Best Shaving Poems
Since time immemorial, or so I've heared,
Mankind has struggled to tame his beard.
Was it Adam who imposed upon us this atrocious curse?
(I reckon I could sport a beard but to that I am averse.)
I've scraped and nicked my mug fer nigh on four-score years,
So I will share my shaving experience to educate my peers.
First, splash a generous supply of soapy water on yer kisser,
So as to arouse the attention of each and every whisker.
Apply a liberal amount of Burma Shave to ease the stress,
When with that wicked razor blade yer jowls you do caress.
Twist yer schnoz at an acute angle in order to shave below the nose,
Taking care not to nick yer double chins and any problems that may pose.
Once this onerous task is done, use toilet tissue to heal the bloody nicks,
Then apply a liberal amount of Old Spice to really impress the chicks!
(I must confess that I use an electric shaver to mow my intractable stubble.
'Tis so much smoother on my leathery hide and sure is a lot less trouble!)
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
My mind has been completely somewhere else these days.
The following is an example of what I mean.
I just went to spray my deodorant on
and now I'm all covered with shaving cream.
Inspired by Carolyn's little episode, which like mine sadly, is a true story.
A "Brush" with Horror
http://www.poetrysoup.com/poems_poets/poem_detail.aspx?ID=184310
“Why did you stop shaving, Jesse?”
Because my appearance doesn’t matter
if my heart is false
“Why did you stop shaving, Jesse?”
It is my attempt to project a façade
of masculinity in the face of rejection
by the opposite sex
Most men shave every day. It is
Our ritual of hygiene and vanity.
A clean, freshly shaven face will
get results, restore our sanity.
The act of shaving makes us think,
about our imperfections, the mirror
is unfair but also indispensable, our
nervous hands grow steady there.
Lately I have begun to see another
side of me. As I spread the creamy foam,
and slowly pull the razor through, I
wonder what she might think of me.
This feeling gets me through the day
I touch my face tenderly, just to see
how it might feel to be touched, how
it might feel to be touched by her someday.
How Unkempt and awful I look when
I forget to shave for weeks
Often have I to put off shaving for months
Once I went unshaved for a year
Either under stress,
or workplace pressure
as a result,
female colleagues
Avoid talking with me
and male
Co-workers advise me to wear a mask
my wife at home
declines a kiss.
Despite these grave repurcussions
I really never like to shave
For weeds on my face
Refuse to surrender to substandard blades
(And good blades are exorbitant and unaffordable)
I fear tetanus every time I cut my skin
For me to decide to shave is as difficult
a decision as deciding by US on carrying air raids on
Iran
I know I shaved the hair off this week
The razor was a solid brand
I felt my legs afterwards,
They were smooth as baby
Yet today I saw
My legs are dark
Curly hair
Grew all
Back
So maybe it was a week or two
Could possibly might have been
I shaved them hard on my knee
Hair floated down the drain
Grooming is no fun
The hair grows back
Hard and fast
I was shaving in the dark
hoping not to leave a mark
when I heard a voice outside of me
Say, “hark!”
I first thought “odd remark!”
as naked I lay, stark
inside my bathtub,
shaving in the dark
“On a task you must embark”
continued the voice which first said, “Hark”
“We need you to go right now
to Central Park”
I then thought, “what a lark!”
& felt my curiosity spark –
I decided then and there
to go ahead and hark
I wasn’t sure what harking was,
but I was game to try,
& doing what any good harkee does,
I tossed my razor by,
got quickly, slippery, out of the tub
and grabbed my towel to dry
But the harking voice said,
“Wait a minute,
we do not want you dressed;
we want your body
and all your senses
by spring-eve winds caressed;
you must go down
to Central Park
(no one’s there, it is quite dark)
and stand before us naked,
unobsessed
and know that you
are truly, ever blessed”
“Okay,” said I,
“I’ll try.”
---
Stepping lightly through the dark,
I headed off to Central Park
& quickly reached my given destination
(On the way I passed a shark –
swear to God, I heard it bark –
or was that noise my own imagination?)
---
Now here I stand,
a naked man
& wonder what I’m doing
I obeyed a demand—
no, make that command,
& now that action I am ruing
For to tell the truth,
I feel quite uncouth
standing naked for the viewing
Of one & all,
both short & tall
(Dear Lord I hope I’m snoozing --
Then this would be
a fantasy,
from which I’ll wake refreshed
to find it all
within my mind
‘cuz I’d gone to sleep undressed)
Blood on your skin
You couldn’t win
It was very sharp
But you can’t carp
Now you look well
Bloody like hell
Under the carpet.
Your siren has no
Sound.
I can't find my
Locker, but the
Next class
I'm not sitting
Next to you.
And you,
Short Stop,
have paused
Me.
Money doesn't
Solve my
Enviousness.
Of the wife, the
Eventual
Insemination
Of your kind.
Shaving in the
Morning, I think
Of your whiskers.
And with a cat's
Tongue I am tied and
Torn to no
Avail.
Shaving In The Dark
Blood on my face.
A wound from shaving in the dark.
A scar from an angry battle with my soul.
This is how the story goes.
A simple question from my little girl.
A question of the things of life.
A chance for hope.
A chance to share
some wisdom to help her cope.
I chose to set things right,
to fill the air with words of strife.
How some people aren't very nice
all the while hiding my own vice.
I spoke of evils, but not my own.
I chose to let her walk alone.
Plunging into the darkest cold
I left her in the wilderness to roam.
In my pride I ranted on
until finally I was done.
Feeling smug with my vain words
as the world struggled on.
Killing and hatred was the score
of my miserable symphony.
All hope was lost as the war continued on
in the shallow pursuit of my own gain.
I had given sorrow the upper hand
instead of words she could understand.
But my daughter set me straight
with words of a simple faith.
With a song in a voice so sweet
she set the world back on its feet.
"Jesus loves the little children.
All the children of the world.
Red, yellow, black, and white
they are precious in his sight.
Jesus loves the little children of the world."
With her faith she set me right
and showed me just where I stood.
A man with blood on his face
from shaving in the dark.
"Jesus Loves The Little Children" C. Herbert Woolston, George F. Root.
God Started Shaving
Off my sins God started shaving
Me from them was always saving
From each one he would release
Efforts to help others did increase
At God each morning will be waving.
Jim Horn
http://www.poetrysoup.com/poets/top_100_poets_most_poems_all_time.aspx
In sync with your cadence
Your heart pounds
Your blood as hot as your rubber
Every molecule so engorged
Sweat alone separates you from your chrome
While you peel off a spoke fine line
Through rush hour traffic
Tearing a strip off of death
High
On a deadline
04/07/2019
Your Amphetamine Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Anthony Slausin
On life’s sweet sage trail, there are many things we see:
Like grandfather’s ranch house where good times used to be.
There’s a ancient shaving mirror hung on a nail,
That he used to shave his face each day without fail.
You wonder as you gaze, what that mirror could tell—
Before time’s closing night darkened the light and fell.
Did he see an old man or what he used to be?
Or only wild roses when he was young and free?
Was he like us now, and remembered just the best?
Or did his scars go deeper to his final rest?
And as we look into that old shaving mirror—
Will we think on life’s doubts and then see them clearer?
For all the world’s a looking glass we stare into—
And what we see must please us before we are through.
Yes, I still have that mirror, but I seldom look—
In it I see gramps and he reads me like a book.
So now I hide it away like grandpa’s old spurs
And endure these modern times as this old world whirs.
Yet in darkest moments, I look into that glass
And know that like grandfathers – things we love must pass.
Roll back the clock to Josef Locke
(and not before or after),
in climes where shrines have names like Knock
without provoking laughter.
My father was an army man
(and yet me to beget),
all spit-and-polish, spick-and-span,
and quite the martinet.
Those soldier boys were short on poise
in those benighted days:
the Murphys, Martins and Molloys
were raised in rustic ways.
But Duty Sergeant Kevin Coy,
vesuviously vocal,
was out to drum-head or destroy
each vermin-ridden yokel.
His boots could pass for lacquered glass,
his gloves would shame a surgeon:
his dignitas at morning Mass
outshone the Blessed Virgin.
Imagine, then, when Cousin Ben
(all NCOs were family)
provided gen beyond all ken
(with palms perspiring clammily):
“They’re on a charge. I told them, Sarge.
I threatened savage slaughters.
Le nettoyage. A smell at large
in Ballykelly Quarters.”
They hunted high, they hunted low,
they bled the radiators,
more ebb and flow could offer no
Projection of Mercator’s.
Just how to quell that awful smell
preoccupied them greatly:
hard to dispel, suspicion fell
on Houlihan, then Hateley.
Catch as catch can, they caught their man
(not Higgins, or O`Hara):
who’s down the pan? None other than
your man from Connemara.
What Ryan knew was equal to
a peat-bog sown with barley:
he’d not a clue – “What? Put on new
bejeezers, regularly?”
His first long-johns remained the ones
adorning regions nether:
six months now gone, he still had on
the same ones, altogether.
“Wear other pairs? These stink – who cares?”
What’s harder to believe
is, unawares, his thighs’ black hairs
had grown quite through the weave!
“He’s now cashiered for being weird –
why then, we’ll depilate him.”
His locks were sheared, and then his beard,
and pubis, seriatim.
Thus Ryan, Sean, of Shirley born,
his gonads wholly hairless,
is there to warn, so sheerly shorn:
a lesson to the careless.
Whatever sins the Pope rescinds,
or parish priests connive at,
sloth never wins. Redress begins
with Shaving Ryan’s Privates.