Best Tattoos Poems
A two-legged canvass
in crimsons and blues
dragons ginormous
and suchlike tattoos
Diamonds and rare gems
that shimmer and shine
flowers on long stems
with sleek strokes and lines
Exciting ones hid
in crannies and nooks
all that's forbid;
condemned by the Book
Exposed on the outside
pleasing to prudes
on out-of-sight hide
erotica and nudes
DELYSIA HENDRICKS
PROUDLY TATTOOED
Proudly tattooed I am for you,
I saw you going to have one too,
My ink is stained,
For I never feigned,
To have one alone, we are a crew!
Only your eyes will bear on it,
And mine on yours, so it is fit,
Will we become addicted?
O what the heck, it’s predicted,
We’ll never see fit to quit!
Tattooing is now an adventure,
No longer a risky venture,
Seek out a tattoo artist,
Go have one on your wrist,
No longer need a censor.
I love the tattoo that I had done,
It has been such tremendous fun,
Did it hurt, yes it did,
So much, I flipped my lid,
My darling, love it on your bum!
Choose wisely, it is there to stay,
The next day, cannot wish it away,
The thrill of having this fling,
Beats almost anything,
No longer an area grey!
a young boy approached me
asked me for a dollar
Where are your parents
I almost hollered
he pointed to the tattoos
on his arms
one of ‘mom,’ the other of ‘dad’
“There they are,” he said
Is there any kind of person who is perfect, an example?
Someone that helps every single day should be ample,
Although could even that one be considered perfect?
People aren't perfect, so that's what you would expect.
Status and position, you can be born into it, or find it,
The appearance you have doesn't matter, don't mind it,
Or else you'll find yourself in a precarious predicament.
Knowing what to do is starting to become omnipotent
With professors, doctors, priests, soldiers, and bankers.
Because they have their skin emblazoned with anchors,
Anchors to the soul, body and mind, or the literal form.
Fact is, people have to hide their anchors, it's 'the norm'.
Lets say a qualified person is reconstructing your heart,
Would you really care if their skin were covered in art?
What about serving in the war, rolling up their sleeves,
To reveal more sleeves, and everyone tattooed leaves.
Having one's person embellished with tattoos is all the rage today.
Used to be that only carousing tars got tattooed in old Mandalay!
They might have an 'Anchor' or 'Mother' tattooed on their chest,
Their ship's name or a naughty quote of which they were obsessed!
As an inquisitive lad I paid a dime to see tattooed ladies on a dare,
Where they 'bared' their gaudy hides at a carnival or the county fair.
Nowadays, for free I can see tattooed ladies sashaying down the street;
Some are very discreet - others flaunt tattoos most everywhere replete!
Let me hasten to say it's none of my affair - I think they're very brave,
But do they realize they're stuck with the things 'til planted in the grave?
I can hear this question from their grand kids when they become a granny;
"Nana! What are all those funny pictures gracing your arms and fanny?"
Having one's person embellished with tattoos is all the rage today.
Used to be that only carousing tars got tattooed in old Mandalay!
They might have an 'anchor' or 'Mother' branded upon their chest,
Their ship's name or a naughty quote of which they were obsessed!
As an inquisitive lad I paid a dime to see tattooed ladies on a dare,
Where they 'bared' their gaudy hides at a carnival or the county fair!
Nowadays, for free I can see 'art' displayed on gals sashaying down the street.
Some are very discreet - others flaunt tatoos most everywhere replete!
Let me hasten to say it's none of my affair - I think they're very brave,
But do they realize they're stuck with the things 'til planted in the grave?
I can hear this question from their grandkids when they become a granny:
"Nana! What are all those funny pictures doing on your arms and fanny?"
Entry for Carol Eastman's "Humor Contest"
she will tattoo me
too many hickies to count
my heart blooms roses
SCARS AND TATTOS
We often boast of being strong
Holding our heads high
And being in charge of our destinies
Human nature, full of pride
But for every scar there's a tattoo
The ink is the storyline
The colours are the stories
The needle is the pain
A butterfly for change
A bird for freedom
A rainbow for happiness
But a scar for life.
I am a shadow of self
Pale pain and waned desire
To tired to continue this rage
The fire in my belly has gone away
This world of black
Upon my health, life and love, did attack
I never spoke the words “I surrender”
Though I should have
My health and drive steadily deplete
I myself can sense the heat
Of death being near,
I no longer admire my mirror
Because I was taught
To not bend a strangers ear
How do I get my world back?
I regret this new world of black
I wear this peel of hate
My same old skin
But we no longer relate
I’ve dropped so much weight
From so much abuse
Forget about my clothes
Even my tattoos are loose.
Lately, Everything makes me think of them,
kick-started by that episode LOST with Jack's Thai mistress
who has a knack for reading a person and branding them--
"he walks among us, but he is not one of us--"
on Jack's shoulder forever, a secret in another language.
and I wonder, does he lie about its meaning?
The only thing worse than lying about a tattoo,
is lying about a tattoo painted by someone
who sees right into you.
Then I wonder, if John or Simon Peter lived now
in this feel good age of defilement
would they have JOHN 3:16 across their bicep?
Is it okay to mess with a temple if it's words of love,
or words that mean love?
I saw a woman with "Jordan" inking the small of her back,
four summers ago now, and I still think of it
and how my first thought was-
"that'll suck if they break up and she has to explain
to her next boyfriend why she has some other guys
name across her back..."
followed by wonderment of the kind of faith she must have,
only to be dismissed: "probably a drunken decision,"
And I still think that.
Why is it so hard for me to believe that woman
loved Jordan, had enough faith and trust
to brand his name on her body?
Scars are the tattoos we don't choose,
and I have enough of them, thank you.
The skin stretching over my shins, knees, and elbows
could read a chronological account of all the sports I've played,
and all the stupid decisions I've made,
like that dare to careen down a 50 yard, steep dirt mound
and skid out at the bottom, where,
45 minutes and 2 bottles of peroxide later,
I was "victorious."
Different shapes, sizes, and colors- purple, pink, flesh, even white,
like a freakin human Easter egg.
Tattoos thrill and inspire me--
I live to love something enough to ink it on my body forever,
but for now, I'll settle with knowing i've lived enough
to garner at least a dozen scars.
It starts with just one,
Just a small one,
A delicate pinkish shooting star
Chosen painstakingly from the flash on the wall
While a girl with blue hair and a nose ring
Watches disdainfully from behind the counter.
It takes more than one trip
To check out the place
On the south side of town, on a dimly-lit side street
Between an all night laundromat and a café
With a dingy neon sign that reads “Garden of Eatin.”
Then a venture inside (to make sure it’s clean)
And a conversation with the proprietor,
A painfully thin ghost of a man
With a shaved head, a long black beard
And one whole arm tattooed
(it’s called a sleeve, I later learn)
With a brightly colored scene of a Chinese garden.
Yes, they use only new packaged needles
And all the equipment is sterilized.
It takes a few beers and one shot of tequila
To arrive on the appointed day
And sit in the cracked fake-leather chair
Trying not to look like this is my first time,
At the ripe old age of 44.
The whirring sound of the needle
Reminds me of a dentist’s drill
And I get a familiar shiver of anticipated pain
Before the very real pain of the first ink
Bites into my shoulder.
When the ordeal is finally over,
The black-bearded artist hands me a small mirror
So that I can view the “body art”
For which I’ve paid sixty dollars, an hour’s time,
And several days of agonizing indecision.
It is, in a word, fabulous.
He covers it with gauze and gives me “aftercare instructions”
(just like they do in the hospital)
And a tube of something called “Tattoo Goo”
And I walk proudly out the door,
Wondering if the young couple dressed in black
Eating hummus in the Garden of Eatin’
Realize that I have a fabulous,
Spectacular shooting star
Under this bandage I wear on my shoulder.
I wear the tattoo like a badge of honor,
A medal of courage, a sign of the times.
I love it.
And it’s only the first one.
"TATTOOS, PICTURES, JUBILATION AND LOVE"
minutes ago, I received a
picture from a female I know.
she says she loves me.
she texts:
I'LL SEND IT TO YOU AS LONG
AS YOU DON'T USE IT AGAINST
ME.
I agree.
ARE YOU READY?
I text back: I AM.
my notification sounds,
Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata
plays across my room.
delivered.
she's naked and in her
bathroom. tattoos on her
wrist, her leg and above her
baby maker. she adds character to
her picture. this wild horse
has a tongue that's wet,
thick, shiny and pierced.
it hangs out. details,
details, details. baby, the
devil is in the details.
listen! Beethoven is at it
again. another picture.
these pictures came with no
hesitation and only one
proclamation.
I SEND THESE TO YOU BECAUSE
I'M ALL YOURS. THIS IS WHAT
YOU HAVE. BE GOOD TO IT.
I feel jubilation and love.
wait, you're smarter than
this! the browns, the greens
and the blues.
all of perversion's eyes have
seen this too. perversion's
eyes have read that pro-
clamation. perversion's eyes
once had all she was. per-
version's eyes were told to
be good to it. perversion's
eyes know that baby maker tattoo.
they know that tongue ring.
jubilation and love took a
trip into the perverted.
look at the bigger picture
you fool! the record plays
the same old song. minutes
ago, I received some
pictures, some love, some
dedication.
however,
I did not receive her
originality.
the world's perverted eyes
beat me to it.
By: Chicano Eddie
8-9-2016
Tattoos at Wal-Mart
Went to Wal-Mart and we were spell-bound
By all the people you would see around
With their tattoos having skin mutilated
And to go back again have always hated.
But according to all of the latest noise
We really don't possibly have a choice
That's when my wife started saying NO WAY
Us each having to go there almost everyday.
Every other week to me is more then enough
Even if things are getting rough as well as tough
Again, saw enough to make you weep and groan
Woman's arm wore a Jolly Roger with a cross bone.
Can you imagine going to Wal-Mart standing in line
After buying bottle of wine along with a Valentine
Day's card which was all that they could afford
Yet, they still kept saying they loved the Lord.
I'm sure I must need my head to be examined
And always forever will end up flipping my lid
Knowing going to Wal-Mart is quite a venture
Seeing woman with arm having a crab and pincher.
I ain't lying either. Them are the facts. I put sick
down for a category because the whole thing was.
James Thesarious Hilarious Horn, Retired Veteran
Her favorite color was Green,
Until she turned 17,
Then she cursed her skin with Red.
Random patterns of lines to others,
A sacred catharsis for herself.
Her blood tattoos made her feel new,
Those symbols became her source of power,
Even the one’s on her neck, back, and thighs too.
The blood tattoos gave the girl meaning, and formed her identity.
She cut the world away, and bled out the misery of a young heart betrayed.
The girl with the blood tattoos is now a woman today, and she no longer carries the burden of the red curse. In fact, I saw her just the other day, carrying a green purse.
My skin tells a tale, no shame, no regret/
Ink etched in darkness, paths firmly set/
Each mark a whisper, Occult and profound/
Symbols of magic, where shadows abound/
The inverted cross, a forearm's creed/
A testament to journey, to spirit and need/
Commanding respect, not of gangster lore/
But ancient rites, that my soul explores/
A clean life I walk, sober, legit/
No chains of vice, no shame to admit/
Perhaps I'm one of a few, rare in my kind/
Tattoos of the night, with a disciplined mind/
Celebrity or not, it's not what I claim/
But through the ink flows my spiritual flame/
Proud of my canvas, a map of my quest/
My tattoos are my armor, my silent confess/