Long Coiffured Poems
Long Coiffured Poems. Below are the most popular long Coiffured by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Coiffured poems by poem length and keyword.
She breezed into the hardware store in a cloud of Chanel No. 5. With her coiffured hair and upper-class accent she was not the usual type of customer that we were accustomed to.
“Can I help you madam” I asked
“I want some sex” she replied
I was somewhat taken aback
I’m sorry madam, I said, but this is not the type of establishment that provides ‘sex’
“My neighbour says I can get excellent sex here” she retorted “and I want sex right now!” She exclaimed
At this stage I was feeling a little uncomfortable but I had to remember that the customer is always right
The owner’s son mends sewing machines I told her, and he gives them a good service and oils their squeaking parts, but I don't think ‘sex’ is part of his usual service
"NO! NO! NO!" you stupid girl she spat
"I want good strong ‘sex’, you know the thing …black plastic sex to put my garden rubbish in"
It was then that the penny finally dropped and blushing scarlet I lead her to the area where the black rubbish sacks were kept.
Total fiction write!
N/A in Premier Contest No 15 Sponsored by Skat A - judged on 1/29/18
Submitted to January stunner 2018
Sponsored by Line Gautheir
07-10-17
Today is April 1st. Transit strike.
Mayor Koch accepting the fact. Myself,
far from crisis central, in North
Manhattan, measuring the temperature
of my apartment. In the sun it is
warm. The crows have returned again
for Spring.
Today life and the city are o.k. Watching
cat in the morning sun. Drinking tea.
My 1300 dollars will melt like summer
snow, but in the meantime, like samurai
I do not show my fear. I remain still
as on the subway and prepared to fight.
I am sitting under the emergency brake
when a coiffured Latin woman rushes aboard.
The doors close but she decides she wants
out. She bangs on the door as the train begins
to move. I see it happen on her face,
she finds the red cord and pulls,
no hesitation.
Maybe someone's hand or foot was caught
in the door. Maybe she's just selfish and
impetuous, got on the uptown not the downtown
side. Maybe the friends she could have
been with didn't get aboard. Whatever
her reason, she acted and the train obeyed.
Some of the passengers sit through the
whole thing, some of us stand. Myself,
I stand, look for the hand caught in the door.
Later, walk home through the pouring rain.
Today is April 1st. Transit strike.
Sky blue, temperatures mild. Democracy
is great.
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
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
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
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.
We are often sold it is cricket’s true home
The gold tapestry we toast hallowed tome
Legends ghost last post told free to roam
Groundsmen boast on outfield wield a comb
Host should do a search on Google chrome
Would yield the strip is most about the loam
Frippery and filigree are so suitably kitsch
Coiffured rest of ground then got a stitch?
Eating kedgeree no pedigree critics snitch
Pundits pounce the bounce does bewitch
Batters flounce in tatters is a serious hitch
Not a titch moves alot watch them twitch
Trounce the culprits it is time for a switch
Not in pulpits being a bit*h MCC’s so rich
Scratch fans itch give us a Test match pitch
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!
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
Used to be we'd pay to see freaks on the carnival way.
Now, for free at the mall we can see some most every day!
Kids (and adults) with tattoos, purple hair, nose and eyebrow rings,
Navel rings, tongue studs and other self-mutilating things!
Now, of course, we didn't do such things six decades ago!
Our parents would have disowned us - besides we had no dough!
Sure, guys wore zoot suits with baggy pants and chain.
I just can't comprehend today's modes, they seem so arcane!
Gals wore battered saddle shoes and one of Dad's old shirts,
With tails flapping in the breeze over their poodle skirts!
They wore bras (or so I'm told), hair coiffured with bangs,
They didn't bare their navels and hang out with rowdy gangs!
It's hard to discern who is who when viewing them from the aft.
Two long-haired kids, holding hands, and acting rather daft!
Is it the "he" on the right or is "he" the one on the left?
It's none of my concern, tho' it does leave my curiosity bereft!
I suppose it's all the rage to let the kids do their thing,
While they're young and carefree, let them have their fling.
I'll roll my eyes and shake my head, looking on aghast,
Wondering what's next after these current fads have passed!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)