Long Lipsticks Poems
Long Lipsticks Poems. Below are the most popular long Lipsticks by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Lipsticks poems by poem length and keyword.
I love an old movie called "Some Like It Hot"
Two guys from a jazz band, had witnessed a plot!
Their lives might expire
from gangster's gunfire
They ran like the dickens without getting shot!
They're quick to leave town, while they try to compose...
With tricks of their own, before anyone knows!
With wigs on their heads
and lipsticks of red …….
They're wearing silk undies, and new pantyhose!
They land a new job... (Not a word to the wise!),
while dressed as two chicks, as an artful disguise
But surprise takes a twist
when they cannot resist
a marriage proposal, and a boat full of lies!!
Romance in the "20's" was stranger than not!
Bootleggers and gangster's would stir up the pot
The plot only thickens
The pace of it quickens,
when they find true love on a millionaire's yacht!
_________________________________________________
3/16/18
For "Favorite Comedy Movie" contest
Sponsored by Alexis Y
To President Joe Biden
Anecdote : It is an ode to poetry, nothing personal, nothing satirical, and the ultrasound is a personal experience of further need in contemplation of my left breast, where unwanted growths gave me a huge dilemma of metaphorical islands, benign or cancerous, does not matter.
Shawna has a sharp shape , robust figurative speech
Strange, nosy, but arrogant, stern and stubborn in beauty.
Her newly wed face had a bridal glow, sunlight mystery
She is particular in her pink dresses, pink lipsticks
and in her pink stones in carved jewels.
I remembered her through the legacy of thirteen years
Hospital floors are shiny, hinting in polished and polishing epigraphs
Reasons. Limiting definitions. Wanted and fine-tuned reasons.
The soap opera in happening time on the TV screen
mounted on the higher end, had an obnoxious hetero-mixture in latency
Las Vegas casinos or improper door fixation in pious inter-courses, timely or otherwise or whatever.
Always an earned longevity in otherwise, other way, in urging other needs.
No one permit it though
The janitors in duty, or the front desk attendants
All were busy too, belonging somewhere elsewhere.
Then I realized, I was wrongly -matched in my pairs of shoes
No one spared the other control, endless saga of two edged folding.
Although, I am a success story of a substantial assimilation of homo-sapiens tribal affair.
I have two eyes, two hands and two strong feet,
Strong, sensible and rational in a rationalizing world.
In the wider sense, too.
I did not recall Shawna , it was still a cloudy aftermath, till that pausing time.
But the end time was drawing closer and closer..
In the beforehand receipt of the ultrasound , and with the post one also.
So that doctor can convert these images into information
humane information
A rusty bastard life earning generous aristocrat reason
To keep it ongoing in Shawna's impeccable life
and in mine too, with my formal prosecutions of cacophony
of falling short in paired shoes.
Therefore the sonic time can heal and deal and reveal
The eternal research question of
The supplicating feminine weep hole.
Six months with six fond memories.
1. Helped correct the official document.
2. Taugh me to learn how to download songs and save my corrupted USB. Firmware and privacy apps like Conversations, KeePass and Gajim.
3. Three wonderful trips to my favorite beaches.
4. Inspired me to get back knitting, piano and started embroideries and poem writing.
5. Putting lipsticks on the pig which I see it every early morning.
6. Shopping, healthy meals preparating and consuming.
Then came the Lunar Calendar spirit month,
An official name of the Chinese
Calendar month of ghosts and evils,
On Lunar calendar 7th day of 7th month,
After you wrote "Thank You" replied to my message
"Good morning. On behalf of Chinese culture,
Wishing you Happy valentine day.
???????????????"
You shocked me with a ghosting friendship
And a cold blooded goodbye.
They are like two beam lights that claim the stage
on a hot summer eve in the middle of a makeshift
floor parkette made of wood, varnish, and lights that aim
They are more than two American dollies dressed
in French lace and boudoir lipsticks
They are idols of the theater talking through
cables and conductive material.
The imagination of the viewers soar as they lose themselves
in the dark curtained stage, where reality has gone dormant
The only sound they hear is the tingly sounds
of unfolding fans made of feather and paper,
by the old vintage theater Madammes who cluck and gossip
in hushed tones when the first dolly gives the other dolly,
a soft kiss.
The End.
I walked down the alleyways of London
Early one edgy Friday evening.
I am a touring, curious resident, mind you.
The sun was shy and was sinking breathlessly and
With the hushed melody of frazzled fog.
I headed towards a snaky road, cobbled to fractured
Heels and hills, and stumbled upon
Oxford Street, famous for all manner of glitz
And devoted heartbreaks.
It was nearing winter, but not yet wintertime.
Autumn, hoar with age, and damp,
Was about to swallow her pride and go away —
And go the way of all flesh—
Leaving nothing behind but her gathered and swept-up
Wreaths of browned, aged, haggard leaves.
Oxford Street, the world's loudest bazaar,
A fattening roofless museum of couture
That runs on a long, broad and sinfully perfumed hall,
Peopled by men and women, ancient and modern,
Fogeys and hipsters,
Held fast to its deafening sound and picture of glossy, sexy lipsticks,
Redder than deer blood,
And assembled pieces of mascara,
So charming, so flimsy, on glass trays and wooden hooks,
Each selling much more than a fragile penny.
I inhaled and exhaled, culture dragging my feet, cloyed by
Sensations strongly adhered to by hissing smells of now and then.
I was shocked by the magic of flitting lights and fleeting senses.
Shoulders rubbed each other with shuffling, dragging gaits,
The rush needless and lacking in manners.
Should there be a fall from the height of Stevie Nicks' platform
Shoes, the grounds would rumble, ankles would dislocate, ‘HELP! '
Would be screamed beyond Beatles' decibels.
On Oxford Street, it's go your own way—beyond Fleetwood Mac.
I followed in the footsteps of only those who walked with caution.
Litters of shredded London Evening Standard smelled differently, rolled and
Spread out, reminding everyone, resident and tourist, of the
Elegance of the English alphabet, the fine fonts of printed almanacs.
The next man I stumbled upon his shoulder, a reserved newspaper
Vendor, the age of an embryo, yelled, Blimey!
Hosting my bent thorax upon his bale of hanging papers,
He asked, pulling me up with his one unfettered hand,
His breath on torture,
‘First time on Oxford Street, mate? '
‘Last, ' I mumbled.
Bright lights shining she came;
Amid cheers and proclaim;
"What a beauty!", they exclaimed;
Until the world played a little court game;
And no one here is to blame.
She went to play one midsummer’s day,
But her black skin made her a stray;
Runny nose, dusty hair, undone shoelace;
They cried, "You are different from the array so stay away".
She became her own castaway.
School, her teachers so cruel,
Thought she was from a cesspool,
With her torn clothes and parents from labour pool,
Deemed her unworthy of private school.
They shouted, "Take her out of the school, she is a fool".
Her report card, deep fiery gashes carrying calling card,
Her skin marred, her heart scarred,
With every heavy hand in her parent's backyard.
Broken toys, bad dreams, unshed tears, abandoned yard,
Her cradle became her graveyard.
She wanted to cry, no tears swell,
She wanted to shout, no words sound,
She wanted to live, no heart beat.
She fought,
She cried, she clawed,
She peeled herself a new one.
Her skin bled with every layer she peeled,
She was raw, with no one to heal.
She lost herself in the fumes of her past,
There was no lover, only losers in her cast,
Lipsticks, smoke, empty bottle and her broken heart.
As she was about to read her last page,
She understood, she was the one to set her stage,
She forgave and forgot the pains of her teenage,
She let go of her rage, didn't care about people's gage,
Broke out of society's cage and mended her broken rib cage.
Now she goes,
With scars of her past as armour, she goes,
Fighting for the cries of the people in shadows,
Beautiful words of love she will compose,
Dancing free in meadows of primrose.
As she knows,
She knows,
She knows,
There is no one she owes,
Her happiness just for their glowing prose.
Written @IIM Trichy Sanskriti 2019
On our first serious date; he grew excited
and I was primed to knock my guy off his feet.
Spending hours on the right dress, all horrid
Till a feathery wardrobe popped from the closet.
Yes! This dress will hit the roof…top-rated;
lined with plumes from neck down mid-thighs.
Upstairs, my mood claimed I must stay decorated
trying latest trends in beauty makeover,
armed with lipsticks, false lashes and gloss shaded.
The long wait made him quite frustrated
so, Mom served cream pie to ease the tension.
Forcing him to nap while I polish a vogue look,
never wore make-up, now I was fully painted.
I stepped down with new face truly elated
he woke up from my “hello”, and trembled.
Gee, I knew the male Richter scale zoomed 8!
Flaunting my hairdo, thick with mousse… inflated.
“I’m sorry, Ted, for being late, you really waited.”
He froze. He croaked, as if he saw an ostrich,
Squeezing his arm to ensure our date well handled!
“But, I can’t go, the burps; errr..the pie,” he cited.
“My tummy‘s acting up; I’m constipated!”
Vienna's Smile , You're In Candid Camera
by nette onclaud
Reality of Love Letters :
Dear society,
Stop trying to sober us up.
We’re young and bright
and beautiful and loud.
We will light up every
corner of every room
and still shine brighter
than the sun.
Stop telling us to cover up.
We will wear full black dresses
and bright red lipsticks,
And did not leave lip-stains all over
your precious little world
and look so good doing it
that you’ll have to look away.
Stop telling us to slow down.
We live and love with so much
power and strength that we
cannot stop for you
or anyone, for that matter.
Every day is our day
and the world, our oyster.
Stop telling us we’re useless.
One day, we’re going to run the world
for you; going to be soldiers, doctors, engineers
Scientists , writers, artists, speakers of the truth
and the truth is that we’re alive
and strong and here, and
you cannot control us.
Love is but a four letter word
flowing off the tip of my tongue
in just one syllable
an el, an oh, a vee, an ee
Love is but a four letter word
muttered constantly but rarely understood
and even more rarely experienced
unfortunately
Love is but a four letter word
and life is just the same
but one without the other,
would simply be a shame
By Miss Aliza Kashmala Kiran
LUCKY MAY
May, May is welcome
And by these roads, these lanes
Young people come to home
To sing to my sisters.
What pretty they are
With her golden hair
And coloured lassos
And my mother combing them
To disentangle it.
That is their faces
What face so bright¡
Their lips, what loveliness¡
Painted with lipsticks
Where the same Cupid
A Kiss plant.
Their eyes, waht pretty and lovely¡
As star lighting the same Sky.
Their snub noses
(I wish I could to have them¡)
Silver twists are
That none of the jeweller
Knows draw
Only mother Daniela
As their ivory teeth
And their two little bust
Behind their white blouses
As two early lemons
With a dress of virgin
With brads in its shorts
Straight to the point
Axle of dancing and music
Moving their nice legs
And their agile feet.
And Me, now, an injured angel
With all my features as seraph
Imploring to our mother
That she plays a May with me
Dressing me as my sisters
With Rosemary flowers
With legominous flowers
Puting in my hand
A palm of Sun and Moon
As my lovely sisters
Because I want to dress as a little girl
And don’t want to be more
The Little man of the home
In the Lucky May.
Would I change from a girl, and give up all my curls?
Would I quit wearing dresses, stop paying hairdressers?
Change places with him? Be a “he”, not a “she”?
Be a guy? Would I buy it?…For awhile I might try it!
I’d rise in the morning, shave off my stubble
Put on some clothes, no need for much trouble,
No lipsticks, or makeup, no blushes, nor creams.
What should I wear?….Just a shirt that is clean
I would wiggle my toes, discard panty hose!
Buy me some boots, holler and hoot
Own handyman tools, love my Lazyboy throne
Where I'll watch all the games, claim the remote
If I want to be cool, cigars too, I’ll smoke!
I could slurp eating soup,
then burp like a guy, and wear a toupee, unless I go gray!
If there’s gray at my temples, distinguished, ….how simple!!
Instead of Miss Clairol, I'll use a Gillette
Hold in my belly, and puff out my chest
Whistle, and flirt, at young girls in short skirts!
I would eat steak and fries and a big piece of pie!
Not stress over size, of my hips or my thighs!
I won’t drink tea so dainty, out of cups filled half empty
No tantrums or tears, just a beer with the guys!
Start a fight just to try it, get a punch in the eye!
If I pout, they won’t buy it, if the girl in me cries out!
Well, I gave it a whirl…I was a guy in my dreams
A dream that I had? Or a nightmare gone bad?
I’m glad I'm awake..and the switch I WON'T make!!
I woke up as a girl, it's not as bad as it seemed!
(Apologies to all the fine gentlemen out there!)
--------------------------------------------------------------------------