Long Primps Poems
Long Primps Poems. Below are the most popular long Primps by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Primps poems by poem length and keyword.
Whereas and wherefore hence and hereafter
An idle balloon sits high in the rafters
It’s hard to decide which one is dafter
The one who just bought it or the “arts” crafter
the media just primps and prunes
while she stumbles in the ruins
rejoicing in the things she brings
while dancing on those puppet strings
he sees a future glowing bright
says he’s the one to make it right
that he will wage an endless fight
if the handcuffs aren’t too tight
The rainbow, seems it’s met its due
All they see is red and blue
Run their mouths, fuel their planes
Call each other nasty names
And we, poor saps, will cast our votes
Based on their nasty, feral quotes
In hopes whoever gets the nod
Will not bring back the firing squad
The little old lady puts on her gloves and her hat,
walks out to her garden, with her little black cat.
She speaks to the plants as though they could hear,
the cat just stares at the lady and meows, poor dear.
She prunes and she primps each flower with care,
the flowers respond with beauty so fair.
She waters and weeds in all of their beds,
and all of this work, a complaint never said.
She waits and she waits for her flowers to bloom,
she would grow more, if she just had the room.
And finally one morning, the roses she loves,
open their wings like a beautiful dove.
She cut one at the stem, and held to her lips,
and kissed the soft pedals, while a tear gently slipped.
The little black cat thought to himself, why does a rose get so much love,
and not something more fitting, like an old lady's glove?
10/26/18
Love’s passionate angel plucks romance’s harp,
studies scrupulously, keeps arrows sharp,
covers strawberries with chocolate silk,
searches for sensations - creamy as milk.
Cupid primps rose cups, paints valentine red.
He ensures, each long stem dozen’s, pure bred.
Then he searches out auspicious jewels,
and threads them from silver and golden spools.
He catches just the right spark in “their” eyes,
connects “him with her” though she is quite shy.
With accuracy Cupid pulls the string -
Lets go! Bow flies! True north to their heart’s bling.
A lad and lass – remove their virgin wool.
Painful is love, but all so wonderful.
Kim Rodrigues (c) 2017
Winter
wound itself a bit too tightly
around the thaw
shouting down
the aria of Spring,
howling through
the hasty sunshine,
ruffling the feathers
of instincts transients.
And yet we wait
hunkered down
in crisp grasses,
bobbing on wind whipped
ponds,
perched upon
the warmth of rooftops,
patiently anticipating
the Jonquil’s joyous glee,
the tulip’s cupped ovation,
harsh calls of the
raucous, nest builders.
She primps,
this sultry vixen,
teases in sashaying
gusts of warmth’s promise,
tempts us out of cover,
promises us a fullness,
a renewal,
a rowdy, lust filled,
celebration.
She dances
in the flames
of future suns.
©4/21/2018
submitted to – Spring – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Craig Cornish
He primps that dome like it’s his crown,
A shiny orb, the talk of town.
Shaves that bowling ball twice a day,
No rogue hairs dare to stay.
Refined olive oil, scentless, slick—
His scalp’s own secret, glossy trick.
Then Axe spray rains, a scented storm,
Because the ladies find that charm.
Post-shower, towel wraps so neat,
Humidity’s spa for his heat.
Pores open wide, like welcome mats,
While he admires himself in flats.
Mirrors lurk in every nook,
Catching every shiny look.
Not married yet? “I’m picky,” he grins,
Waiting for love to roll right in.
On his dresser, a brush sits proud—
No bristles live, it’s just a shroud.
A hairbrush purely for show,
To tease the girls who don’t quite know.
No follicles, but full of flair,
Hair-care metaphors everywhere.
A follicle-free knight of sheen,
The baldest king you’ve ever seen.
The former blond model pouts and primps
Swinging her hips
Down the splashing catwalk of shoreline
Sand caving to her imagined heels
Wheeling to her awaiting Israeli mogul
Her shoulders set so far back
It’s as if she’s walking backwards
Puts herself square
Between
Him
And another thin woman
Launches a laugh and offers salted peaches
Wraps her skinny arm around
The other woman’s string bikini of waist
Holds her tight
Upright
You don’t have to go away
She seems to be signaling
And a young Salvadoran girl
Is curled up at the side of the tide
Beached to that surf-beaten sandpaper
Only a towel of brown skin beneath her
People stepping over her
Looking
Shrugging
Walking on
She is homeless of any self-absorption
No cell phone bag or jewelry
An unclaimed seashell
Another time
Her brown round body
Was plopped down wet and sticky
To mounds of dry hot sand
Hands stretched above her head
Handcuffed to the sun
And when she finally stirred and stood
She squeezed her boobs like sponges
And the grains of sand crumbled from her body
Like Cinderella’s gown
Shaken loose and fallen to her ankles.
The crashing waves
Humiliate a man with a beach ball belly
Rolls him to shore
Legs tossed over his head
And also, though much more kindly,
Scoots a little boy at his butt
Back to his worried mother
Who’s holding a towel
Yelling from shore at arm’s length
Her worst fear.
I mean her husband.
Muslim women are wrapped in black
From toe to throat
As they swim and laugh in the ocean
And that’s ok too
For I smile at one beauty
As she emerges
And pulls uncomfortably
At her taut and soaked nylon dressing
She sees me watching her
And since it was not for the usual reasons
Her lips part
As she unleashes a smile across her face
Un-shy.
Yes, we’re friends.
How would these subjects describe me
If they were also voyeur poets?
They would not
I am certain of that
Being invisible
And old
Fashioned
Pen in hand
Reading a novel.