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.
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?
The house is boiled cabbage
goose fat, gizzard stew, and beets.
Windows steam and simmer,
you can write your name on the glass
winter or summer.
If you can live among rutabaga
or borscht; if pickled eggs haunt your palate
then this house becomes air in your lungs.
The landlady was Polish or Russian;
she spoke with a burly churlish tongue,
she moved like a Turk, her walking cane
was a scimitar. She supped a tarry tea
from a Serbian samovar.
We shared a toilet with a slim man
who was slinky and still in the closet,
he would saucily wink over strong drink.
His lips were rosy not pink. He washed
argyle socks in the kitchen sink.
There were others, they left early
riding pushbikes into the grey streets.
The lady groused, patrolled perimeters,
barged prying hands into private matters.
Hairclips and rubber bands fell from her curlers
as forewarnings and threats.
The Bulgarian or Croatian crone
had broad bad hips and liked me not
for back then
I used a substance to ease my mind.
I would smoke in the shared toilet
leaning my thin mouth through
a small slanty window,
she absolutely knew, and threw
passing daggers
with tightly curled Estonian lips.
We stayed like that for months
until the city regurgitated our lives
once more.
Once more seeking low rent rooms,
from those cosmopolitan guardians
of small city spaces.
What if I have to live again—
Reborn in the bone-thin hush of grief,
A jawbone grinding air,
My love trailing like a torn dress through corridors
Of someone else's dreams.
You cheated with a mirror.
I saw you smiling at your double,
Kissing her with the lips you pressed
To my forehead after midnight sobs.
How dare you touch her with my name in your mouth?
I held trauma like a child—
Rocked it, fed it milkless mornings.
It grew teeth. It learned your scent.
Now it prowls the house, breaking teacups
And whispering, “He never loved you.”
Unreturned love is a feathered god—
It flutters near the ceiling fan,
Then drops, headless, to the floor.
You never wrote back. Your silence
Was a continent. I crossed it barefoot.
Each night I waited—candlelit,
A saint in curlers, lipstick bleeding.
Time, the drunk uncle, sat beside me,
Rattling his keys, leering,
Telling me you'd never come home.
The sea was shallow. It mocked me.
I went in to drown but hit my knees.
Even death denied me the depth.
Before I leave this to you—
My wrists, my notebooks, my impossible verbs—
Know this: the trees are dead.
The bushes are brown. The wind
Has given up on speech.
I was blind, yes,
But now I choose to look away.
>>>>>>>>> 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)
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.
Unsingle, disengaged from others
In that house squared off suburban
On the cul de sac circle dead end street
The one with a picket fence unattended by white
As it had never been painted
Sweetie, a witch with a head full of curlers
Frowns, wearing her green mask makeup
To look pretty for her man, her Mr. Right
Just off a road called Twilight Zone Massacre
A bald person who calls himself husband
Has a head full of twisted thoughts as he is lost
Eyes glare out from windows void of light
A creature called wife stirs up a cauldron
Is it soup or poison tonight
She must look pretty for her man
If he is late there is no saying
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
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!
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!)
I am playing with mommy’s make up
While she’s tired and putting her feet up
I’m supposed to be having rest too
But face painting’s a fun thing to do.
Mommy placed the curlers in my hair
She tells me it gives me added flair
So I’m painting my face, as mom does
Hoping it makes her happy heart buzz.
My hair will become curly whirly
And my face decidedly girly
With my lips covered in red lipstick
Blusher on my cheeks, and green eyelids.
Mommy is bound to have a surprise
When she wakes up and opens her eyes
I'm sure she'll say that I look charming
Don't know what she means by self harming.