Enigmatically stubborn to style, the coif
Some days it can be easily pulled off
Other days it requires an exorcism
Like Zoolander it can look like ‘Magnum’
Hides my receding hairline like a charm
Sophistication to my head’s yardarm
Its antidote is a very windy day
Requiring heavy doses of hairspray
When it works my lady wants to stroke it
I recoil in fear, making her remit
For a single finger can ruin it
It’s a fickle angel to babysit
Little hairs in certain cases,
are expected that we might see.
Arms and legs are common places,
as well as hair upon our faces.
On top of head, if no traces,
accepting bald, is what you'll be.
Lots of time, as well as money,
coif the hair, in styles aplenty.
Some may use in terms of measure,
when found in food, a real displeasure!
Little hairs sometimes on end,
results of cold, or perhaps frightened.
Little hairs grow as brows,
enhance the lashes, we do espouse.
But when we age, some do appear,
as little tufts upon the ear.
We all spend time giving chase,
of little hairs out of place.
Her beguiling eyes took my breath away
Above the silken mask she chose to wear
Her coif most flattering above her face,
Until I saw her teeth -- the worst, I swear!
Written August 8, 2022
Softly I reached
to pull it
A pillow ,Too many ,I think
Your breathing somewhat challenged
Your throat definately
In a kink
Your set up
Was
In a bad angle
Your coif
It was
Starting to mangle
As I grabbed onto
Pillow two,the culpret,
I thought best in a flash
What I didn't know and
As you told me so(In no uncertain terms)
My thinking would prove to be rash
As I jerked it away
You sprang up to say
Mom!!! What the hell!
A cuff button I'd caught
In a lock of your hair
Which came away in the Pell mell
It took me a few
To convince you
that scalping was not on my mind
That my motive
Was pure,as I begged to assure
I had simply thought to be kind
Emphasis on simply
Another season nears its end
closing the doors on the dreams we played pretend
in the days we hoped would never end;
a place where times are unchanged secure in their shells,
endeared moments regained within a magic spell
of holidays and holydays renamed, long memory held;
the antique reservoir of child and adult things
knickknack recalls of earlier life scenes,
glass framed doors in their revealed etchings
the items of fading Christmas collections
angels, shepherd, manger scene recollections
when moments are shared with love and perfection.
Close the doors, clean the glass, dust the trinkets off
the memories are stored that ever hide beneath the coif
hold them close, embrace them within your heart soft,
the season closes in on the once opened doors
and suddenly within the somber quiet
Christmas is hidden behind the curio doors.
In a passion of fashion, at the height's
of female pulchritude; try as she might,
Wobbling to walk on five inch stilletos;
All she got were awkward gawks from the fellows.
So not a cat but board walk by the sea,
In a trashcan, she cast away, those shoes from her feet.
Immediately relieved in the sand standing bare;
Eyes closed, to smell and hear, seeming more aware.
As designed her designer dress, to her feet fell flimsy.
Her undone coif flowed with floating thoughts Botticelli.
She slowly approached the ocean's sound, waves rushing meaningless;
Yet covering enough of her legs; then waist, giving rebirth to Venus.
You're my Knight and I'm you're Lady
a medieval flash in time not maybe
your nobility conquers any quest
with armor and sword dressed
Remove all apparel you need it not
for you've won the battle you have fought
leave your saber in the stone
magic comes from inside hence thrown
And the ruler will also disarm
to you I'd never harm
defenseless you are to exalt
cavalier without assault
Our virtue exposes all infrequent prosperity
excluding obnoxious barbarity
Your lord and vassal can retreat to isolation
drop coif and shield and leave all avocation
Military coif
high and tight
not a hare out of place
John G. Lawless
4/30/2020
The UK PM has a cough
And has had to take some time off
In intensive care
He does need more air
Show support with a Bojo coif!
I’ll ransack the caging golden towers,
Slip your hands from the twines of forlorn hours;
Spirit you to fields ‘neath conspiring stars,
Coif your hair with a headdress of flowers.
Now what’s the matter with my hair?
It’s thinning balding -–such despair
As buddies jest that I’m ‘top gone’
With strands flaking one by one.
The barber whips piles of spray net
Yet coif flops, this manhood upset
While I grab the latest toupee
And style a bob which looks like hay!
Meanwhile, gals I need to attract
Believes new shave is a cool act...
With pierced ears studded, I am grand
Jigging on like a hip-hop band!
Dear me, today, life's all brand new
Nobody peeps at my head's view.
For Barry Stebbings’ Contest
Oh Dear, What Can The Matter Be 2/13/2018
Oh Dear, What Can The Matter Be
Oh Dear, what can the matter be
the mirrors all lie – they never flatter me
all they see is a much larger – fatter me
they should be charged with reflective battery
I think the wash shrunk my favorite top
for when I inhale – the buttons pop off
Oh Dear, the jeans in the glass
cannot be mine – just look at that ass
it cannot be true – there must be a flaw
there’s double the chin beneath a slack jaw
Oh Dear, look at that matted coif
I started teasing and just couldn’t stop
Dear, dear, it just isn’t fair
that reflection - it’s perfectly clear
full of looking glass malice
a “Rabbit Hole” palace
that tortured poor Alice
Oh Dear, what can the matter be
why must I seek flat glass flattery
2/1/2018
submitted to – Oh Dear, What Can The Matter Be – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Barry Stebbings
She floats into a room and voices hush,
the silence at effulgence in her bloom,
as crimson rises to her cheeks in blush
to humble scarlet gardens and their plume.
The gown in velvet bides her every curve,
smooth bight of rivers on to ocean's sway
that in such pastel presence do observe
how her translucence rivals light of day.
Though gentle white alyssum may surround
while saffron bloom the jonquils in their wake,
her coif in glinting chestnut is thus crowned
as alder trees beside an autumn lake.
A memory in oil is all she leaves,
but luster as in life she still achieves.
Thorn coif is embedded on your head,
and it thrusts to your head with its prongs,
spikes as nails tear your body –
God’s blood is flowing on humans’ sin.
Wales of lash tore your flesh,
you carried the Cross and human toil,
bleeding wounds were embittered by pain,
when they nailed you to the Cross.
They torment you, in crowd they hide,
throng of scoundrels encircle the Lord
and they scoff while you are dying.
Burning wounds, the sweat is mixing with blood,
it dribbles through your eyes and mouth –
life is forsaking my God.
THE INDIAN'S LAMENTATION(OR A DEDICATION TO JOHN TRUDELL'S WORK)
We felt it,but we ignored
The wind as it blew: dry? Yes.Cold?
Perish the thought!Still we felt it.
We saw it. In the coif of a bison's coat
Dancing in a forced ritual to an invisible master.
We saw it. In the lone leaf. The one
Caught by Nature's Messenger
And blown into our wretched stoked fire.
We saw it and we knew it but we ignored it.
Now we remember times we ignored,
When you looked around and saw
Upturned, frightened faces
Seeking answers that none wants to hear
And the color of their eyes was fear
Once a hundred? A million? A myriad!
But now I sit alone. By my self by the shore
Waiting for Nature's Messenger.
Waiting for Nature's Messenger.
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