As The Rising Sun, The Dawn Came In Softly & Slowly;
&
So Did My Suffering.
Maybe Unexplained Or Unexpected Feelings;
Which Have Been Ignored;
A Sudden Melancholy Skulking In The Silence;
Awaiting The Arrival Of This Day.
The Days Have Regrettably Passed Since We Parted Ways;
About 4 Years Ago, & I Now Wonder If There Was Anything I Could Have Done;
I May Not Have Needed To Spend As Much Time In The Closet;
I Probably Need To Have Paid Closer Attention To How You Felt About Being Anonymous;
Or;
To Anything Else That Would Have Kept You By My Side;
I Am Sorely Missing You Right Now.
My Thoughts Are Hitting Barriers, & My Tears Are Falling Like Waterfalls;
All With Photographs Of You;
Including Your Wild Hairstyles;
Wild Kissing Technique;
All-Gleaming Beard;
Lovely Eyes;
Beautiful Voice;
Undetectable Abs;
&
Silly Smiles.
The Monotonous Music You Listened To In Your Place;
I Can Still Hear Them Playing In My Head From When I Visited;
I Still Occasionally Hear Them In My Brain;
Which Is Shocking, But I Genuinely Miss You & Those Awful Songs.
Crewcuts, flattops, pompadours
Cowlicks, ducktails, side parts
Clean cuts, Ivy Leagues, slick-backs
Where have all these hairstyles gone
No longer do the cute chicks fawn ...
The old combs
Stay with me many years
Now I bought new combs too
But too lazy to use
I stay at home
Especially during MCO
I seldom use mirror or comb
I use my hands to comb most of the time
To tidy the short hair I cut myself
I'm too old to use comb often
I'm too lazy to bother appearance
Which was spoiled by dimmy eyes and ugly wrinkles
Suddenly I think of my parents
Everyday they couldn't do without combs
They brushed their hair tidy and shining
Father with a quick sweep
Mother with a long hour combing straight down
Olden days people like tidiness and cleanliness
Their days are simple
And follow routines and etiquette
Their hearts loyal and simple
Like the being straightened hair
Now people like fashions ,excitements and hairstyles
The combs bring me back
The sweet memories of my parents and their love
The old combs deserve to be kept
In my heart
Especially during this Mother's and Father's Day
The old combs
Stay with me many years
Now I bought new combs too
But too lazy to use
I stay at home
Especially during MCO
I seldom use mirror or comb
I use my hands to comb most of the time
To tidy the short hair I cut myself
I'm too old to use comb often
I'm too lazy to bother appearance
Which was spoiled by dimmy eyes and ugly wrinkles
Suddenly I think of my parents
Everyday they couldn't do without combs
They brushed their hair tidy and shining
Father with a quick sweep
Mother with a long hour combing straight down
Olden days people like tidiness and cleanliness
Their days are simple
And follow routines and etiquette
Their hearts loyal and simple
Like the being straightened hair
Now people like fashions ,excitements and hairstyles
The combs bring me back
The sweet memories of my parents and their love
The old combs deserve to be kept
In my heart
Especially during this Mother's and Father's Day
Awake hair
hairstyles...
appropriate clothes
modeled...
Offered mouth,
painted...
hidden mistakes,
Clear Skin...
lively gestures,
rehearsed lines...
So she goes,
clearing paths,
she goes to the market...
Madame or courtesan...
Executive or executor...!?
So many of us will sell ourselves for the "hype"
Just for a moment in the limelight
Selling their souls for minute of fame, just to see their names in the big bright lights
It can't be easy living in a lie
You can't pay your bills but you wear million dollar hairstyles and name brand shoes just to maintain the "hype"
The Bling Bling life and the social media likes that's all in the "hype"
Driving a Range Rover and you still paying rent. How does that spell sense ? Just to be in the" hype " in the limelight
Fame must have an expensive price
You sleep with Dick, Tom and Harry just to be on the arms of man that the media calls a star
Yes, the "hype " has an expensive price
You sell your values for a moment of fame, all in the name of a" HYPE "
What an expensive price to pay for moment of fame.
Ear muffs perch on little heads
In poof or sparkly style,
While furry pom poms bounce on hats
Engendering a smile.
Hoods with fuzzy fake-fur trim
Are pulled ‘round reddened faces
As well as ski or baseball caps,
Which stay in men’s good graces.
Winter headgear keeps us warm
But fashion counts, as well,
Until we step inside to find
Our hairstyles look like hell!
It's Mighty Funny
It's mighty funny,
That you call me ugly,
But you are trying to look just like me,
Everything I do,
From the hairstyles I wear,
To the way I dress,
You always seem to copy,
You tell me I'm nobody,
But you see my talents and my rewards,
And can't congratulate,
But roll your jealous eyes at me,
You obviously want everything I got,
Because you feel everything about me saids,
I'm hot and your not,
You obviously don't like yourself,
That's why you want to be somebody else,
If you hate who and what you are,
Than that's to bad,
But to hate, admire and envy me for being what you want to be,
Makes me glad,
All you are doing is showing me,
How much you hate being you,
And how much you would love to be me,
Your telling me it sucks being you,
And it's wonderful being me
time
distortions of memory
tricks played out
of things thought but not
old photos tell stranger tales
of two dimensional places
of younger eyes
and tender faces
8mm and slideshows
or lockets clasp'd
kodachrome and sepia
and oh! there's a cameo hidden
in the back of grandfather's pocketwatch
(it isn't grandmother and her name sounds French!)
but they're hollow records
of voices, laughter, or
the way someone walks
as unique as snowflakes
but prints fade out like streaking tracers
soon only one or two aunties
remember who's who in the zoo
while great grandkids think the hairstyles look quaint
and one of us really seems to favor the guy on the right
but move on to pictures of ourselves, will ya!?
not knowing that it was a good day in that shot
or if war was over, weather hot
but time exposes our brief latent images,
f-stop for all in our pin-hole lives
love, hate, joy, grief parallax'd into flashbulb shadows
and afterimages fade
carbon arc'd
onto dusty shelves
carelessly aperture stopped
into old shoebox albums
and broken frames...
not sure what time of day
it is any longer---not sure
which self to act with these
days---not sure which part
of this individual is broken
up into the most pieces,
but each piece seems to
evolve quickly into a different
person for each occasion,
like a light switch that comes
on & off, like a line of lips
that bounces up & down
from smile to frown, with
different hairstyles, with
different looks, with the ability
to leave this world for a while,
with the ability to find a
way coasting along the wave
of all these discombobulated
selves, that make sense only
in the reflection of a mirror
that has already been smashed
on the ground, flushed out into
scattered jagged bits.
Would you do the do
Hairstyles stick up just like glue
You’ll do the do well
Entrant into Paula Swanson’s “How Due You Dew” contest
The house was tall in strucure. Many doors led to different adventures. There was a cafe
where you could sit and have conversations with neighbours. A grand dinning hall where the
seniors supped elegantly. A room where bingo was played. The salon, where beautiful
hairstyles are created. There was a sitting-room with a television. An academic room
exisited with computers and books. Each senior has their own apartment within the complex.
You could call this an elegant and miraculous retirement village and house.
Author: Gwen Meyer-Erlach Schutz
Sun-faded cardboard photographs
of 1970’s hairstyles
were tacked to
the brown paneled walls.
His counter was cluttered with
the shiny tools of his trade,
a chipped glass bowl
laden with lollypops,
and a jar of combs
in blue liquid.
National Geographic,
Sports Illustrated,
and Life
were spread out
like Chinese fans
on the coffee table.
On the shelf,
above the coat hooks with
forgotten umbrellas
and orphaned scarves,
and smelling faintly of cigarettes
and of mystery,
lay a stack of glossy Playboys.
I was tall enough,
but not brave enough,
and that brass ring
was never grabbed.
I sat in Gino’s cold
metal and pleather chair
and thought about
warm flesh and silky hair.
I pictured a model
on a bearskin rug
in front of a crackling fire,
clutching a champagne flute,
or a long-stemmed rose,
or another pointless prop.
Images cavorted as
Gino’s quick hands
floated around
my teenaged head
and his silver
and snipping scissors
danced the Barber’s Waltz.
Comb, snip, snip
comb, snip, snip.
Puckered red lips
blew kisses and
high heels clicked
through my head
between clouds of talcum
and splashes of hair tonic.
It to took me many years
to find someone I could trust ,
so many different hairstyles
colors black, blonde and rust,
but this time you surpassed yourself
that ash blondes just the job,
and to top it off
you cut the perfect bob.
All my life I have wondered,
What is a home,
A place where you are protected,
A model house from a magazine,
A comfortable environment,
Where you can sit back,
Gaze at the stars,
Human conversation caring and delightful,
Relatives who live with you,
A wonderful blessing from God,
Fashions and hairstyles respected,
Just to be yourself within the parameters of logic,
Education progressive and reverent,
Where you have a door to your house that locks.
copyright Gwen Schutz
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