Best Primps Poems
He speaks with charisma and style
He portrays a commendable role
His words seek to charm and beguile
But who should we really control?
His words lift the beat of our hearts
We listen with passions on fire,
He taps into that very part
That leads us to bow and admire.
But his make up comes off in the night
In back rooms devoted to schemes
That seek to convince us he’s right.
For the next day he rises and gleams.
The façade is but glad wrap of fame
It clings to a surface of shame,
It masks every pock mark and crack
It is hard to see past the tack.
We see through the eyes in our skull.
Not through the eyes deep within.
By the time the façade starts to dull
We are lost; for deceit is what wins.
The candidate primps in his cloak;
He is hoist with a self made petard
Mark well how he carries the yoke.
It is us who will find the way hard.
The little old lady puts on her gloves and her hat,
walks out to her garden, with her little black cat.
She speaks to the plants as though they could hear,
the cat just stares at the lady and meows, poor dear.
She prunes and she primps each flower with care,
the flowers respond with beauty so fair.
She waters and weeds in all of their beds,
and all of this work, a complaint never said.
She waits and she waits for her flowers to bloom,
she would grow more, if she just had the room.
And finally one morning, the roses she loves,
open their wings like a beautiful dove.
She cut one at the stem, and held to her lips,
and kissed the soft pedals, while a tear gently slipped.
The little black cat thought to himself, why does a rose get so much love,
and not something more fitting, like an old lady's glove?
10/26/18
A-CAT-A-COMB
NINE-LIVES-A-TALE *
SHE-PRIMPS-AND-PREENS
EACH-FINE-DE-TAIL *
WITH-TONGUE-TO-FUR
PAW-FACE-AND-TAIL *
THIS-DEATH-A-TOMB
SHE-SHANT-EN-TAIL *
~TH~
upon hard grey streets of asphalt I drive
through morn’s muted orange glow
white headlights shine, red brake lights blink in time
with changing signals red, yellow, green
disoriented city visitors a hindrance to the flow
why at seven a.m.
now stopped two cars back waiting for green
a woman in a minivan ahead primps methodically
striving in effect to give herself a perm.
the man beside is engrossed in the news
early edition of today’s tabloid spread over the wheel
will he know when it’s time to go
behind, a husband and wife, I assume
each talk animatedly on their phones
while obnoxious unrestrained children carouse
a movie playing on the DVD
an ancient pickup stopped in the suicide lane
right turn flashing “let me in!”
green, the light changes, yet still we wait
one, two, three and horns start to blare
shaken are they from hypnotic states
virtual hair salons, libraries, and phone booths abandoned
traffic moves once again in earnest
until the very next crowded intersection.
mellow
fellow
yellow
jello
Tot throws at the mellow fellows chair
as Dad primps his yellow jello hair
1-22-18
Love’s passionate angel plucks romance’s harp,
studies scrupulously, keeps arrows sharp,
covers strawberries with chocolate silk,
searches for sensations - creamy as milk.
Cupid primps rose cups, paints valentine red.
He ensures, each long stem dozen’s, pure bred.
Then he searches out auspicious jewels,
and threads them from silver and golden spools.
He catches just the right spark in “their” eyes,
connects “him with her” though she is quite shy.
With accuracy Cupid pulls the string -
Lets go! Bow flies! True north to their heart’s bling.
A lad and lass – remove their virgin wool.
Painful is love, but all so wonderful.
Kim Rodrigues (c) 2017
u n h u r r I e d l y
she primps as her new beau
waits outside her door
The former blond model pouts and primps
Swinging her hips
Down the splashing catwalk of shoreline
Sand caving to her imagined heels
Wheeling to her awaiting Israeli mogul
Her shoulders set so far back
It’s as if she’s walking backwards
Puts herself square
Between
Him
And another thin woman
Launches a laugh and offers salted peaches
Wraps her skinny arm around
The other woman’s string bikini of waist
Holds her tight
Upright
You don’t have to go away
She seems to be signaling
And a young Salvadoran girl
Is curled up at the side of the tide
Beached to that surf-beaten sandpaper
Only a towel of brown skin beneath her
People stepping over her
Looking
Shrugging
Walking on
She is homeless of any self-absorption
No cell phone bag or jewelry
An unclaimed seashell
Another time
Her brown round body
Was plopped down wet and sticky
To mounds of dry hot sand
Hands stretched above her head
Handcuffed to the sun
And when she finally stirred and stood
She squeezed her boobs like sponges
And the grains of sand crumbled from her body
Like Cinderella’s gown
Shaken loose and fallen to her ankles.
The crashing waves
Humiliate a man with a beach ball belly
Rolls him to shore
Legs tossed over his head
And also, though much more kindly,
Scoots a little boy at his butt
Back to his worried mother
Who’s holding a towel
Yelling from shore at arm’s length
Her worst fear.
I mean her husband.
Muslim women are wrapped in black
From toe to throat
As they swim and laugh in the ocean
And that’s ok too
For I smile at one beauty
As she emerges
And pulls uncomfortably
At her taut and soaked nylon dressing
She sees me watching her
And since it was not for the usual reasons
Her lips part
As she unleashes a smile across her face
Un-shy.
Yes, we’re friends.
How would these subjects describe me
If they were also voyeur poets?
They would not
I am certain of that
Being invisible
And old
Fashioned
Pen in hand
Reading a novel.
The night sky’s lovers
Emerge in their millions
To pay homage to their beloved
Infatuated stargazers
Souls ignited by a phantom flame,
Mooning at their mistress
With cats eyes
Through rose tinted glass pipes
Down milky paths
And sunset boulevards they stroll
Peeping through a keyhole lense
As she primps and primes and twinkles
Ready for the close up
Celestial saucepans
Telescopic titans
They are just old light
Thrown across the vacuum
By burnt out bodies
Cold stone shadows
Sitting spiteful in the sky
Ashes of an ancient fire
Jealous with their lingering warmth
Their stench fills the black
Pockmark pinpricks
Ugly in their amaranthine sprawl
A canvas defaced,
They spill across spoilt horizons
Morning heralds the return
Of their heavenly sister
Disgraced by her benevolence,
They veil themselves
And their brother turns away his face
The dome lies as a grave
Empty of its skeletons
Though night conceals sins
Dreamt in day
The darkness reveals the sky’s secret shame
Everyone tells her she's beautiful,
Smart, kind and funny
She hears these words all the time
Like a silent killer with no soul
No value, no power, only empty words
That society has carved and recreated
For their own purpose
The creator of her reasons,
why she can't comprehend or even understand
That she's a beauty to their eye
Because every time she sees a mirror
She's caught by her reflection
She dresses up and primps her hair
But in the end, come only muddled tears
Wishing for perfection
Clenching her fists and grinding her teeth
She’s trying so hard to hold back her rage
Dashing to her bedroom weeping
She can't take the torture anymore
As she collapses onto the floor
All she wanted was a brighter smile
And different colored hair
Hating her body, nose, and feet
The only words she can hear are, “it’s not fair”
She doesn't talk to many boys
And she's not popular at school
She's praying for attention
And wishing she was cool
You think she's very happy
Buts that's all fiction you see
Her sorrow and insecurities
Are hidden by disguise
Melancholy and jealousy are
Invariably symptoms
Of neurotic insecurity
Her words trap her in a metal kingdom
Bound to sit and think, she thinks a lot
And revisits her past
She remembers when she was little
And her life was crystal-like glass
But now it's as clouded as steam
And back then, when no one was mean
It didn't matter how you dressed or looked
Yet it's so tough to be a teen but,
Times change and she realized the truth
Her past was only a shell she was peeling off.
With courage, she stands up on her bedroom tiles
She looks into the mirror once more and sees
She's a broken girl in a broken world forced to mock a smile
A yellow-toothed moon
primps in the mirror
of Mid-western ponds.
Cats
snake in and out
of red-faced barns
gone mad.
In Kansas-land...
in the operating room
of your dreams,
morning comes
dawn-drawn
by six gold stallions
half-stepping
toward eternity.
He primps that dome like it’s his crown,
A shiny orb, the talk of town.
Shaves that bowling ball twice a day,
No rogue hairs dare to stay.
Refined olive oil, scentless, slick—
His scalp’s own secret, glossy trick.
Then Axe spray rains, a scented storm,
Because the ladies find that charm.
Post-shower, towel wraps so neat,
Humidity’s spa for his heat.
Pores open wide, like welcome mats,
While he admires himself in flats.
Mirrors lurk in every nook,
Catching every shiny look.
Not married yet? “I’m picky,” he grins,
Waiting for love to roll right in.
On his dresser, a brush sits proud—
No bristles live, it’s just a shroud.
A hairbrush purely for show,
To tease the girls who don’t quite know.
No follicles, but full of flair,
Hair-care metaphors everywhere.
A follicle-free knight of sheen,
The baldest king you’ve ever seen.
Winter
wound itself a bit too tightly
around the thaw
shouting down
the aria of Spring,
howling through
the hasty sunshine,
ruffling the feathers
of instincts transients.
And yet we wait
hunkered down
in crisp grasses,
bobbing on wind whipped
ponds,
perched upon
the warmth of rooftops,
patiently anticipating
the Jonquil’s joyous glee,
the tulip’s cupped ovation,
harsh calls of the
raucous, nest builders.
She primps,
this sultry vixen,
teases in sashaying
gusts of warmth’s promise,
tempts us out of cover,
promises us a fullness,
a renewal,
a rowdy, lust filled,
celebration.
She dances
in the flames
of future suns.
©4/21/2018
submitted to – Spring – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Craig Cornish
Whereas and wherefore hence and hereafter
An idle balloon sits high in the rafters
It’s hard to decide which one is dafter
The one who just bought it or the “arts” crafter
the media just primps and prunes
while she stumbles in the ruins
rejoicing in the things she brings
while dancing on those puppet strings
he sees a future glowing bright
says he’s the one to make it right
that he will wage an endless fight
if the handcuffs aren’t too tight
The rainbow, seems it’s met its due
All they see is red and blue
Run their mouths, fuel their planes
Call each other nasty names
And we, poor saps, will cast our votes
Based on their nasty, feral quotes
In hopes whoever gets the nod
Will not bring back the firing squad
the wizened old owl
primps in her room
facing autumn’s long night
loosens her neck, swivels around
cuts loose with a shrieking ‘Hoo’ sound
hops to the branch where she normally sits
‘What’s this?’ a young owl is perched there
‘Just keeping your seat warm, Ma’am,’ thus she
‘The chill of first frost’s in the air’