Long Moustaches Poems
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As the rooster crows:
A look in the pool mirrored a perfect mop
At times of frizzy hair or defiant shaggy tresses
Ohhh the satisfaction at the sight
And yabba, dabba, doo!! echoed loud and clear
Triumphant male ego at its best!
A man’s crowning glory
Pulled, cut, brushed, curled, straightened, shaved
Lathered, gelled, creamed and pasted
Soaked in fragrant macassar oil
Invigorator, conditioning both groom and style.
Macho, gentle, sweet, daring tastes
Side-partings, medium, undercut and long
Sporting pony-tails, short back and sides
Elvis and James Dean quiffs curled kiss-me-quicks,
Punk, mohawk, flambouyant fringes
Highlights and lowlights, sprays and blow-dries!
All part and parcel of male vanity and crowning glory.
Heckles from the hen house:
As some men grow older they shed hair.
Each day they seek strands that were once there,
But skin patches widen --
Just check out Joe Biden.
Prepare to shut eyes in the bright glare.
A comb-over seems like a good plan,
But ladies don’t flock to a con man.
With 10 hairs remaining,
A “crown” they are feigning.
What happens when strands face a wind fan?
No reason for men to grow manic;
Moustaches and beards can work magic,
Diverting attention
Without the pretension
That balding is simply too tragic.
The “rug” method’s just too expensive,
Espec’ly when loss is extensive.
Like Telly Savalas,
The outcome’s not callous --
Few women find baldness offensive!
-----------------------------------------------
With special thanks to Carolyn Devonshire
with whom this fun write was written.
Dreams herein, our progeny, still birth sometimes inside,
blind and rigor twisted, formless foetuses upon
the terrace steps where innocence bled and occasionally died
screeching for salvation when every shred of hope was gone.
Yet also soared in glorious flight, monstrous span
of righteous flapping wings in the stadium sky,
drummed thunderclaps, exultant fear insurgently began
inflaming souls and lifting living spirits heaven high.
Externalised, the primal chants and streaming scarves,
the goading, cheering, praising adrenaline infusion,
the fluid rush of gameplay, of two dovetailed halves
painted on an emerald canvas with fleet of foot profusion.
In a cloud of air horn banshees and muddied leather vapour
where studded feet slap pigskin like a hated face
spins a salt and vinegar smudged result newspaper
telling tales of holy triumph or damnation and disgrace.
Abused patriotism, the easy asylum of the scoundrel cur
whose omnipresent wield of slick wet Stanley blade slashes
carves desired resurgence of the way that things once were,
for Nazi flags, stiff arm salutes and pencil black moustaches.
Yet overriding all, the team and the game, the beautiful game
and the chasm rift between each side as deep and wide as forever,
the team is all, all is the team and will always be the same
and whatever divides team from team let no man draw together.
I walked down jazz alleys with stingy cigarettes
and a head filled with typewriter dreams,
silently praying to sidewalk gods
for the inhaling of coconut rum,
Chicago and Havana,
minds heavy with thoughts of steel and uranium
in the years before cold war, red missiles,
and the rusting sickle of Russian terror,
seeing dusty men gathered outside newspaper stands
waiting and plotting, in quiet conversations about Che Guevara,
and in America, small bankers with obscene moustaches
fingered money with a capitalist fix, primarily
out of the silk lined jackets of a charading middle class,
that got stuck in first, like early model Cadillacs, blooming
in the 60's like early spring lilacs, violent purple, pink,
and the blue of acid blotter fractal brothers and Grey's
later paintings of cross-sectioned life, where Jesus was spread out
and examined in new eyes of a public embracing science and
the sub-atomic nuclear buzz, in the years before computers
and solitary confinement of plastic and lamplight, in the years
before the war on multicolored terror and human entropy,
here, the rising fist was a message, not a punchline.
1st amendment atrocities
Secondary nature
Pound for pound
They scream above holy lungs
Of righteous contradictions
As humanity continues to dry-hump “social” media,
Their sedentary psychiatrist
Judgmental lip smacks
Chapped from the arrogant vowels
They spit
Another syllabic lyric
Within our home of the “free”
Our 50 stars become 50 irrational assault rifles
In order to become bullet proofed
From infantile validation
We embrace rusty excavators
Crushing on Bones wearing red sweaters & silky moustaches
While MBAs & Bachelor Degrees
Fight in Spartan-tempered mouth-offs
If a dress is blue or gray
Donkeys & Elephants become consensual orgies
In the name of desperate prayers
But, neither will raise taxes in the name of God
For church & state are separate
Until dollar-store woven baskets made in China swoop in
During Sunday mas(k)s
Stairways to our imaginary heaven,
Its railing removed by forced epiphanies,
Replaced by “angelic” archways
Made of Kardashian silicone
And rose-tinted ascension
Yes, we can.
Yes, we did.
Yes, we fell.
We. Must. Change.
©D.J.E.
Sitting here in the room under the silver roof,
Her mind was somewhere else, flickering like a strong lightening after a heavy storm.
Her thoughts as tender as a flower were brutally shaken and torn,
As much that she couldn't think or act.
Laid numb on her bed as noise disturbed her time and again.
She couldn't believe he was gone, the man who taught her to walk,
His sharp features, his moustaches could be still felt by her.
She was reminded as of how he hugged her tightly, just to tell her it will all be okay,
And just to make her believe in God, narrated the stories of devils and angles.
And now, he was gone. He left the unending silence with the uncoverable vacuum,
The shallowness tore her apart, she thought it was just another moment.
She knew she had to stay strong, but didn't knew for how long,
She, before closing her eyes and going to bed,
Everyday she was reminded as of how long his father told her with proud "she was his glory".
And now, that moment Alas, is just another story!
OLD AND NEW 2 : BOARDROOM
Jackal preyed on dimpled dolls
smiling gold on slender wrist
nosing down a slippery path
scowling schoolboy promoted
beyond his mediocre castle
Mammals sat on polished teak
coiffed moustaches, tonged peaks
feeding unclipped grapevines
old words and wounds
eating raisin muffins
Falcon scribbled notes
watching eyes serving
newly ordained masters
legalese from a previous
age flowed from fine shifting
fingers in a cage
Overgrown thyroid sat there
his infantry lost in teeming
townships blaring transistors
interrogators of another time
peeped at a polished tiger-eye
on his seat
Minds like noisy tools
drilled atomic holes in
the boardroom table
beaded headdresses falling
from fat oozing french seams
They will learn Christmas carols
in mint retirement homes
when the table losses its legs
©GhairoDanielsPoetry1997
THE MAFIA MUSICIANS
On the sidewalk half a dozen swarthy men from Italy,
Playing foot-tapping dance music
With lots of clarinettes and violins.
Black moustaches and over-long hair
And dark fedoras at jaunty angles, with
Half-smiles all the time,
Switched from one tune to the next,
Without losing the beat.
Like stage-Italian characters, suntanned
With their black suits and Mafia hats,
They were happy to pose momentarlily
While people took snaps.
No hint of loss of rhythm -
I’m sure you know the sort
Of tune they were playing,
Very Italian, very foot-tapping
Polka-esque.
People watching showed their appreciation
By throwing coins into the many empty hats
On the sidewalks nearby.
Police eyeing them circumspectly yet closely,
Half expecting the violin cases
To contain instruments more lethal.
I Recently Found Out
Recently I found out light is
afraid of
dried figs, (figs are
fascinated by
anything square-shaped); ice block sticks are into
lounges and
cars; pastry grow facial hair and
grow pubic hair; Mr Ironic plays the
violin; Mrs Stun gun bathes in
red wine. To
hurt Mr Jeans’ feelings all you have to
do is lower your
eyebrows; pool chlorine wants to be a
cat so it can
lick itself; free moustaches can
juggle worms; eggplants have
laughing fits when
the temperature goes
below zero; brown sugar has a
better smelling ability than
dogs have; white sugar can
type 120 words per minute; lemons can dream and
narrate documentaries on
any subject; sling shots are
huge fans of
the Golden Age of
Hollywood.
Grandma Teresina Cavicchio,
best pizza fritta maker
in all of Marianna, PA.
Probably the whole world!
Her fried pizza dough, dusted
with powdered sugar,
bellissima!
Lightly browned outside,
creamy in the inside,
it was the stuff
of mouth-watering dreams.
My three sisters and I
lined up in Nonna’s kitchen, chanted,
“Pizza Fritta, good to eat-a,
give me some, it is a treat-a!”
Her apron white with snowy sugar,
her ample arms coated in flour,
she never failed to please us.
Though I’ll never have Nonna’s
pizza fritta again,
I picture St. Peter and the angels,
powdered sugar moustaches,
greasy lips and beatific smiles,
gathering round Nonna.
"Pizza fritta, good to eat-a,
give us some, a heavenly treat-a."
He captured childhood, never let it go,
Sidestepped the potholes of “growing up”
Never forgot that ice cream is better when shared
Popsicles meant to be broken in two
Throwing stones in the pond an avocation
Skipping them….an art
He still slurps his soup as taste has consequences
Milk moustaches, especially chocolate, an art form
He still wipes his hands on his pants
Will pet a wet dog, tell “that” joke again
Wear that favorite frayed flannel
Flirt with the cashier at the super market
He will make fun of everything and everyone
And sometimes keep it to himself
More often though he leaves them shaking their heads
Wondering…”when will he ever grow up”
He knows, that they know, the answer
Probably never…if we’re lucky