Long Curlers Poems
Long Curlers Poems. Below are the most popular long Curlers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Curlers poems by poem length and keyword.
Day one out of the womb – had a full crop of hair,
black like my daddy’s (it later went more fair).
Early childhood – Mom kept my brown hair short
because I’d twist it into knots. What a silly sport.
Peanut butter and some gum in my hair might stick.
Never a long hair style could I ever pick.
Pre-teen years – at last I saw my dark hair grow.
Pony tails and pig tails were ways my hair might show.
Junior High, late 60’s, hair piled high like a hive.
A wonder that no bumble bees were seen in there alive.
My hair was also parted always on one side.
I’d wear curlers in a store. Did I have no pride?
High school days – hair longer. In boring math at school,
I sat there pulling off split ends. Must have looked a fool!
College days – used a cheap product from the store.
“Sun-In” gave me reddish-blonde. I used it four times more.
The 80’s – got a perm. The curls were tight. Had oodles.
Now I can have sympathy for cockapoos and poodles.
90’s – used extensions. A lot of folks I fooled.
Strawberry blonde seemed to be the color then that ruled.
New century. New color. My hair was very blonde.
There were two guys in a tram in Rio that I conned.
My friend who looked American knew every word they stated.
About my natural color those guys in Portugese debated.
They finally decided my blonde was natural.
I got a kick out of those young fellows’ folderol.
Later on, my hair got over-bleached. I showered, and
lots of strands of it crumbled right into my hand.
After that, while growing out dark roots about two years,
I wore a wig until uncolored hair went past my ears.
A co-worker , not knowing I wore a wig at school,
told me that my hair had never looked so cool!
By 2010, my hair was in a rut.
Only one side of it grew, so I’d always get it cut.
Turned 60 and got cancer. Ate better to be stronger.
Miraculously my hair AND nails grew a whole lot longer.
Since then till now, my daughter’s been my dear beautician.
She keeps the gray away and my hair in good condition.
Were my hair not dyed, salt and pepper it would be.
I love my gold-like hair, thick, and long and wavy.
Some people think a woman of my age should wear a shorter “do.”
Decades it took to get this look, so NO (and I’ll keep my cute bangs too!)
Dear Santa, it’s Looby Loo, I’m still here
It’s a miracle, have been ill all year
I don’t want you to forget to stop by
As this old gal would then break down and cry.
I need decent bloomers, mine are in holes
And us oldies truly do feel the cold
A box of curlers, the soft spongy type
As the old un’s wake me up in the night.
I’d like a dressing gown, size twenty four
I can’t do mine up, it don’t fit no more
Some new fluffy slippers to match it too
Mine are worn out, so I need them it’s true.
I may be old, but I like to look nice
Lipstick and face powder would see me right
Oh, some perfume too as mine has run dry
I wish to smell sweet when passing folk by.
Walking isn’t easy for me these days
A four wheeled walker would make me feel brave
I’d be most grateful if all this I get
I’m sure I will, as you are the best yet.
Try not to wake me as I needs my sleep
I’ll leave you some wine and mince pies to eat
Slam the door shut when you leave Santa please
I don’t want my presents stolen by thieves.
Bless you dear Santa for all that you do
Merry Christmas and may the Lord bless you
Looby Loo.
October is Dancing
she is a trap of joy for a mark
to those tunes tapping on line
stepping out in her black
before the white for a remark
for the dance shoes redefine
the effect of all the months lack
in the meantime at kitchen advancing
Old and young months were watchin' her
as she prance in peaceful steps on the dance floor
so cool and sizzling to hear up the need to confer
for fire to keep warm the weather and not burn for war
the joy and courage the months have in the year
which is the interest of their purpose counting days
to number moments and minutes of cheer
and the exposure and enrichment appraise
Serious music from funny act
labels young minds mischievous youths
how the hell's rain labels heaven's dews fire
and its own the curlers pure desire
that was a just lie tied up as a fact
to keep away from blowing hearts, truths
with which head for a new place sit upon
redesigned of little difference in old baker's apron
Knock knows knocks knotting knowledge
while whistles whisper whim whacking
villagers' vaults vulnerably via villains
bragging beyond boasting bossy bell
flooded flowers faith flying flaws
hiring hasty hatred healing headlines
retiring reunion's rights relieved repulse
sitting soothing stresses safe separately
Now the dance floor is a bouncing stillness
on a muting lousy sounds
jumping to dance but go off
whenever trials are seen as illness
death tricks set its hounds
that the hade may laugh
how we wish a new Odùduwà
but Yoruba is stumping on ìwà
Our shoes now become red
R.I.P to those bloods shed
The heroes efforts are seen
Remain forever in our green
The lights that can go dim
The lines and stanza in the hymn
May these effects be fruitful
Even though it's seen unlawful
Note: This poem is in memory of those that lost their lives in the peaceful protest of ENDSARS in Nigeria on 20th October, 2020. May their souls rest in peace
>>>>>>>>> She was a tappin' to rhythmic tunes...
those Mississippi blues,
step-pin' out, in her sexy...
cowgirl leather boots...
red white & blue...
we were a watchin' her a prancin',
all through her kitchen, dancin'...
for she was so - hot & sizzlin'...
hummin' to those Mississippi tunes...
funny curlers too, upon...
her head-for a new - Hair dew,
she was, a swirlin'-in that bakers apron,
in her kitchen dancin' while...
,
her head...still a bobbin' to...
those Mississip-pi blues,
'Pots were a knockin'...
Grandma a sipin' & sockin' down all she brews,
while that kettle there was whistlin',
in har-mo-ny, with them good ol'e...
good ol'e...miss-is-SIP-pi moves,
that floor there, was a bouncin'
holdin' hands we were a jumpin',
while Grandma's feet were a stompin',
in her new...'New - Cowgirl' - sexy - fancy
leather - red, white, & blue Mississip-pi boots
(yip pee)
Deanna likes her old fashion pink plastic snap curlers.
Has brought them to Ethyl at the beauty shop since 1968.
Hair has survived fifty-one years of the same style
Unfortunately, when she gets there she is told Ethyl has passed.
She trusts none of these other whippersnappers.
What would they know about pink snap curlers?
She doubts they could pop them together, let alone brush her out.
Teasing is probably something they have never been taught.
What about the special cans of hairspray Ethyl keeps for her?
“I can do it, Miss Deanna,” one of the young ones says.
She shakes her head sadly.
She did not even get here until about twenty-five years ago.
What would she know about it?
She leaves clutching her pink snap curlers, angry at Ethyl for dying.
This is her third bad experience this week.
What is up with all these seventy year olds?
What is this need they have to die?
Company's coming, must clean house
Pretend it's immaculate every day
Why must we put on airs for our visitors
Just show 'em our every day way
It's all a big front this illusion we create
It's never gonna be the real us
Down to earth folks, we know who we are
Never want to make a big fuss
As hard as we try to ignore the norms
We succumb to the desire to be
One of those folks so we put on these airs
But it's just not my cup of tea
Maybe I should show 'em the real me
With my clothes strewn all about
Two day old cereal still sitting in the pot
Dirty dishes all over the house
Okay just kidding, Cathie wouldn't allow
Our home to be seen in that state
Rather be seen with her hair up in curlers
Than dishes with leftover cake
Company's coming must clean house
That's not us, what you see's what you get
If you're expecting us to “put on the dog”
Not a chance, on that you can bet!
© Jack Ellison 2013
Lynne is a cute girl with a calico skirt
Hanging clothes on the line, to wash off the dirt
She is observed by a young lad visiting called Bert
What is her name? He asked his loving Aunt Gert
Aunt Gert went to the window and looked to see
That girl by the clothesline? She belongs to Dolly Lee
But what is her name? Asked Bert, who wanted to know.
You cannot go out there, she would be embarrassed so.
But why? Asked Bert, as he continued to stare
Because said his auntie, Lynne has curlers in her hair
This was in the old days, when etiquette was real.
When being caught with pajamas or curlers was a big deal
She was a tappin' to the tunes...
of those Mississippi blues,
step-pin' out, in her sexy...
cowgirl leather boots, red white & blue,
We were a watchin' her a prancin',
all through the kitchen, dancin'...
for she was so - hot & sizzlin'...
hummin' to those Mississippi tunes...
Funny curlers too, upon...
her head-for a new - Hair dew,
In her kitchen dancin' while...
she was, a swirlin'-in that bakers apron,
when her head...still a bobbin' to...
those Mississip-pi blues,
'Pots were a knockin'...
Grandma a sipin' & sockin' down all she brews,
while that kettle there was whistlin',
in har-mo-ny, with them good ole...
good ole...miss-is-SIP-pi moves,'
That floor there, was a bouncin'
holdin' hands we were a jumpin',
an-a hoppin' In the kitchen, to those...
sounds ...
Where Grandma's feet were a stompin',
In her new...New - Cowgirl - sexy - fancy
leather - Red, white, & blue Mississip-pi boots ...
(yip pee)
Memories smiled from the back of my throat
Making me laugh during the funeral
Heads swiveled. Looks were given.
I was not in the front; much to my sister’s annoyance.
She glares. I wiggle a finger.
Could not help it.
Singing along with Mitch on Sunday nights.
Making donuts, Daddy is frying.
Mommy is in best mood of the week, Sunday.
Church long forgotten.
Skating in the basement, finding baby foxes.
Wearing painful pink curlers.
Slathered with Vicks.
I am smelling pumpkin pies now.
Life is coming back in waves; things long gone.
Memories caused me to burst out laughing.
Mean looks now.
I smile at them.
They do not understand; death is the beginning.
Heaven is the prize, right?
You know what the Football World Cup really needs?
Goal! Goal! Goal!
with Bigger Goals!
Another yard — another meter—
on either side of the posts.
Bigger goals mean more goals!
More goals mean better football!
Goal! Goal! Goal!
Screamers from thirty metres!
Curlers into the top corner!
Thunderbolts from halfway out.
Goal! Goal! Goal!
That's what fans want to see.
Not defensive fantasy!
Not blockers lined up at the back.
Bring on attacking football!
More goals means fairer results.
Goal! Goal! Goal!
Imagine the score in Heaven?
5–7!
8–6!
10–8!
That's what fans play mega bucks to see.
Last-minute winners!
Goal! Goal! Goal!
More skills!
More thrills
More daring!
More drama!
More football!
Goal! Goal! Goal!
It's so ridiculously easy.
Just widen the goalposts.
when nobody's looking—
out a yard... out a meter... on either side
Go for goal!
Blight the nil-all draw!
Goal! Goal! Goal! Goal! Goal!