It felt like Autumn
on this morning’s run
I want it to be fall
with its syllabus of vibes
I’m signaling a stance
I’m autumn’s undoubted champion
wearing my choice like gangland colours
- I could give my all to fall -
summer only ever had my subdivided attention
Summer’s just too needy: it demands relaxation,
bare legs, sun block, beach plans, hydration,
barbecue, and relentless fun, with scant variations
I want the visual promise of leaves falling
the flattering autumnal colour palette
my whole devotion crowns shortening days
fall always serves as a competent stylist
complete with venti pumpkin lattes
and mornings with a costume of frost
Unbind the theatrical heats of midsummer nights
and let the season's advance revive us
show us falls slanting golden afternoon light
let crisper darknesses harbour counterfeit witches
and lengthening dusks warrant winter wishes
Let fall assume her russet throne
and give us autumn’s cool agenda
without the influenza
.
.
Songs for this:
Ping Pong by Dimie Cat
Messy by Lola Young
the above image inspired this poem:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bertha the squirrel marched into Chez Nut,
her tail a tangled, wind-blown state.
Oh, Dawling! gasped Lou, the stylist doe,
Let’s fix this mess—oh honey, no!
The stylists got busy with berry-shampoo,
then fluffed her with acorn-conditioner too~
A walnut mask, acorn soufflé,
paw-dicure buffed to soft ballet.
Plus walnut highlights. Superbe!
Now Bertha’s the talk of the Chez Nut salon,
Though she still can’t resist hoarding acorns on the lawn
Where do you work, what is your career?
Well, I'm glad you asked, I have many titles it would appear.
I'm proud of these titles, non of which require a degree.
One of my favorite titles is mom of three.
I'm a homemaker, a cleaning lady, a chef, and a maid;
a run the monsters away when they are afraid.
I'm a librarian and teacher of every subject;
a cheer leader and manager of every school project.
A counselor, a therapist, both physical and mental;
a manager of any and all incidentals.
One may also call me a chauffeur.
Some days all this driving seems much like a blur.
I'm an event planner and activities director,
and I'm putting my years in for debt collector.
A private investigator, a hostage negotiator,
a disciplinary, and a mediator.
A soul protector, security, a body guard;
and a safe place to go when life gets too hard.
I'm a personal shopper, a stylist and a hairdresser;
a go-to for advice when they want to impress her.
I'm a wife to the most wonderful husband and father;
and a listening ear when something's a bother.
Last but not least, I am a spiritual guidance;
a child of God who will always follow in His abidance.
Money is all I need
It is the root of greed
Always need to be in the lead
The devil has planted his seed
Fancy Clothes
Sparkling in jewels
Stylist furniture and grand homes
Expensive cars to show their wealth
Charity is not their concern
Not sharing in their reserves
Business and the market are their religion
Some end up in prison
Heaven is not their concern
Don’t care if they burn
Go to universities to learn
Which way will they turn
Will they choose self-glory
Will they choose business over family
Will they choose honesty
Will they choose loyalty
Greed leads to lust and deceit
For money causes their family retreat
Blessed are those that stay at home
Enjoying their children as they grow
Greed leads to bad choices
Causes those to loss focus
It is all about what they can achieve
Leaving others in pieces as they leave
her hair is a verdent color, green I would say.
It makes her seem more lively said my cousin Stay.
I pranced over and liked the dye job, right away.
Who is your stylist? I asked. She told me May.
I made an appointment that very same day.
The beautician was bubbly and warm, this creature May.
You are the third dye job that I have had in this village Bray.
My cousin Stay walked in then and turned a little gray.
She had told me she would never green up her hair said Fay.
but here she was asking for it from this beautician, May.
May told her she could do it later that very same day.
Her face turned quite pink when she saw me, reported Fay.
In a lattice-lit dorm room sits a writer.
A discarded chemistry book lies beside her.
because ideas are hitting off her, like a collider.
Why does writing make her feel alive-er?
Cause it helps sort out the feelings inside her?
Repose is something grinding-study denies her.
Now, rhyming isn't her primary desire
the connections form, almost, despite her
poetry’s at it best when it comes unaware
“Oh,” she thinks, like we’re going there?
What she writes might eventually be shared
with that awareness she vowels with care
picking words when they seem the ripest
shaping phrases like some sort of stylist
she may be less of a poet than a typist
Her default is to narrative - like you read in novels
cause let’s face it - cold-poetry is as dead as vaudeville,
as buried as silent movies, letters and opera,
have I come to dig up Caesar, like a fossil?
.
.
cold = straight up
My last Thursday class is over - my class-week is over.
Looking back at the science building we’d just left,
the hallway looked dark, like the throat of an animal,
the people snaked out like a tongue, the archway
seemed like a mouth - I shivered and looked away.
Lisa laughed, and my senses returned to reality.
The clouds on high, hung like fresh linens on a line
being dried by the sun in its Egyptian-blue heaven.
The air smelled rich, clean and ionized and ever
the inventive stylist, it periodically rearranged my hair.
Leaves rustled, sounding like a buzz of conversation,
as they rushed from place to place, as if late to class.
The breeze was working hard, in jerky flourishes,
like the strokes of an indecisive artist.
The afternoon seemed as bright and brash as a shout
as if it wanted, no demanded, our emotional attention
and I gave it, smilingly, ready for the weekend.
Stark naked, Sue walks down her stairs
Huge boobies dangle like ripe pears
Sue’s ‘hair’ stylist was lax
With her Brazilian wax
Short curlies remain, but who cares!
8,8,6,6,8 Checked with How Many Syllables
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05/15/23
A visitor came into my life
Bringing pain and ecstasy
For every day of joy she brought
There were two of misery
She baked twelve dozen cookies
Then promptly gave them to her friends
Fixed my motorcycle
But wrecked my Mercedes’ Benz
She never told me what her name was
Though she stayed here for a year
Claimed to be a stylist
Then cut off half my ear
She said she wanted children
But none of them with me
Introduced me to her mother
Who was three years younger than she
She told me she could cook
But I very quickly learned
She could barely boil water
And even that was often burned
We enjoyed watching TV shows
Though she always held the remote
Whenever we had different views
She wouldn’t count my vote
It’s not that I was happy
To see her on her way
But now though twelve years later
I still celebrate that day
Forgive me for such a simple poem
which is neither accurate or true
But I do hope that you’re laughing
because I wrote it just for you
we trim their hair, necks, noses, and mustaches too
They come on Saturday morning, when the mail is due
we hear their stories, they gossip about their farms and such
we like our regulars, and we hear so much!
only one gives us a tip we try to get him
sHE STOOD PROUD
SMILING.
HER FACE AS
BEAUTIFUL AS HER
STYLIST ALLOWED.
ONE SPOKE
i DON'T KNOW WHY,
BUT IT IS jULY IN 2024
WHY IS THIS HAPPENING?
THEN SHE SAID
IN HER NAITIVE TOUNGE
SOMETHING THAT PUZZED ME
SINCE. SHE SAID:
"ELLE PORTAIT UN
COSTUME DE CORPS
AUX TONS CHAIR:
AVES UNE CINQUIEME
BOUTEILLE DE LA
LIQUEUR GAY
SUR L'ETIQUETTE.
c'ETAIT JUSTE SUR
ELLE
SWIG - SWAGGLER!"
It’s true, she didn’t ask me to do it.
But I could tell the first time we had dinner together,
When she mentioned the appointment with her stylist,
That she’d not be displeased if I made an appointment of my own.
I now look back and see that as a turning point in my life
No less disastrous than the one that reduced
That other slayer of Philistines to similar misfortune.
But I’ll rattle these temple pillars yet.
Just give me time.
Submerged in the depths of my despair,
I ponder: What shade to dye my hair?
Red like April? Black like Cher?
Yellow’d; to match my underwear?
No that’s just silly.
But then, Slick Willy,
Adopted a salt and pepper shade.
It got him elected! It got him laid!
But I’ll eschew his precedent.
I’ve no wish to be President…
A festive blonde hue, I would try it
If but I had some hair, to dye it.
Of my once thick locks remains no follicle.
Nor wisp, nor hank, nor strand, nor molecule.
No colors can the stylist bring,
Oh dyeing’s not an easy thing.
Stranger
I never really met him
But I know him
I know his face in profile
The furrows of his brow
I’ve seen it enough times
At Barnes & Noble browsing Asimov
I’ve seen him
Leaving the loft
Watched his hands
Holding the door
For his momma at the beauty parlor
He always tips the stylist who frosts his mamma’s grays
The other day I just missed him
Leaving the last row of the church pews
The handout he left behind was still warm
His pencil still on the floor beneath the ancient wooden bench
And on Tuesday, I watched him do a coffee run
for the guys at the office
I know it was him
I floated in on his Perry Ellis
He takes his coffee black with extra sugar
He goes running on Saturday mornings rain or shine
Always listening to Miles
I still hear the bass echo in the trees
He has his board meeting
Every third Thursday
I know ‘cause he always picks up his dolce suit
Every third Wednesday
Then stops for a fade
Spends an hour with his boys
If I time it just right
I might get lucky
And bump into him
Accidentally of course
I betta’ do it this Sunday
‘Cause this Monday
Is his first date
With the chick who frosts his mamma’s grays
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