Best Salons Poems
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Best Christmas idea fundraiser
Send donation request letters
A festival of trees to raffle
You’ll get more then a tree of raddles
Companies open to donating
Giving them free advertising
Can even decorate their own tree
A Lego Christmas top it can be
Some trees are chains with hanging tools
John Deere knows how to dress one too
Pots and pans ideal for cooking
Hair salons make one appealing
Banks decorate with gift cards
Some are filled with die cast cars
Musical trees make a great gift
Dolls clothes and bikes are a hit
Movie galore, popcorn and more
A chainsaw makes a gift with chores
A pirates tree with chest of games
To a beach tree the whole family gains
School supplies make a festive tree
One for animals with doggy treats
Check them all out theres so much to see
At my youtube channel made by me
By Doris Anne Beaulieu
Beneath dotted stars with soft moonlight
As ally, lone cowboy’s pondering meanders
through the sand dunes and night-salons
marked by his blazed rides for
pistol quests and fist thugs, as rowdy duels
and women’s sighs so adored climb
unto a red of greeting sunset.
Recalling those dusty trails--pungent and bold--
when chivalry was born with some sense of grit,
descending like a magic bat from nowhere
he riddled his foes sinking down the floor,
and like the old clique, rides on through sunset.
Said the devil,
Don't worry with that God side
too many rules.
Don't do this,
don't do that.
You can't eat this,
you can't eat that,
Steal and you go to jail.
Cheaters well you're definitely in trouble.
Whoo-hou
you're going into the hell fiya.
Well look here,
don't worry about all that stuff.
Down here,
we have bars with the hottest drinks you can think of.
I mean booze so plentiful you'll be walking on fire.
Tanning salons, oh-wee real hot,
you can fry yourself down here, get all sorts of color.
Brothels to feast your eyes and choose.
I mean what more can you ask for?
Just come join me.
any regrets well fix you up with something even hotter.
© Al. Juman The "said" Poet 1/20/1985
Salons and beauticians carve beauty
Today beauty and makeup are considered as duty
What implies these beautiful faces?
Reality and honesty in some cases
Other hide ugliness and show they are fruity
Is it fair or a cruelty?
For ourselves a complete dishonesty
As our beauty old age surely displaces
Really? The Makeover
To focus on eternal inner density
And promise to step back from fake makeover's city.
Soul proposes man dispossesses
Let us oath to remove these twisted phrases
I pray, a day may come of truth in majority
Really? The Makeover
“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
A pool table lined with blue felt
sports a lively, raucous game,
ivory cracks, the men drink,
shoot the bull while they play.
A humidor lined in fine wood
stocked with Cuban cigars,
a smoking lounge grandiose,
ceiling painted like the stars.
A bar right out of the Wild West
serves beer and old whiskey,
an insurance guy loosing at darts
to a bookworm with a PhD.
A library stocked with real books,
no paperbacks or e-books there,
classics vaunted alongside the
spy novels and western fare.
Gym in the basement, no windows,
where everyone toils and sweats,
a sauna large, and no member
has grown tired of a steam yet.
Upstairs is the banquet hall,
used once a month for feasts,
where steak is served bleeding red,
no concoctions of soy or yeast.
On the third floor, rooms to crash
if you’re visiting from out of town,
or if you’ve drank a bit much,
relax, and lay down you head.
Fixtures in brass and mahogany,
reminders of more elegant times,
side rooms for talking business,
a cellar filled with fine wines...
This is our place, our shelter,
when the world rears and ugly head,
yet at least once a month feminists
show up outside and wish us dead.
They like to shout and chant a lot,
with their one word, ‘patriarchy,’
never seeming to realize
their protests are pure malarkey.
This world had lady-only gyms,
and female-only hair salons,
they never decry that as sexism,
they just go along to get along.
Turn-about must be fair play,
so we made ourselves this place,
what really bothers them about us
is the mere existence of male space.
But this club is a private affair,
so they’re wasting their powers,
they have places where men don’t tread,
so this place, this is ours.
English saloons cut hair,
American salons cut O!
The old, the new barely meet on the street of Bardstown road, yet diversity so unique, from Cherokee to the rarity, stepping forth in time with the antique structures surrounding you, from magnetic tape recordings to punk truly a highland of culture. The Victorian and the shotguns the two guns blazing an electric mix of the streetcars undesired prelude to hate Ashbury a lower height, thinking how Hunter S. Thompson may have mumbled a few gonzo words, on the way to decadent and depraved Kentucky Derby but where was I. The greasy spoons all in a row, out wrestle the dining rooms but the salons collage with saloons, somehow the college student gets passed the culture shock. A young man sits at the bus stop his guitar propped on the glass, maybe he is writing a hit single or maybe just hung over, as a young girl in a miniskirt with a quick flip of long hair and a glance over her shoulder hurries somewhere. My friends just want to look at girls and crack a joke or vice versa.
On a white board scribbled meet the author of Cornbread Mafia sometime in November. There is just a strange feeling about this road, as the politically correct are begging to slay the political satirist, like a living far side cartoon, making a statement, about which is more corrupt.They say, it takes one to know one but even more to know what you are not . Will corporate media continue to slowly suffocate journalism, with wet rice paper slowly, layer upon layer until journalism is dead? Then they will come for individual’s rights of free speech like a snail over a razor blade until the sword rusts with mucus. This began about Bardstown Road but ends as a Bard, a Town and a Road.
"Granny cut my hair", grandson said
"I'll just take you to town".
"No, don't spend that money", he said
"Ouch, that pulls" said with frown
Those ladies and men at those salons
Make it look so easy
Just run those clippers up those heads
In just one sweep breezy
Well to tell truth, heads are odd shaped
Those clippers don't just flow
There are bumps along crooked way
Had to plough trifallow
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.
My wings are in immaculate form
It would assist in keeping me informed
I’d fly from pillar to post
In salons I'll be engrossed
Truth be told, I’ll never be misinformed
Freudiana
Famous poet Barclay Cruse
curent toast of New York salons
wears tinted glasses and Italian shoes
and composes doggerel for subway johns.
Acclaimed a purist by his colleagues
hard-edge painter Geoffrey Pyle
earned during Summers spent at Antibes
covert commissions from Armstrong Tile.
Junk sculptor Cranston Bold
collects mufflers and I'm told
often edits his creations
to fix his Chevy station wagon.
Cordell composes way-out music
quartets for flute and flushing toilets.
His father was a music critic
and caned him with his clarinet.
I am confused by their behavior
Woman of African origin are a dilemma to me
I think they are enigmatic beings little known
Cheap but not cheap, confusing but not confused
They wake up in the morning excited
But sit down for many hours in bedrooms
Shaping and massaging the body with fingers
The mirror suffers in silence but they go on
Dark skinned or brown they may appear
By the time of leaving the house for journey
Mirinda faces and Pepsi cola legs carry them
And you see them switching themselves on and off
I am confused by their behavior, women of Africa
These women of the new hybrid civilization
Eyebrows shaven but in place crayon is pasted
Finger nails removed but talons of eagles fixed
Schemes and lesson notes are made carefully
In salons, staff rooms 13,000 words are spoken
Points, gossip, rumors, facts intertwine in confusion
and the more I listen the more I am confused
No man, no woman. no situation, no case
Escapes their attention each day of the week
But to me listening capacity is broken in pieces
And my confusion grows fat as they do their things
Being a black man with autism is excellent, wonderful, and empowering, too. Being an autistic black man also means pure encouragement, inspiration, and uniqueness. That's how African Americans with autism see the world differently, which is why others should understand. I, on the other hand, realize there's nothing wrong with being an autistic black man, and I'm very proud of that. Seems that I'd like to give real encouragement to all other autistic African Americans in this city and beyond, which should be the case. They can own businesses like their own hair salons, and restaurants, including a soul food restaurant or two, the real works. I'm black, and I have autism, but that doesn't define me in any other way. In fact, I would love to have my own barbecue sauce company one day and bring a lot of encouragement to the autistic African American community, regardless of those heartless obstacles. Even though I'm a black man with autism, I believe that not only can I live a prosperous life just like any other "normal" human being, but I can also go after my dreams of being a successful entrepreneur, and I can do some community-related projects, as well as some autism-related projects. Autistic black people can function in the real world and can also hold down jobs, live independently, and can also walk amongst all of society, just like any other "normal" individual from a different race can. And as for other African Americans with autism, they, too, can be extraordinary, and so can I. And that's exactly how we black people with autism will be able to change the entire world one day at time. I am black, I have autism, and I'm very proud of it, and so are my black autistic brothers and sisters.
The Peace Process
I don’t know where I`m going with this
but there is peace in Colombia, the Marxist rebels lost
and their sexy women soldiers in green fatigue and
weapons in arms will hand it all in for fashion magazines
Hair- dressing salons and babies in arms.
For women, a change from war to peace is easy to make
it will be worse for men who feel inferior without guns.
If Texas as an example had been a gun free zone you would
have ended up with tall queens as cowhands,
or what do I know left their oil wells and gone to Montana
So why did the Marxist lose, cocaine I think more economical
beneficial, cash in hands better than a Marxist bible on the roof
28 years of peace the political parties in Colombia will have
no consensus as the blamed is car mechanics or ranchers
Everything is possible from the first female president in Colombia
or and openly gay governor in Texas.
Festive dresses and bulls with flowers on horns will be marching
down the Avenue in Houston.