the wizened old owl
primps in her room
facing autumn’s long night
loosens her neck, swivels around
cuts loose with a shrieking ‘Hoo’ sound
hops to the branch where she normally sits
‘What’s this?’ a young owl is perched there
‘Just keeping your seat warm, Ma’am,’ thus she
‘The chill of first frost’s in the air’
Early each morn
before the dawn
she primps and prettifies
shadows her eyes
plucks her brows
then brushes them back
with a non-complementing
brutal shade of black
lipstick applies
rouges her cheeks
powders her nose
lacquers her hair
files then paints her nails
fingers and toes
pampers places
it never shows
and every night
washes it all away
only to do it
go through it
all over again
exactly the same
at sunrise
the very next day
Early each morn
before the dawn
she primps and prettifies
shadows her eyes
plucks her brows
then brushes them back
with a non-complementing
brutal shade of black
lipstick applies
rouges her cheeks
powders her nose
lacquers her hair
files then paints her nails
fingers and toes
pampers places
it never shows
and every night
washes it all away
only to do it
go through it
all over again
exactly the same
at sunrise
the very next day
u n h u r r I e d l y
she primps as her new beau
waits outside her door
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.
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
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
mellow
fellow
yellow
jello
Tot throws at the mellow fellows chair
as Dad primps his yellow jello hair
1-22-18
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
He speaks with charisma and style
He portrays a commendable role
His words seek to charm and beguile
But who should we really control?
His words lift the beat of our hearts
We listen with passions on fire,
He taps into that very part
That leads us to bow and admire.
But his make up comes off in the night
In back rooms devoted to schemes
That seek to convince us he’s right.
For the next day he rises and gleams.
The façade is but glad wrap of fame
It clings to a surface of shame,
It masks every pock mark and crack
It is hard to see past the tack.
We see through the eyes in our skull.
Not through the eyes deep within.
By the time the façade starts to dull
We are lost; for deceit is what wins.
The candidate primps in his cloak;
He is hoist with a self made petard
Mark well how he carries the yoke.
It is us who will find the way hard.
A-CAT-A-COMB
NINE-LIVES-A-TALE *
SHE-PRIMPS-AND-PREENS
EACH-FINE-DE-TAIL *
WITH-TONGUE-TO-FUR
PAW-FACE-AND-TAIL *
THIS-DEATH-A-TOMB
SHE-SHANT-EN-TAIL *
~TH~
The night sky’s lovers
Emerge in their millions
To pay homage to their beloved
Infatuated stargazers
Souls ignited by a phantom flame,
Mooning at their mistress
With cats eyes
Through rose tinted glass pipes
Down milky paths
And sunset boulevards they stroll
Peeping through a keyhole lense
As she primps and primes and twinkles
Ready for the close up
Celestial saucepans
Telescopic titans
They are just old light
Thrown across the vacuum
By burnt out bodies
Cold stone shadows
Sitting spiteful in the sky
Ashes of an ancient fire
Jealous with their lingering warmth
Their stench fills the black
Pockmark pinpricks
Ugly in their amaranthine sprawl
A canvas defaced,
They spill across spoilt horizons
Morning heralds the return
Of their heavenly sister
Disgraced by her benevolence,
They veil themselves
And their brother turns away his face
The dome lies as a grave
Empty of its skeletons
Though night conceals sins
Dreamt in day
The darkness reveals the sky’s secret shame
A yellow-toothed moon
primps in the mirror
of Mid-western ponds.
Cats
snake in and out
of red-faced barns
gone mad.
In Kansas-land...
in the operating room
of your dreams,
morning comes
dawn-drawn
by six gold stallions
half-stepping
toward eternity.
upon hard grey streets of asphalt I drive
through morn’s muted orange glow
white headlights shine, red brake lights blink in time
with changing signals red, yellow, green
disoriented city visitors a hindrance to the flow
why at seven a.m.
now stopped two cars back waiting for green
a woman in a minivan ahead primps methodically
striving in effect to give herself a perm.
the man beside is engrossed in the news
early edition of today’s tabloid spread over the wheel
will he know when it’s time to go
behind, a husband and wife, I assume
each talk animatedly on their phones
while obnoxious unrestrained children carouse
a movie playing on the DVD
an ancient pickup stopped in the suicide lane
right turn flashing “let me in!”
green, the light changes, yet still we wait
one, two, three and horns start to blare
shaken are they from hypnotic states
virtual hair salons, libraries, and phone booths abandoned
traffic moves once again in earnest
until the very next crowded intersection.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.