Long Ponytails Poems
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January 24th, 2023 Hair washing heralds huge happening
Hark….the herald angels sing, and twitter
for mass communication
mediums stop the presses
when I, a regular schlemiel
take shampoo to mine matted mass mop
(no less than once a week)
of straggly follicles, and commence
to dispense with the heady eco system
viz rare crop of flora and fauna
(some rank as endangered species)
rub and band together
to scratch envy of
flaky key neigh bring ponytails
and create quite an niche,
and where also can be found
lousy knit wit vendors ready to scalp
and give shaft to razor sharp purveyors,
who mane lee scout out available
head and shoulder room to nap
without a stir, tub bed down
(praying Holy Scott no wash out
nor Harris mint occurs),
or burrow vis a vis,
where subcutaneous porous droplet size
watership down pieces
of prime residence found
counting one mister comb lee
bald bold faced realtor
amidst competing rival
bulb buss Edward scissorhands
(with knot to heavy a price toupee)
affianced to rapunzel,
whom he sheared split ends
as her barber of civil,
one dapper dander ruff dude to offer
lice cent shuss insects a tonsured
cut above other stylish habitués
preferring to fraternize,
glad-hand, and hobnob
amidst a cluster of big wigs
housed by yours truly - Samson
in gleaming puffy pompadour
pads tightly secured
with the best dreadlocks,
which harum-scarum
green barrettes serve
as first line of rinse able defense
IdentityGuard (with franchisee
Bob O Link averse to split hairs, but fierce
as a Mohawk and ring leader
to protect any curl of mine)
waving away intruders,
who if insist tubby persistent
and tangle with fate
cannot expect camaraderie
from buzz cutting crew i.e. the fuzz
to give expletive filled lathering,
severe shame poo wing subjugation
plus an up braiding experience),
and teach stragglers
they will suffer
a real perm in hint bang up job
if they brazenly brush
against brylcreem of the crop
rooted as rightful heirs
(hairs) of tousled doo mane,
thus concludes my tail.
Postscript: Yours truly
an aging long haired
seventh generation pencil neck geek
finds ultra joy when
volunteering for kitchen duty,
hence imagine the hypothetical picture
portraying Geico caveman
mimicking pseudo dawn of humanity.
Ponytails and blue jeans
Sat at Papaw's knee,
Watching as he whittled
On old branches from a tree.
And while he talked of cowboys
And big old Texas ranches,
He trimmed away the rough spots,
While I dreamed of pony dances.
A wild stick horse remuda
Began to run and play,
With every loving stroke,
As he peeled the bark away.
Using his "Old Timer"
And carving in my brand,
The best that he could find
And cut and shape with his own hand.
Now, each one of them was special,
And I felt I was too,
As they kicked up dust behind
This cowgirl buckaroo.
With reins of pink hair ribbon,
Shoe strings and baling twine,
There was "Buckin' Birch" and "Oakie,"
And "Ole Sticky" made of pine,
"Sassafras," and "Blackjack,"
"Willow," "Blaze," and "Scat,"
I never did corral 'em --
I just left 'em where they sat.
But next mornin', on the front porch,
'stead of roamin' wild and free,
They'd found their hitchin' rail,
‘cause Papaw lined 'em up for me.
Along our trails together
There were many lessons learned,
Like bein' a cowboy through and through
Is something that you earn
We'd partner up together,
And team up in cahoots,
Once he defied my Mama,
Bought me red cowboy boots.
And often, when I wondered
What to do on down the road,
He'd always tell me, "little girl,
When you get there you will know,"
Sometimes you have to let things go,
Sometimes you stand and fight,
And anything worth doin',
Is still worth doin' right.
With my wild stick horse remuda,
We rode the range for miles,
I knew I'd won my Papaw's heart
By the way he'd laugh and smile,
I still have his sweat-stained Stetson,
His boots, and his old knife,
Sometimes I take them out
Just to measure up my life.
And hold him closer to my heart,
And know I have to try,
To live up to the honor
Of the wonder-days gone by.
On my stick horse remuda,
I learned the cowboy way,
I’d give up everything I own
To ride with him today.
My wild stick horse remuda
Was quite the varied band,
Born and bred with me in mind
And trained by his own hand.
I’m longing for the legends,
And the way we used to roam,
With my wild stick horse remuda,
And the man that we called "Home."
I used to be that girl being disrespectful, wishing that someone would pay me some attention. Waiting at my mom’s job, not knowing I needed my father; Mistaking that need with my friends’ father on my side. Bringing home good grades and making momma proud. Seeing her smile made me smile, but at the same time the truth was I hurt her by being grown, but it was addictive. I thought I was cute, my shirt hanging out, small hoop earrings, and my small little ponytails. Wishing I wasn’t standing with a troubled face & looking scared, but I knew I couldn’t hide it. God said disrespectful kids’ days are shortened, now that guilt stirring inside; - lord knows he told the truth.
Surprised now! But who could tell me then I’m not ready for sex, cause now I’m 15, with a permit, school all week, upward bound every Monday, and a boyfriend beside me. My little sisters are here and they’re expecting me to behave properly and lead them on. I’m modeling how to be! They’re modeling after me, inside all I do is cry and complain cause we are products of a failing generation. If it happen that’s life – if it did, forget it! We’re the royal loose family – as good as family matters.
As good as it ever get – cause now I’m up in high school. A good girl gone scared: hiding it behind her laughs. How I make them lie! How he looks in my eyes. Stupid decisions: teachers desensitized. I’m grown now, but all I really am is a teen. I need a way to ease my pain without nicotine.
I need a way to raise my image up so I shine. And now I’m hiding at the skating rank – group of girls looking for me! Follow me to the fastest way to NO where! I’m bout to try and be the queen and act like I don’t care. They recognize me I walk slowly, my eyes an evil glare. I give them all this hate inside - act like its out of NO where! Its crazy, now I know where. I’m guessing I always did (see yourself teaching) its hard to try and be an adult as a young kid. And all the goodness I live, hard to believe that I did… Its hard to try and be an adult as a young kid!
Release the shelter of bare feet,
rhinestones on big toes sparkle.
The tentacle-shine of sunwheat
on the scrapyard-swig of river.
Like a sunflower, the mudlark
shuts her eyes, complexion
surrenders to the sun’s spark
as sighs rush about cool ankles.
This lackadaisical leisure lost
to the whimsical call of wings.
Her playful ponderings defrost —
she ponytails long cinnamon hair.
Wonders what the silt will give up
today, muscles prepare for work out.
Long hours linger — she’s no buttercup.
The slow rustle of water into the pan.
The seersucker-mud like a baby’s first
shoe — she cannot wriggle out of them
and for this Eurekan-tub she thirsts.
A simmering giggle at her search.
Tinkering with the gold dish —
shuffling treasures in the round.
Precious stones ticklish,
the swishing sound resplendent.
Her ancestors with wagons came,
ready to obtain riches and lavish land,
in the cold-hearted chamber untame,
traded ditches and shovels for pans.
Their memories roar in loss of their eyes
in the tundra of time. What’s lost in mystery,
she hopes to find — their trinket goodbyes.
What was the cost, for it was not her life.
Perhaps a broach of a great-great aunt —
oh what pleasurable mint but repetition
of weeping, for surely the ghost would haunt
but it would be a worthwhile footprint.
Her plum-warm cheeks enjoy the dive
and swirl of her memory-seeking sojourn.
Her golden irises and vibrating fists survive
peeking into the melodic riverbed’s thoughts.
Her tail swings with ebb and flow of seconds,
like a cuckoo clock with precise repetition.
Surprised, the splash of a trout beckons —
his stock contained in this friendly wave.
Up and down all day securing finds of ugly
nails and twine, but then she finds a button.
A payday! It’s small and torn but lovely.
Eureka! a Victorian star, a sign of life.
3/30/2020
First, I was a horse,
proud, fierce, untamed.
testing the texture of one continent,
competing with the winds and tornadoes
to achieve the ultimate granular vortex,
testing the manhood of the Cheyenne,
twisting the blistering ropes of the Sioux,
defying the white man with bared, scornful teeth
and a rusty, booming cloud of contempt,
rearing up disdainful hoofs at his challenge
of a lumbering smoking iron donkey
trapped on it's molded rails.
Then, I was a plane,
lithe, lightweight, defined.
with a body DaVinci once dreamed of
and a clear canopy
of tense eyes and sweaty, twitching fingers
on the throttle.
Soaring high over another continent,
beaten down by polished black boots.
The elegant, rich roar of Rolls Royce,
The searing steel death of Browning,
clamping together to mete out
justice and liberty,
higher and faster than any swastika propellers.
Then I was a car,
with clean lines and a pure promise,
born of optimism and innovation,
first brought forth under a steel sphere of the world.
My lean, youthful frame and bristling energy
beckoned to the untamed young,
bringing elation and
the whoops of warriors
as they pony up precious pennies
to slip easily into my low slung, leather saddle
and pick their soundtrack
and flick my fresh rubber hooves
across the next horizon.
Their nubile females in splendid mating colors
ponytails wagging their eager assent
in my ever growling breeze
as I assault their narrow strips of tar.
I have thundered through untrod dust.
I have been caught only by men like Remington.
I have sailed above exploding black skies
and landed farm boys safely to their futures.
I have raced through muggy summer nights,
blaring out my rebellion to a rock and roll beat.
I am freedom in flesh and hooves
and wings and guns
and canvas tops and pinstripes.
I am what Art should be:
I am versatile.
I speak in a thousand ways
in a thousand forms.
I please the eye and thrill the soul.
I am ..ME.
What happens to all the brown-skinned girls?
Sitting on the stoop waiting for the ice cream man to come
20 plats in their hair
Turning the double dutch rope
Sitting in the middle of the classroom
You know, that one girl . . . what’s her name?
ponytails neither pony nor tail
Who aren’t allowed to wear their hair down
or sport Brand X Jeans
Who can’t wash that Diaspora right out of their hair
or erase their royal heritage
The ones that pop their gum the loudest
Run the fastest
Fight the hardest
Dream the most
Ones who don’t wear pants and go to church all day Sunday
got tattoos
wear makeup
or slide into their short skirts on the way to school
Who are picked first for the team
picked last
or never picked at all . . .
Girls - who don’t have time to hang out ‘cause they “gotta go to work!”
for their new dress
or in their old car
to pay the light bill that momma “forgot”
Girls who roll their neck
and their eyes
their hair and their hips
to the rhythms of the Congo, Bronx, or the Swats
Girls who sing in the mirror as they glue, braid and towel on that
long . . . wavy . . . hair
Who, “hate that stupid light-skinded girl” because
“she thinks she’s so cute”
or hate themselves because they think so too . . .
Some may have never had him hold their hand
call them beautiful
take them to the father/daughter dance
come to their rescue . . .
See he was
in jail/out of town/in denial/out of time
insane
to forego all the love that just one little brown-skinned girl has to give
Girls. Not little Halle, Beyonce, or J Lo
But young Angela, Carol, Michelle, and Alek
Those awe-inspiring girls who don’t yet know
that they are
Elegant, intelligent
engaging
enchanting . . .
Who don’t see themselves
On movie screens - in magazines
The eyes of the world, little boys
Their own
Who buys them a bomb pop when the ice cream man comes?
Tastes the sweet undertones buried in dark chocolate
Loves them?
Loves them for themselves
Who loves them
Loves them
Who loves
I`m not going to school
I`m not going to school today
I just want to stay in my bed
My tummy hurts and my feet are sore
And I`m getting a really sore head.
My nose is runny and I have a sore throat
And I think that I`m catching the cold
But my mum just doesn’t believe me
She says hurry and do as you’re told.
It`s my first day back since the holidays
And I’ve not had this teacher before
So I`ll say nothing fits and my shoes are too tight
And I can’t even walk out the door.
My shirt is far to itchy
And I can’t seem to do up my tie
And mum looks like she’s not going to help me
As she stands there and lets out a sigh.
But I’ve got hair like a grizzly bear
It sticks up all over the place
My ponytails loose and I’ve no time for braids
And I can’t even tie my own lace.
I`m not going to school today
I have to sit next to the boys
They`re pushing and shoving and talking to much
And I can’t concentrate for the noise.
They chase us all at play time
And the boys all tug on my sleeve
We have to tell our teacher
To get them all to leave.
I`m not going to school today
I don’t like when we get gym
There’s far too much running and jumping
And I never get to win.
And then it`s Highland dancing
To the sound of a ceilidh band
We have to partner with the boys
And hold on to their hand.
They march us up then march us down
Then swing us round and round
The Gay Gordon’s and the Eight some reel
My feet don’t touch the ground.
I`m not going to school today
We never get to use the loo
We had to wait till playtime
And my face was turning blue.
My classrooms always too hot
And my face is always red
Don’t make me go to school today
Just let me stay in bed.
I`ll let you stay of school today
If you promise to go out and play
Because it`s not Monday like you thought it was
It`s Saturday today.
She walked into kindergarten alone on the second day.
Blonde ponytails swinging, big smile, three freckles on her nose.
Miss Thee, our teacher, asked her name.
Merry Dee Singlewary.
Surprisingly, she was on Miss Thee’s list,
But no one remembered seeing an extra name the day before.
Where did you come from? Miss Thee asked.
Space, said Merry Dee, cheerful and assertive-like.
Two of us looked up.
“Outer space?” I asked.
She smiled. Her pony tails bounced up and down.
“Yes,” she said.
She was in kindergarten with us until winter break.
Her coloring was beautiful, in the lines. No scribbles.
She loved pink playdough, pushing it into extravagant villages.
She was a master manipulator of the sand table.
We followed her around like puppies. This is not your planet, Johnny told her.
We both laughed, and stuck our tongues out.
Friday December 18th there was a Christmas program.
Back in the 60’s we could use the word Christmas. Christmas. Christmas. Christmas. Christmas.
Merry Dee was Mary. I was a lost sheep, probably because I scribbled all over my paper and my desk.
Which ones are Merry Dee’s parents? I heard Miss X, our hawk-nosed principal, ask Miss Thee.
I have no idea, Miss Thee said. She always comes alone. I have never met them.
Merry Dee Singlewary hugged me so tight that night I thought my eyes would fall out of their sockets.
I hugged her back just as tight, and gave her a playful swat on her petootsie for good measure.
Back in the 60’s you could swat women on the bottom. Maureen O’Hara and John Wayne taught us that.
I watched Merry Dee walk away from that program alone, not realizing her parents were not there.
She was whistling and skipping, glad she was going to be whisked by space ship home to her own planet.
Moral of this story: Merry Dee, We, Miss Thee
Waist not an outfit, Barbie with her slip-on shoes,
fairy-belts; plush hair, sometimes in ponytails.
Forget-me-not her impossible figure. Why do some
suppose that Barbie should be fat or ostracised?
So what we dream in fairytales! So what, feminity
is only skin deep and doesn’t include secret places.
Us girls always knew what was there. It’s all pretend.
We live in a fantasy. So what, Ken is not the doll
he’s cracked up to be. He still represents those others,
when we were too young or shy to approach those males.
I loved my Barbie dolls! I didn’t have enough - my aunt
had a whole boxful that I’d play with on yearly visits.
I had a Barbie wig, the kind for a doll’s head. Missing
a wig that just happened to be at my neighbor friend’s.
She said it was hers…it could have been. I didn’t believe
it then…do I believe it now…I do if were meant to
stay friends, even at a distance, because I might fight
for a boxful, but a wig - that’s just ridiculous. Even in
swimsuit stripes, Barbie is striking. She bares her shoulders.
She has those long, luxurious legs. I’m short, but I
can have fun dressing her up. I must buy my wardrobe
on the spot, if it looks good; if it’s a good fit. But
Barbie, she can wear anything. She was better than
paper dolls though I still enjoyed dressing them.
Barbie can be dolled up or wear a tweed suit.
She can have a modern do, wear gloves and a hat.
This trending doll grooves through the ages,
changes colors, hairstyles, and outfits.
Lastly, covid inspired a book idea, for Karen Feder,
Barbie Takes The Catwalk. I saw this Mattel doll
in my library’s oversized book collection…
I had to bring it home, as if it was a puppy dog.
she knew all the moves
Queen's Gambit
Sicilian Defense
Bura's Desperado Sacrifice
with her arms wrapping me
we barreled the freeway
racing headlong into the wind
balanced on two wheels below
as free as mustangs in the mountains
abandoned in the moment with the herd
where the only destination
was in the hooves desires
when emotions move beyond
any resemblance of logic and reason
my arms began to leave
their grip upon the handlebars
wings were birthed, expanding in flight
soaring in a vision of Magnificent Frigates
liberty in the thermals, gracing the air
ecstatic and free of gravity
casting fate into another paradise
look, mom, no hands
when came the scream
the slap to my back
what are you doing command
as my hands returned
slowly to the handlebars
i returned the conversation
the universe was out of balance
i put it back, time to think quick
not every move is in a book
of chess
later over lunch, there was the lecture
where bad boys are brought to heel
those stern warnings
you will never do that again
there could be a rock in the path
there could be
there could be
one of those times
they will never know why
or will you really, the stars align
the anger in her face
telling you in large measure
how much she loves you
not in any chess book
it is secret men keep, silence is golden
because sometimes a woman's anger
is her most adorable moment
when you fall in love yet more
where every upbraid becomes a rose
reminding you how precious she is
one of those ways fruition luckily forms
and you get attention, a bonehead move
pays in dividends
like pulling ponytails
not in any chess book
but what is, a most arduous trial
never mentioned in the books
of chess defenses
when the king takes the queen
OKC 7/22