Long Salons Poems
Long Salons Poems. Below are the most popular long Salons by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Salons poems by poem length and keyword.
I desire nothing more than a chance;
Under my silence lies a heap of words;
And my lips never hesitate to twitch at their scratch,
As the find their way out of my heart;
But then the inner little man holds them back
Because when I speak;
The pile of bitterness comes with floods of tears,
And the bunch of dark memories is let loose.
It is the pain,the betrayal,the embarrassment,
As well as stories of my suffering as a short lady;
Who is taken for a forteen year's old.
At the hair salons,I am not welcomed;
In bars and clubs, I'm chased away like wind chases chuff,
While in malls and shops and markets attendants pay loose attention to my orders,
Saying I'm too young to decide what I want to buy,
Or they laugh at me and make fun of me,
That rats do shopping in modern Uganda;
In the end, I am denied the service I am going to pay for.
If tears could wash all this torture out,
Crying would be my hobby, trying to rid myself of it all,
But it is certainly not.
I am lady of twenty three years,
Not the forteen year's old girl you all see on my outside.
It is my short stature that says otherwise and sells me out,
But I have ripe brains as well as the maturity a woman needs.
My cat face with fat cheeks and young nose-
Which hopes to grow centuries from today,
Makes me look like I was born only yesterday at midnight;
And gives anyone the courage to look down on me.
Like you, descendant of Adam and Eve,
I am a human with freshly flowing red blood in my veins.
I am a genuine citizen of Uganda,
Who pays taxes and preserves her nature and cultures.
Growing through all the ages behind me,
I have learnt to survive in truth and love,
And so,I help bring new lives to earth,in the labor suit.
While you ignore me in your salons and shops,
And while your husbands and sons,
Who do nothing but to sit on those boda bodas;
drinking waraji tease me at the knock of opportunity,
I remain sure that I am as useful as a cow;
Yes,like Ngabo,Bihogo,Kyozi!!
Dear Elon,
Keep up the good work, you’re the man! It’s so fun watching you and Donny drain the swamp. Give my best to the big fella and tell him thanks for fixing the border invasion. Amazing how a few executive orders can turn a deluge to a trickle overnight. More power to you both and let’s make tariffs great again.
I am writing to ask for a favour. When you and your team are finished at DOGE please can you send me Big Balls to do a deep dive probe of the jointly held bank accounts for me and my wife. The excessive waste and reckless spending is out of control (and I’m not talking about famine relief in Africa here).
I have discovered large sums of monies transferred to untraceable accounts declared as charities and NGOs which bear and uncanny resemblance to hair salons, day spas, shoe stores and dating sites on encrypted apps. You know the ones, the sob story lotharios who ask for a bridging loan if you swipe right.
Also, any bank statements I receive from the wife are heavily redacted. I’m not accusing her of hiding anything but it does raise a red flag when I need a freedom of information request to access my own financial records.
Can you help?
I desperately need Big Balls.
Regards
Keith
Like lightning, they closed churches.
Quick to reopen taverns and nail salons.
To keep us 90-proof pacified and coiffed.
There's a financial incentive to claim COVID as the cause of death.
Billions to be gleaned from the mirage of vaccines and testing kits.
Amidst the chaos, they're burning books and breaking glass.
Acting like the spawn of nazis from the recent past.
They are so eager to shut us down and keep us down.
They want to maximize and prolong discomfort.
Discomfort fans the flames of revolt.
Just another coup attempt.
If this flu coup doesn't work.
There's yet another brewing in the
shadows of the left wing.
In the bonfires of November
You can bet on it.
Fugitive Truth -Asad Chowdhury
Reciter - Shimul Mustapha
Fugitive truth, where did they all go?
In bottled milk, rice bowls! Nowhere to know!
In the restaurants, hotels, salons
In a library and inside antique smells
Television or cinema, radio
In a boat ride or snake charming carrier truth, nowhere to know!
Where molasses Jars, and poison boxes
With candy pots and those grocery bags stay
Cigarette cases , betel cans
In zarda boxes and in the laxmi, carved,
In motif of culinary, underneath the furniture
Looked for them, and all of them, only to fail, to ponder !
A journalist and the wooden desk
In papers and books and the scriptures and pens
Injections and the eczema gels
In vanity purses, pockets and attires
In drawers, banks and iron safe, a rare
Truth and the glorified truth, nay, nowhere!
In poems , in songs
In feminine those gestures to kindle house warm
fanatic those mayhem to dense
Dramatic those dialogues, abreast
To rule, to speak
In the dark, or to lit
In lines or in lines of pens
In answers to those questionnaires
In gowns ,performed or in those syllabus, understood
In permits or in those bonus boons blessed
In depression or in optimism, they
In love and care and from these depth of lover affair, says
Not even in black markets, no
Truth, where did they all go?
Sanctuary
Wandering through a moveable museum of memories
Dusting off exhibits of moments held fast in gossamer watercolors;
Milestones chiseled into fleeting moments,
Soft edges of first love;
Brushing aside gauzy cobwebs on photo negatives
Blushing with pastel transparency in opaque blended impressions;
Images emerge into negative space awash with nude opinions
Layered into the hard edges in edgy palettes perspective;
Meandering through silent salons shaded dusky murals in shadows of rose
Lending sienna tints and glow to prisms of luminosity;
A sacred place vibrating in cerulean hues –
A chancel of still life in blooms - holy place of signed wax relics;
Drifting through a gallery of jigsaw puzzled passages
Sketched in black and white - fantasies spattered in bold colors;
Visions staring back unblinking at lost victories buried in the abstract
Untouched prints, tattooed in rust, restored;
Still furnishing this holy place
With an ever expanding collection displayed;
Fragments of umber magic captured – deckled grief fading –
Studies of raw strangled cries – portraits of choice set in unforgettable;-
Browsing hand in hand with time -
Lost in mazes of archival, acid free, displays;
Featureless faces hidden within twisted illustrations -
Born out of the gasping barren abyss of flat washes;
Framed in this breathing womb tiny points of waiting pigment
Building up a portrait - nurtured - protected - nourished;
Abiding in the seamless brush strokes
Graphic hills and valleys - sanctum grassy meadows ecstasy;
The unfinished infinite design revealing watermarks
Cherished by the eternal conservancy.
N/A - 9-1-2020
Said the devil,
Don't worry with that God side
too many rules.
Don't do this,
don't do that.
You can't eat this,
you can't eat that,
Steal and you go to jail.
Cheaters well you're definitely in trouble.
Whoo-hou
you're going into the hell fiya.
Well look here,
don't worry about all that stuff.
Down here,
we have bars with the hottest drinks you can think of.
I mean booze so plentiful you'll be walking on fire.
Tanning salons, oh-wee real hot,
you can fry yourself down here, get all sorts of color.
Brothels to feast your eyes and choose.
I mean what more can you ask for?
Just come join me.
any regrets well fix you up with something even hotter.
© Al. Juman The "said" Poet 1/20/1985
10-31-23
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Three Legged Table
Above the polished face of the petite gueridon
A crystal chandelier sparkles in dreamy hues
As one candlestick flickers in perfume,
One red rose dreams of minuets,
Upheld by gilded caryatides of innocence,
Draped maidens and daughters of Athens,
In salons where graceful reveries
Twirl in graceful circles
Around the teapoy’s edge.
Unmasked rhapsodies
Shimmer with the indelible mystery
Of one fleeting ambrosia midnight,
Glowing in an amber flush of reflection
With bittersweet rondos,
Immanent in lacy silhouettes
Of dulcet invitation,
To swell in crescendos of shadows,
Dancing butterflies mirrored in the table’s face.
Poor us,
abandoned by life...
Poor you,
blunted by usury...
Poor us,
renegades to poverty,
poor you,
bored in the salons
of the nobility...
Poor us,
ignorant without culture,
poor you,
arrogant of sound reading...
Poor us,
conform to "unhappiness"
poor you,
disagree with "happiness"
Poor all us,
without deciphering the universe...
Poor all us,
spiritual outcasts...
poor us,
poor you,
poor now, poor
later... !
I have tasted my beloved poets’ Bray
In the three great books of our literature:
"The Book of Good Love," "La Celestina," and "Don Quixote"
As well as in García Lorca's The Ass
Who directed La Barraca
Also Rimbaud, Gide, Apollinaire, Verlaine
Poe, Shakespeare, Chaucer, etc.
Digesting their works
Belching their art and poetry
In gatherings, convents, or schools
In salons, platforms, and athenaeums
Announcing, yes, that these poets matter to me
Useful and appropriate in their verses
Leaving in their books clear evidence
Of their braying talent.
Let it be known and not forgotten
That braying was always their rule
And I venerate it as is right.
Isn't it good to give them what is theirs?
So I do and tell it
Washing my hands with my urine
To reach their Muse
Who had goosebumps
And they, the hide of a new Donkey.
All of them rode on Donkeys
Singing of the extreme love
Of the Donkey for her crop
Or recounting amazing adventures
Of an animal's shin
Of a priest with a friar or a nun.
Or the Song of Songs
Inspired to Solomon by a Donkey
As mentioned in sacred scripture.
Oh, Poets, I praise you
For showing me the way
The true path that is Poetry
In the land of Life
As I venerate Abdon and his Donkeys
Apuleius turned into a Donkey
Jester and his praises of the Donkey
Photius, patriarch, who plagiarized a Donkey
Fond of verse
The Donkeys of Jair of Palestine
Lucian's Donkey
Machiavelli's Donkey
Midas with his Donkey ears
Priapus in his bet with the Donkey
To see which of the two had the better cock
Saint John of the Cross
Jumping over the walls of nunneries
Riding a Donkey
Whore, goddess of the bushes
Who swallowed more than a thousand cocks
Including that of the Donkeys
Silenus and his Donkey
Thartac, god of the Hivites
With a Donkey's head
The Donkey that figures in the Temples.
All peoples, Bray with me
Clap your hands
Because the Donkey is the sublime emperor
Of all the earth
And his braying will always dwell in our houses
Because being a Braying and a Donkey
Is strength.
A pool table lined with blue felt
sports a lively, raucous game,
ivory cracks, the men drink,
shoot the bull while they play.
A humidor lined in fine wood
stocked with Cuban cigars,
a smoking lounge grandiose,
ceiling painted like the stars.
A bar right out of the Wild West
serves beer and old whiskey,
an insurance guy loosing at darts
to a bookworm with a PhD.
A library stocked with real books,
no paperbacks or e-books there,
classics vaunted alongside the
spy novels and western fare.
Gym in the basement, no windows,
where everyone toils and sweats,
a sauna large, and no member
has grown tired of a steam yet.
Upstairs is the banquet hall,
used once a month for feasts,
where steak is served bleeding red,
no concoctions of soy or yeast.
On the third floor, rooms to crash
if you’re visiting from out of town,
or if you’ve drank a bit much,
relax, and lay down you head.
Fixtures in brass and mahogany,
reminders of more elegant times,
side rooms for talking business,
a cellar filled with fine wines...
This is our place, our shelter,
when the world rears and ugly head,
yet at least once a month feminists
show up outside and wish us dead.
They like to shout and chant a lot,
with their one word, ‘patriarchy,’
never seeming to realize
their protests are pure malarkey.
This world had lady-only gyms,
and female-only hair salons,
they never decry that as sexism,
they just go along to get along.
Turn-about must be fair play,
so we made ourselves this place,
what really bothers them about us
is the mere existence of male space.
But this club is a private affair,
so they’re wasting their powers,
they have places where men don’t tread,
so this place, this is ours.