward truths
Or documentation of many human spoofs
Maybe fraudulent claims, as was the hog leg’s aim
We accept no blame, but we’ll take the fame
Placed # 15
Categories:
parlors, fantasy
Form:
Rhyme
Children play on the stumps of the fallen giants, mocked in death by the glitter of disco lights and the raucous cheers of drunks.
Asphalt long melted round their dead roots where once they hovered over what is today the RV dump station, the lit restrooms, and every car and truck that ever was.
They stood tall and strong and bright in the sun.
Ancient even long ago.
Relics of bygone time.
Even so long ago.
The Ranger will tell you some nights, around a warm fire, on wooden stools, all about it.
Once there were giant trees even here.
They were alive.
Then men came.
Charged with building a civilization.
Powered by smoky manifest destiny
they toppled the great giants
to build banks, message parlors, and prisons.
In their guilt and because of the rage of others, people cordoned off parks where the giants are to be left alone to entertain the children of their enemies.
We drive to them in our shiny cars and carve our lover's names in them.
We record their many moods unknowingly in the digital memories of our smart phones, and share these images in our favorite social medium.
We buy t-shirts at the Visitor Center and listen to advice on which of the many paved roads we might travel to see them best from our car windows as we drive by on our way to lunch.
Back at camp the smoke of many fires makes it difficult to breathe.
The noises of auto camping drown our memories of ancient majesty and remind us it's time to cook a real campers dinner and have some wine before bed.
Categories:
parlors, abuse, betrayal, environment,
Form:
Free verse