Coiffured Poems | Examples

Zoya's Tears For Kyiv

Zoya sits, now all alone, 
just staring through a window pain 
to where a pink magnolia blooms 
in someone else's garden. 
And all her dacha's winter buds 
are crushed and tombed in oil and mud 
where tank and track has churned 
and soldiers on their backs are burned 
and seep her garden soil in blood. 

Net curtains dim the window pane 
but she can count each passing train 
seen through the boundary hedge, 
and glimpse each combed 
and coiffured head 
at eight, and half-past nine, and ten, 
as Zoya sits upon a bed 
and sees them coming home again 
at five from Waterloo. 

Her curtains flap with icy blasts 
damp cushions lie with shards of glass 
and where her gentle cats once basked, 
dog packs now run her Kyiv street. 

Although the hosts are warm, and kind, 
Sweet Zoya is now seventy-nine. 
Her smile conceals her inner tears, 
her loss of ending peaceful years 
sat gazing through her bedroom window, 
towards her glowing sunflower fields, 
her husband still asleep beside her.

My Day As a Photo Assistant

She was the most beautiful model in grayscale I’d ever seen.
With a haughty smile, arrogant, a nineteen sixty-four queen.
She had Jackie’s air about her, and it was majestic and fine.
I wondered if her well-coiffured hair ever got a bit out of line?

I was assigned to be the photographer’s assistant that day.
We photographed her in every kind of insane, crazy way.
I ran to get a fishbowl and plopped it on her startled head.
The photographer gave me a look that told me I was dead.

Wait! The designer said. She needs big puff balls for her ears.
He took off the fish bowl, threw blobs in and quelled all my fears.
The photographer rolled his eyes, but kept clicking away.
A fishbowl on her head photo was the cover shot that darling May!

Soulful Eyes

Behind the elaborate mask I wear
Beyond the depths of blue soulful eyes
Beneath the painted lips and coiffured hair
my tears flow into an estuary of sorrowful cries

I'm a ripe peach dangling from a tree
temptation before you, ready for picking
but rotted at the core, where you cannot see
I would defile your tongue upon your first licking

I'm a beguiling sampling of fine wine
a sniff, a swirl before reaching your lips
but by overindulging in the fruit of my vine
you may cause your own downfall, an apocalypse

I'm the delicate petals of a fragrant rose
A beauty to behold, but be vigilant of thorns
Drawing blood is a perilous danger they impose
For in all her regal splendor, a betrayed woman scorns

My Hair Tries To Define Me

My hair tries to define me
I laugh in her straggly non- curls
Hoping to shame me, she taunts me
About being messy and unkempt

Together we could be a social disgrace
except only she cares, wanting a brushing,
regular combs run through her, etcetera.
She is much more prissy than I am.

Unbothered by her begging and pleading,
I march on kicking the possibility of a well coiffured head
out of my way,
watching her hopes and dreams land in mire and muck.

She glares at me from a mud puddle
with ticks and lice hopping onto her.
I truly do not care.

Her cowlick promenades around
the bugs’ barn dance.
This does not concern me.
I will never define myself by my hair.
My hair tries to define me

Autumn

The wailing winds frail at summer's lush green foliage 
as October freckles leaves, lips gently part in rouged gasps with flesh that veers to purple like bruised peach skins, hands now age-wrinkled in brittle brown bark are webbed by twisting veins,

contorted and spiralled, beneath a canopy of gilt,
flecked in brass shards.But listen to wailing gnats, 
whining in winnowing winds that break a vocal chorus
in coarse croaking that croon about past joys now faded as night descends and shades, 

trunks then root my corpse into life's cold clinging clay, despite the erosion of ages, crimson clouds in auburn coiffured tints fade as swallows gather shadows.

Vanity

Vanity is but the easiest prey
Consumed by what did you say

Don't you think I am pretty
Late night affirmation of the kitty

Seeking compliment in your own reflection
The pain to suffer rejection

Once was the look of Aphrodite 
Hidden in the darkness of the night

Coiffured hair and red ties
Seeking admiration behind the eyes

Using praise as mans to and end
The narcissist always bends

The mere reflection of the silhouette
Their image they never regret

The Tall and Short of It

Impossible to miss him in a crowd, 
jet black moving chimney, one head 
above the rest as though he walks on stilts. 
In the sun his head of hair, 
coiffured, defies brand new enamel. 
Mostly he plays god, flits like a butterfly 
in post chrysalis stage: choosing the
very best, discarding. The rest, he’s man 
at large, a parakeet. In the rare cases 
when he’s not making calls, wrapt, blabbing,
gesticulating, he’s chatting up some chick
just about his same size, her crush worn 
like a charge inside her eyes, someone with     
parched lips needing his own as salver,
someone malleable enough that can be bent 
without breaking, someone dim and foolish.
Not like me who, despite distance and size
can see through him, his gossamer.

Fairy Wings

FAIRY WINGS

fairy wings, wrought in wispiness
a ticklish fancy, most unbeelike
florid splash of firework colors
work their magic, as they stretch
and yawn awakening expectation.

she circles me like a servant dressing
me in early morning royalty. i feel
a tingle from my toes to each strand
of my coiffured hair. this bond, between

this brownie and i, inseparable. she fills
me with magic and i teach her of man.
this wisdom makes her toes curl up
in laughter, her giggle like a cheery toddler.

she whispers pretty words, that entrance
my mind, like sensate cinnamon and warm
like brandy, telling me of faraway lands
which can only be reached by air.

holding onto the tiny fragile fingers
of a two-winged lullaby, a secret song
accompanied by violins and tinkling
harps of silver and gold. when i fly

you shan't find me, evermore, but
i shall find the elixir of life and serve
my fairy-dolls with hands open wide,
as they build around me the land of dreams.

3/5/2018

Their Rainbow Colored Camouflage

Some people wear smiles out in public
as if those smiles were sewn on their faces.
Often they are adorned by costly apparel.
The women, in flattering makeup and 
with hair beautifully coiffured,
flaunt gowns created by renowned fashion designers
and accessorized with glittering jewelry
and expensive heels and handbags.

They are the rich, the “beautiful people,”
social butterflies in a rainbow of colors
seen attending their special clubs and functions
or charity benefits,
where they flit about with others of their elite class.

I have seen them on television
and representations of them in movies.
I suppose viewing them impersonally this way
is the closest I will ever get to them
as I sit watching them from my well-worn sofa,
knowing that nobody can have a life 
so seemingly perfect
yet marveling
                        at their rainbow colored camouflage.

For the Rainbow Colored Camouflage Contest of Ir0nic ZiNk

Spring Garden

SPRING GARDEN

wildflower blossoms
a coiffured carpet of moss
curlicues of vines

calligraphic bold sonnet
intoxicating fragrance

~

budding green love taps
from a small child’s fingertips
on each oaken branch

lucid tickle of sunlight
robin builds her newborns’ nest

3/14/2017
Carlton D Kennedy’s The Love Of Nature contest
Tanka Form

Coiffured Hair

finely coiffured hair
blowing in fall's swift cool breeze..
for sale: crepe myrtle

a hint of fall's chill
tinges the leaves crimson red...
auburn curly locks

The Odd Couple

The Old Couple
There is an unspoken acceptance you share a silence no need 
to be entertaining and you are bore telling jokes told before
It is an easy quietness each one has their own interest
And to avoid problems a computer and two TV 
I do this, and you do that, and I carefully avoid sarcasm
Which is arrogance badly concealed?
There is much to learn from Soap Operas such as Hair- styles 
dresses are worn by slim actresses where a plot is easy to follow,
why complicated a play to be academic writers are showing off.
dense lines actors have to learn when it is about looking good 
show love and rage in five minutes intervals
Always perfectly coiffured hair stays in place.
Our secret is she is not listening to me nor am I hearing her
this is what I call perfect harmony.
Yet both know there will only be one of them a new silence
that will be a burden on shoulders bent by age.

Here's My Whine - Now Pass the Cheese

Here is my whine, now pass along the cheese!
My list is short on things that do not please.
But greatest of those few that bring unease,
is weather with a twirling, whirling breeze.

A summer wind or one in winter freeze
may call for me to search my bag and seize
that item needed to then help appease
my whining when I'm feeling ill at ease.

You see, it has to do with the degrees
it moves around stands up, or flows and flees...
my hair that is, coiffured and firmly teased,
in wind, will make you laugh, fall to your knees!

Thank god for scarves and covers' expertise...
the large bouffant with ties most times agrees
to help confine my mane in windy sprees.
So there's my whine, now pass along the cheese!


Sandra M. Haight

~NA~
Premiere Contest: Here's My Whine, Now Pass the Cheese
Sponsor: Philip Garcia
Judged: 08/15/2016

Little Fairyland

Little girls with coiffured hair dressed as fairies or pixies
little misters masquerading as gnomes and elves
all came running like hungry bees to flowers
to my  garden resplendent with sunshine 
that afternoon in early May
for my little niece’s birthday party
Fairy land was my chosen theme
so the kids could live their dream
My tulips danced to impress little guests
as their giggles filled the air
 redolent with daffodil fragrance
Iridescent butterflies sought home at neighbors
Wise birds, playing obsequious hosts, 
fled the feeder to watch from the maple
The little feet then stopped—
suddenly a pall of quiet
huddles and whispers 
hither thither they started again
innocent eyes scouring every nook and corner
under the bush, behind the trees
Intrigued by the frantic search
there’s no treasure hunt, I assured
Looking for frogs to kiss, the girls confessed
a lone glass slipper, the boys’ quest

Written on 06/27/2016

Not Cinderella

Back in time beneath gas light glow,
I watch where waltz music flows;
will you notice me all alone
too shy to make my presence known?
Awestruck by the sweeping beauty,
ceiling scenes painted heavenly
as though angels are peering through;
are they watching with me for you?
Pretty ladies in dresses fair
with feathered fans and coiffured  hair;
color abounds in satin and lace,
echoed on each expressive face.
Handsome men bowing gallantly,
requesting hands respectfully;
enthralled am  I seeing this world,
a gray oyster in shell of pearl.
Suddenly, you are in this room!
I shrink - fading wallflower bloom;
I doubt that you even know who
I am. How could I have dreamed you
would fall in love with one like me;
I turn to go, quietly flee.

Your hand touches my trembling arm,
your gentle smile dissipates alarm;
the room, quiet at your voice,
anticipates your happy choice.
Pumpkin coach, fairy godmother?
No glass slippers made to cover
my dancing feet; no prince charming
just you and a love, disarming.

Copyright, November 17,  2014
Faye Lanham Gibson

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