Long Barbershop Poems
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Welcome to my barber shop,
Owned by the late Puddin' Pop.
That's my dad's picture in the frame:
Let me tell you how he earned his nickname.
Back in the summer of 1984,
My mom bought my sister and me to the store.
There was a barber shop next door,
And here's my pop. His name was William Moore.
I'm Calvin, his son; Anne is his wife;
Penny is my sister who loves Barney Fife.
"Hey, everyone," my dad said with a smile.
"I haven't seen you guys in a long while.
I just opened up my shop today:
What would you like? Let's get started right away."
My mom said, "You see this full head of hair?
Calvin looks like an afro grizzly bear.
He only needs a shape up and a little off the top."
But I was a little nervous and yelled, "No! STOP!
I don't look like no grizzly bear,
And there's no way you're getting me in that chair!"
So Mom and Dad thought of a scheme
To convince me to look fresh and clean.
Mom reached in the bag that was brought from the store.
What did she take out? I had to explore.
It was chocolate and vanilla pudding pops from Jell-O!
My sister and I were like, "HELLO!"
"Now son," said dad, "you don't need to fear.
Your mom, sister, and I are right here.
But if you want this frozen treat,
Stop your bawling and get your booty in that seat!"
My hair had to go. I didn't have a choice,
But to obey my father's strong baritone voice.
After 15 minutes, it wasn't so bad:
I received my first haircut from my dear old dad.
My mom paid $10 and gave me my dessert;
I was so happy, even with the stains on my shirt.
For almost 15 years, we've been going over there
To get rid of my so-called "afro grizzly bear hair".
Sadly, my Puddin' Pop passed away.
But his barber shop is still standing today.
There's been a minor change since he passed on:
Now it's a barber shop and a beauty salon.
My sister and I own both of these places
And loves the smiles on our customers' faces.
Every time we open our shops for the crowd,
I know in my heart that we've done our dad proud.
That's the story of this awesome barber shop.
Thanks for everything, Puddin' Pop.
Last night's storm
has left its artwork on the beach,
a postmodernist exhibition
of brown seaweed strewn in clumps
like hair on a barbershop floor,
broken seashells
and a fallen rainbow of plastics
strung out along the shore
where now an exhausted sea
licks the leftovers of a meal.
Chaos has been distilled down
to washed up artifacts
and red bottle caps, drinking straws
and spoons buried deep inside a ball
of yellow twine. I cannot make
much sense of what is on display
or glean from this haphazard art
a hint of meaning
other than in its making.
All seems uncoupled, specimens
torn from lonely souls, bits
and pieces coughed up
out of the exhaust of a huge machine
whose pistons pump and drive
a spinning wheel that has no purpose.
I pick up a plastic sandal
and wonder whose foot
it once belonged to, then put it back
and walk home
alone.
It was day one in August- I turned eight years old
and visiting my grandparents awhile.
I called them Nonna and Nonno;
with them, I loved to stay.
My Nonna had just finished braiding my long hair;
again I said, "these braids- I truly hate!"
As we so often did, Nonno and I head straight
to take a walk and breathe in the fresh air
at a small park across the way.
But, there, we did not go.
I looked at him and he looked back with a big smile.
Into his old-time barbershop, we strolled.
Needless to say, excitement filled me uncontrolled!
My hair was soon to be a brand new style!
Like magic, braids fell down below-
new me- my eighth birthday!
At first, my Mom beheld me with an angry stare-
but, then was thankful- I indeed looked great!
December 27, 2020
Contest: A Little Memory - My Invented Form
Sponsor: Constance La France
Rhyme Pattern ABCDEF FEDCBA ABCDEF
Syllables Per Verse: 12/10/8/6/12/10
My earliest recollection was being placed in a Coca Cola cooler in a Barbershop in Virginiatown Ontario. I heard the sound of the Nickle being placed in the coin slot. Then an eager little boy opened the top and peered in with twinkling blue eyes. I wondered which one of us he would choose? His tiny little hand reached towards me and guided me through a metal maze and yanked me out. He popped my top with the opener on the side of the Red machine. I wonder if that is how I got the name "Soda Pop". He held me close to his chest brought me over to his chair and placed me beside a stack of comics. I watched as he jumped up gleefully onto his chair.
He grabbed me with his two little hands and put me up to his mouth. My orange fizziness passed over his lips, onto his tongue and then down his throat. A big toothy smile and an orange coated tongue. I felt his little tummy bursting until a big burp and a giggle gave him relief. Even after my orange had been consumed he seemed to enjoy the texture of my glass as he rotated me in his hands. I remember him turning me upside down and peering at the room through my base. He liked the way I played with the light. When he was done he placed me in a paper bag with his comics to take me home.
To be continued...
THE BARBERSHOP QUARTET
The barbershop quartet, mustache brushes in hand.
A Capella joviality, with torquing wrists, snapping fingers.
Bristles foaming, silky white and smooth, voices grand.
Dapper in their pinstripe suits, hats — Delmonico brand.
Sweet Adeline, drawn out. My Adeline — peaks, lingers.
The barbershop quartet, mustache brushes in hand.
Choreography matchless with their sugar-cane wands.
One by one they tap and score with lighthearted zingers.
Bristles foaming, silky white and smooth, voices grand.
Bass, lead, baritone and tenor glitz altogether stand,
Impressing the country stage — these polished singers.
The barbershop quartet, mustache brushes in hand.
Differences overlooked, blend of ringing chords command.
Friendship in angelic voice, grooming of youthful wingers.*
Bristles foaming, silky white and smooth, voices grand.
Brothers in harmony, gathering precious social sand.
Through time, the dusty chair spins and memories linger.
The barbershop quartet, mustache brushes in hand —
Bristles foaming, silky white and smooth, voices grand.
4/25/2018
*wingers - I am using to describe the new set of kids who
practice “wing it”
Sweet Adeline written by Richard Gerard
.
go ahead
laugh
but i wuz
i wuz born in prison
e-block
never mind
at 3
i wuz sent to juvie
for stealing
3 bubble gum machines
front two hardware
and one barbershop
fronts
they caught me pulling
my red
Radio Flyer
with the gadgets
in tow
at 18 they sent me
up state
for strong armed
bank robbery
2-5
out in 3
at 26
back to population
bank robbery
5yearz
32
fci
fled state in pursuit
armed robbery
bubble gum
machine factory
25 yearz
out 16
thuh
good behavior thingy
i'm think'n about run'n fo
i meant for
yes i did
hm
Congress
*y'all know this iz the double entendre
the "fancy flights" 1) the bubble gum heists in my
"red Radio Flyer" wagon; fleeing the scene and fleeing
capture, armed robbery"bubble gum machine factory"
the "fancy flights" 2) i made it up(artistic license ') shoot me ;)
She wore a pink ribbon,
her chocolate hair flowing,
a dress of the summertime kind
The morning was waiting,
she longed to be sharing,
the things rolling round in her mind
She waved to a daisy,
in Mister Green's garden,
the wind down the avenue blew
Her smile like springtime,
with daffodils dancing,
it seemed like a fun thing to do
She spun in a circle,
like leaves from the oak tree,
when fall sent them off to the ground
A butterfly followed,
past barbershop checkers,
she was the best friend it had found
A nice early Thursday,
with lilac aromas,
though one thing was missing its part
She longed for the romance,
she read in a novel,
a big empty hole in her heart
When there on the sidewalk,
her shadow did mingle,
he stood with his bubblegum blown
It popped, oh so sticky,
she couldn't help laughing,
she wished he was someone she'd known
He looked at her beauty
and laughed along with her,
his dimples sent her pulse a 'spin
He asked, "Can I buy you,
some fries and a soda,
right here at the Sunflower Inn?"
She noticed the postman,
he winked and he nodded,
her smile she just could not hide
She said, "I would like that,"
he held the door open,
the two of them then went inside
The rest of this poem,
has a happy ending,
I know that this statement is true
These two, they just passed me,
while strolling the sidewalk,
when I heard him say, "I love you."
Somewhere between
stretch marks on my voice
and the lurch of wanting,
I left the comb behind.
Let wind speak.
Let the cowlick rise
as shrine.
Some revolts come hushed—
no banners, no drums.
Only the refusal
to be pressed smooth.
Mine was spiral,
tender.
Unyielding.
In photographs—
always at the edge,
eyes doubting the lens,
halfway posed
between certain
and unsettled.
They named me Alfalfa—
after a rerun on Channel 12,
my crown a stubborn herald,
slanted with knowledge
I was too young to carry.
It whispered
to wind and window alike: go.
Mother’s hands smoothed it—
Blue Magic thick on her palms.
The brush grumbled in the bowl.
“What kind of boy’s hair does that?”
I didn’t answer.
What language holds defiance
that sprouts from the scalp,
a swirl refusing compliance?
No shadow held me.
Not in the barbershop glass,
nor beside the field
where fathers raised their voices
like flags of demand.
Manhood—a thing trimmed,
gripped, endured.
What I recall most:
the pause before questions,
heavy as drapery.
Hands—mine,
uncertain of posture.
Too much wave.
Too much reach.
They warned:
keep your hands plain.
Fists, if needed.
Folded, if God called.
Manhood, they said, came in parts:
a belt’s cold buckle,
a coach’s growl,
a girl’s number smudged
on math-paper margins.
I declined the offering.
Marked my own rituals—
in glances,
in beads of refusal
rolling off strings
never meant for amen.
The barbershop—
each time, a quiet chapel.
Men in capes awaiting
judgment or absolution.
But I kept the tangle.
My minor crown.
The map drawn by refusal.
Each coil: a quiet psalm.
Now—
I walk, not straighter,
just truer.
A boy turned man
by the long arc of detour—
learning joy lives
along roads that curve away
from expectation.
My song goes like this
time after time I read bedtime stories
back then there were no worries
simple kids go to the store
big momma did her floors
pops cut all the boys hair
at the barbershop
snowballs in the summer time
wind mills in the wind
Italian ices on 18th street
Chicago style hotdogs
jew town polishes
Greek town old town
new town uptown
oh Lincoln park zoo
dreams of being the first black
Supreme Court Justice
I sing my song only after
the blues stopped playing
on Maxwell street
Written by Mrs Yolanda Joy Nicholsen
Written by Yolanda Joy Nicholsen
May 14th 2004 right before my
sons graduation Fort Myers Florida
My Sons Graduation Day
FOND MEMORIES GROWING UP
HEARING THE BLUES
ON MAXWELL STREET
CHICAGO
Old Mr. Nicholson
totters across the town square
to the barbershop where
Clive has cut his hair
for the last forty years or so
Not hardly needing
even a trim
but pretending
he has a reason besides
the gossip waiting within
Inside, the shop smells like hair tonic
shaving cream and old leather
and the only noticeable things
that Clive's changed
in the last forty years
are the calendar, magazines
and gumball machine
Tall and gaunt, Clive stoops and
shuffles around the shop
a bit slow and shaky, but still
the cheapest and best around
as he drawls out the latest
scuttlebutt from all over town
Harry Van Hoorn leans
sideways in the old barber chair
hanging on every word like an old hound
ears flapping in the breeze
making an odd squinchy face as he
holds back a sneeze
bits of loose hair tickling his nose
While old Arnie Bruner
broods in the corner
his usual sour-faced self
like an old prune
all wrinkled and dried up
without a single good thing to say
“Well, hello Ed!” Clive stops and says
as Mr. Nicholson sidles in
he amiably waves his comb in the air
continuing to work on Harry's hair
thoroughly ignored as he
continues to speak
“Long time, no see!” Harry sings out
even though they were both
in here just last week
“Hiya Harry!” Mr. Nicholson says
in his high-pitched little whine
“Have you heard about-”
“Oh wait, lemme guess-” Arnie breaks in
in his growly bass
“...it's about that place... next door to-”
“Jim and Grace” Harry cuts in
“No, I was going to say-”
Mr. Nicholson chirps
a bit snappily
“It must be about Jenny Mae...”
Harry chortles gleefully
“No, it's gotta be about Faye!-”
Arnie belts out grumpily
Meanwhile, they're missing
all the scorching details
of the greatest scandal
as Clive croons on
amid the din
of his gabby, blabby customers
each desperate
to get a word in
Back and forth, in and out
with bickers and shouts
hums, warbles, trills, groans
solos and accidental duets
their crazy cacophony has become
a funny (albeit gossipy) kind
of barbershop quartet!