Best Shaves Poems
Once I'm gone
I'll only be remembered a small while
I'm a tiny tick on a large dial
The words I breathe will stretch about a mile
Even those who are in history books
the Kings writers and famous cooks
The gorgeous people with talent and looks
They too in the end fade away
Don't get me wrong it's all okay
We might try to hold on but none of us can stay
All have a bit part
on this watery ball of granite and clay
Some are calm others make waves
One smooth skinned another shaves
She loves him while he's attracted to Dave
They both pretend because they have to behave
Each in their own prison living like a slave
The preacher too plays his part
trying to find people to save
Some couples love from the start till death
She breathes in he exhales her breath
Their children thrive Bobby and Beth
While some mothers go it alone
Daddies leave and are never known
Children left to learn life from a smart phone
Some chase riches when other just want to eat
Walking on pretty shoes while poor men have cracked feet
The music plays so clearly yet we fail to hear the beat
So I wonder what's it all for
This wanting more and more
Is that really God knocking at our door
Yes it is I believe it at my core
So why do we leave it closed
Maybe because we fear our sins will be exposed
a life manicured and posed
could be unfroze
Freedom from each prison chose
Instead why not drink from the garden hose
Wear our humanity
discard these labeled clothes
Count down the future with fingers and toes
Within a momentary breath each spirit goes
As minds open each heart then grows
What happens next only God knows!
What would I give for a book and a nook
I'd forfeit some cash from my pocketbook
Surrender my coat to a hanging wall hook
Then give it a look , as long as it took
I'd roll back the stone, crawl into a cave
Find Ol' Tom Sawyer, take some close shaves
Look for Boy Wonder, help free some slaves
Hunt for lost gold, discover old graves
Go room to room, look high and low
Ride on a broom, escape through a hole
Go with the wind, fly over rainbows
Ride chariots of fire where ever they go
Search lost horizons with great expectations
Go hunting for bison in Indian Nations
Swim with Poseidon and gather crustaceans
The suspense would heighten my imagination
A book and a nook, a perfect day
Rain or shine, take me away
To read every line on every page
Spend all my time, that's what I'd pay
an original poem by Daniel Turner
Oklahoma just passed an executive order
About the obvious disorder
Of letting men break through the border
Called a women’s bathroom door
Which has always been there for
Keeping out men and furthermore
Those who are men no more
Oh, some may scream, ‘where are their rights?
They’re out there fighting the fights,
To pee with one’s wearing tights.’
Yes, but would you let your daughter
Much too young, with hardly a care
Into those bathrooms alone
With a ‘whatever’ that shaves its chest hair?
And whatever else the ‘whatever’ may share
Is that what you would condone?
OK, may say no to athletes competing
Even if their male body parts were deleted
With women on equal ground
The women don’t need that type around
To race against for athletic glories
Like AI competing with us for poetry stories
But still why does a government
Need an executive order to present
The obvious difference between gals and guys
Even when one or more’s in disguise?
Well, it’s the same old trick with a new bent
Pushed by the bought and paid fed government
They cloud what it means about gender
And try to stuff family morals in a blender
So that when they offer their crisis solution
We’ll bow down to their wicked resolution
Of their digital money and total control
Over all our bodies, minds, and souls
Partially paved by those with a men’s skull
Who can no longer use a urinal
In the silence
of this crystal night
shimmering,
entombed in light,
we'll tippy toe on the stars
Moving in a universe
the tips of our fingers
write poems in stardust
as we shift
the dust of time
being graced in part,
a poets Valhalla
Fishing in the black holes
pulling the next dimension
through, meeting minds
from the center of the think
they ripple with the solar winds
ghosts of the eternal flame
Lavender light shaves the moon
sheets of light trickle in mirrors
imagination is reborn
again
and again
Your Taj Mahal
Too many times you hoisted anchor
there isn't time but you should thank her,
for being such a goober for so long.
You have made her life a Taj Mahal
there she swims in waist deep indigo,
she's reflected in the cesspools of your morning sun.
An ivory tusk is what you're after,
a monument to fun and laughter,
she shaves your neck out on the street for fun,
she's New Delhinese from head to toes,
but you brought her to the Poconos,
where your Taj Mahal outshines the morning sun.
You talk about the plight of Gandhi
most of the night and all day Sunday,
and tell your friends about the things she's done,
at her spinning wheel she worships you,
but she's leaving in a week or two,
if she told you now it wouldn't be much fun.
She'll board a ship that's hoisting anchor
and meet a poet or a banker,
avoiding caste from where she once belonged,
she'll remember you for making her
one more monument to how things were,
when your Taj Mahal was whiter than the sun.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
Five stones
closing times
radiograms and
seventy-eights
school caps
sticklebacks
saturday flicks,pooh sticks
Charabancs
steam trains
linoleum
oil cloth
mangles
fish paste
sandwich spread
Hot towel shaves
cut-throat razor
shopping baskets
paper bags
braces,plimsoles
short,back
and sides
Wizard beano
and hotspur
lending libraries
picturegoer,
road to
Bridget Bardot
Marilyn Monroe
Dripping
coal fires
antimacassars
nylons,suspenders
crumpets
and toast
Brown and mild
barrelled beer
conkers,school milk
blackboard rubbers
and liftup desk lids
times-tabled
school-kids
Draughts
and allotments
rusty bikes
roller skates
satchels and scrumping
pounds,shillings
and pence
This grave with barber Bob is blessed ~
He was a cut above the rest!
30.01.19
'Pithy pants poetry contest'
Sponsored by: Maureen McGreavy
The Murray can be dangerous,
as the locals have worked out.
There has been some drowning's
plus a few close shaves about.
Some blame grog; some foolishness,
and a few don't seem to know,
but most folks that live along it,
reckon it's the undertow.
Teddy Miller often reckons,
here is where he found God,
by cleaning up the stream of carp,
and often dining on the cod.
He fishes where most fishermen
don’t rate his spot a mention,
but it’s perfect for this old bloke,
now that he's on the pension.
You see it’s beside the highway,
and a perfect picnic spot,
where the water looks inviting,
when the weathers fairly hot.
It’s on these days that Teddy hangs,
his coat across a fading sign,
and then he waits for victims,
to come near his fishing line.
A car drove in, parked on the bank
this sun drenched afternoon.
A shapely girl walked to the edge,
and Ted could see that soon,
he’d be watching her peel off her clothes
right down to her bikini.
So when she stepped into the water,
Ted's eyes were going goggly.
"Oye!" He yelled, "What are you doin?
You can't go in swimming here!"
The young lass turned her head around
and questioned Teddy’s fear.
"Look" Ted said, "This notice says,
as he removed his coat,
“There is danger of an undertow,
so I think you should take note”.
The young lady read the notice,
and then she thanked old Ted,
but after picking up her clothes,
she turned around and said
"You waited ‘til my clothes were off!"
A terse voice now expressing.
"Yeah, well,” grinned Ted “The sign
don't say nothin' 'bout undressing".
I am just
A little pencil
Made from
Wood and lead
My head is
Long and pointed
My body
Smooth and red
I write happily
Only when I’m led
I was once
Tall and handsome
But now
The days I dread!
You see
My little master
He treats me
Very badly
And often
Shaves my head
And when
He is thinking
He puts my tail end
In his mouth
Chewing till he thinks
Things through
Now I am
But half myself
An old stump, discarded
Bald and chewed!
Why the other day
He picked me up
Happy was I
To move ahead
But as he neither could
Shave or chew
He just threw me down
Thinking I was dead!
Alas, never seen along highways and byways anymore,
Was some very classic poetry that has become American lore!
'Tis sad that these masterpieces have vanished from the scene.
So I want to add some Burma Shave verse from my old bean!
"Plain old soap won't do the job
What you need is a generous gob
Of good ol' foamy Burma Shave
If it's your mug you want to save!"
"If you want to impress your sweetie pie
You should have on hand a good supply
Of smooth and creamy Burma Shave
And let me tell you fellers it's all the rave!"
"If she told you to drop dead last night
And you were no longer her shining knight
Perhaps it's a smoother mug she craves
We'd recommend you try Burma Shaves!"
"She thought his stubble a disgrace
Each time it scratched her pretty face
Sorry to hear about that Dave
Shoulda used Burma Shave!"
"When rising each morn to mow your stubble
You could save yourself a heap of trouble
Before you shave give your face a healthy lave
Then slather your mug with Burma shave!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
NOTE: For the younger set and those not familiar with this bit of Americana, during the 1930s, 40s and 50s, Burma Shave signs were posted along many highways across the U.S. It was a very clever way of advertising the shaving cream. A different line of the ditty was posted on a red board about every 150 feet and they were fun to read as you sped by. The verses above I dreamed up but if you really want to see some of the old signs and the witty verse thereon, type in your search "Burma Shave Signs".
Trere stands a man who's brave. Had many close shaves, wasn't at all afraid, not even of the grave.
He was a total knave, would always misbehave because he was downright depraved.
He would rant and he would rave like he belonged in a cave. He thought he had it made, not knowing to sin, he was a slave.
Til one day, he had a crave but someone else needed a fav, he couldn't understand why? From his heart he gave
Then he was hit with a shockwave, from that moment he was saved.
Now he's no longer depraved cause he was laved and now his way is paved.
No more to sin, a slave for he know The Lord forgave.
How long to sin will you be a Slave.
She walks along the stage
Looking at him
And him
And him
With her deadened eyes
He looks back at her
Every one of him
And fantasizes
Perky breasts
Milk white thighs
He feels
What’s familiar rise
Music plays
She feels the moments press
Skillfully
Removing her dress
He screams
He whistles
He wants more not less
Five dollar bills
Tossed at her feet
More from him
And him
She starts to feel the beat
Moving through her like a wave
Is she the master
him the slave?
She has her money
He’s left to crave
Dreaming of the place she closely shaves
The music stops
She puts back on her clothes
Looks at him
And him
And him
The ones she loathes
Hates who she is
Her stage name Rose
Takes a bow strikes a pose
Her act is done so off she goes
Wonders about next time
How many of him will there be?
Each with that hunger
It's not her they really see
They want pleasure
Yet inside are empty
As long as they come
she will never be free
Each practiced move
is her high heel misery!
Sounds of the ocean
Waves in your mind
Rounds of lost emotion
Raves that cuts and bind
Bounds of the blue ocean
Shaves your deep mind
Mounds of tranquil notion
Saves your lost mind
Ocean in you
Mind in the wilderness
Ark of the deep sea
Fathom at its vastness
Ocean in you
Sails in the Neverworld
Depths of you
Fairyland of the unending world
Warmly dedicated to SMJ
Three Sonnets Inspired by my
Reigning Ex
Part 0
Sitting at the edge of the universe
like a man atop a modern skyscraper
who might look down to see the manic street
full of yellow taxis and distant peers,
the first thing I notice on a backwards
glance is my snake-skin mortality
shed and skipping across the flattened ether,
a luminous orb on a linear course
like a puddle-hopping pebble, eager
to sink a lily-pad a child targets
for the hell of it. I realize then - either
I’m dead as a god should be, or just a pet
project of a German ghost, his meager
objective merely my way to forget.
Part I
Before you bed me, I assume the herpes
risk you ignored so many turn-style clicks
so many thick-like quick-strike Rolodex entries
not so long ago made that cavalry slicks
and right-swept Tinder mounts dutifully
saddled have begun their bountiful itch.
A testament, truly, of how beautifully
done was every each one, each surgical stitch
precisely sewn to salvage squeeze-box juice
of battle-field strewn, the red zest of life
a dead soldier blew, is once more, for you,
stalling to flow; knowing your rusty knife
has yet to slice temptation sterilized;
knowing your scalpel’s cut keeps cancer canonized.
Part II
All around you, this kelp-wall compartment
appears an ocean bloomed with room enough
for early light to shuffle halfway bent,
like time’s unpolished hedge, across the rough
field where too young have men gone to die.
Someone is responsible for all of it:
The ghostlike fish who grimly swim upstream;
the crunchy autumn leaves all creased and clustered;
and this, the box you loathe in sleepless dream
of birthday cakes and candles your grandfather
fed the wish-away lawn using mustered
strength from tears his daughter leaked, sprung to lie,
who now only cries at her daughter’s grave,
complaining of stubble when Pawpaw shaves.
New fling
Lust clings
He shaves
She raves
He aches
She fakes
He veers
She sneers
He winks
She shrinks