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.
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
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."
Back of the stockyards, over 100 years ago
Immigrants were easy prey, as many now know
Landlords would slap paint over rat-infested dwellings
then twirling their moustaches, they’d begin selling
Those dilapidated structures with four-color brochures
hawking them as 'visions of paradise,’ sure to allure
Prospective buyers, trembling ‘greenhorns’
all too soon shorn
Of their entire life savings, only to find ~
that ‘rent’ was just half of what for they had signed
(Precious hearts robbed blind)
Grace was full of joy, happiness, frolicking with mirth.
Could hotfoot it across a ballroom in spite of her girth.
Her tomfoolery had us in stitches most of the time.
I believe she said she weighed four hundred and nine.
Some people were turned off by her corpulent face.
I was not one of them, I adored our friend, Little Grace.
She brought so many stories to the table, all of them great.
A fabulous guest, she never stayed too long or too late.
Little Grace is coming! I would tell the kids. Hide your dolls.
She loved to paint moustaches on them and take off their falls
Don’t get me wrong, the children adored Little Grace too.
Animated and enthusiastic, she always knew what to say and do.
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
Start
to shape
a moustache
this time of year,
handlebars, pencils,
or lines from ear to ear,
funny grins for volunteers,
and charities will remember,
a tidy growth every November
handlebars, pencils, = types of moustaches
A November Nonet Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Andrea Dietrich
Counter > Howmanysyllables
11/09/22
We grew our hair down to our shoulders
Hirsute we were, moustaches and beards
Turned up our noses at those who were older
'Cos we were so hip, so freaky, so weird
Revved up our stereos, going stone-deaf
Dropped pill after pill, of common sense bereft
Wore psychedelic threads to match our psychedelic brains
We thought ourselves 'free,' but we were really in chains
Don't ask me if the Sixties were 'wonderful years!'
~ Just leave me alone with my cigars and my beer
Moustaches are now out of fashion
For they have lost their toughness notion
Just think of the 70s the tough guys all had them
Remember McCloud, Barney Miller and Magnum
Now you need a charity purpose worth growing
Instead just tough, stately and all knowing!
When considering it all for today
For me it’s all baldness and grey
Alas the time of the moustache has passed
For my moustache the dye has been caste
I remember it all so fondly but now I must say
As a **** star I think you would all run away
© Paul Warren Poetry
That Early-Autumn's Night
.......................................
That early-autumn's night...
While your wrestler-like brothers played cards inside ,
Laughing aloud, till late night ;
I was shivering in cold-- Standing-hiding under the old deodar
In your fortress-like house's forest-like grassy yard.
Your landlord-like great-grandpa in the painting
Twirled his moustaches
Took me as a thief ;
While i raised my hands towards the starry sky
Seeing the sitting-by old-lion-like dog.
Man becomes mad --
In such strange fits in true love ;
FEAR bows down --
Fearing the fiery eyes !
That Early-Autumn's Night
.......................................
That early-autumn's night...
While your wrestler-like brothers played cards inside ,
Laughing aloud, till late night ;
I was shivering in cold-- Standing-hiding under the old deodar
In your fortress-like house's forest-like grassy yard.
Your landlord-like great-grandpa in the painting
Twirled his moustaches
Took me as a thief ;
While i raised my hands towards the starry sky
Seeing the sitting-by old-lion-like dog.
Man becomes mad --
In such strange fits in true love ;
FEAR bows down --
Fearing the fiery eyes !
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!
internet questionnaires say that some women find moustaches to be
signs of maturity, or perhaps a sign of an aggressive male who will
take charge,
even further, some go on to say that moustaches are a sign of
individuality,
because it takes a unique individual to walk around with a rat on his
face.
others state that moustaches are creepy,
and that those like the one john waters wears
signify child molesters or at best,
men that would be looking for old panties in your
basement.
despite it all,
from bronson, gandhi, selleck, nietzsche, dali & einstein,
to mercury, king, cohen, lee, and the likes of will ferrell as
the infamous “ron burgundy,”
it
seems
the
stache
is
here
to
stay.
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.
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