Unshaved Poems

Vintage

Those white gray hairs
Unshaved moustache
Aged with wisdom.

Small Memories

Frilly lace and white petticoats,
Where did your young summers go?
Long ponytails and climbing trees,
My memories are all of these.

Now a woman stands, where once a child
Ran laughing, to me with open arms.
A woman stands, and smiles at me,
Still grins with impish charms.

Today you walked through my front door.
I saw a woman, not a child.
How proud I am to be your Dad,
But the memories still make me a little sad.

'Cause you don't need me quite so much,
But I'll always remember the soft, little touch
Of your tiny hand upon my unshaved cheek
And the way you say "Daddy" so very sweet.

Copyright Chula Fleming June 1, 1991

Where the Honeymoon Ends

He said,
"wear your bedroom shoes darling,
and all those black frilly things
that need garters, suspenders, and straps.

She smiled secretly to herself
knowing he would turn up in 2 day old shorts
unshaved, a little drunk and probably
forgetting to shower.

So when the time came
she surprised him in the boudoir
dressed in an old housecoat,
legs unshaved, and hair in curlers.

Typically, he turned off the light
and got right to it.

The Sea Beckons

The sea beckons.
The air is heavy with heat,
the sun fries the streets
shrivels up trees
and I feel parched.
Tired I trudge towards the waterfront.
 
Still the sea beckons.
Sweat runs down my face,
wets my unshaved face,
dampens my collar,
as I plod towards
the pebble lined sea shore.
The small waves glimmer,
winking in hot rays, 
inviting me to cool myself.
 
Insistently the sea beckons.
Summer is at its worst.
I hobble down
towards the beach, 
pull down my clothes
and stand in the sun's emissions
wearing my swimsuit.
 
Constantly the sea beckons.
I trudge towards the water's edge,
jump in and then
come out quickly, yelping.
I feel a jelly fish sting,
it burns red across my thigh.
Disillusioned I tramp back home.
The sea beckons no more. 	

21 August 2021

Placed 1

'Writing Prompt, Oceans or Seas -' Contest Info
Sponsor	Constance La France

Unshaved Beards

Puzzled eyes they keep feeding,
A crowd bigger than a political rally breeding
A dozen times a friend's had assaulted a kid
By him lifted up for a welcoming kiss
And now his jaw he has of them rid,
Punctually bestriding salons to never this miss@

Space-grabbing beards aren't a pleasure,
A vegetative chin, far from a treasure.
Man should 'farewell' bid to a losing practice
Like war wisely liquidated with Armistice.
A habitual afforestation of one's jaw
Is a transgression of some Uncomplaining Law

Feminism

When I was small
My favorite color was blue
It was my first day
Of kindergarten
Proud to announce it
Only to realize 
That blue 
Was a "boy color"
The girls told me that
Just like their mothers
Told them the genders 
Corresponding with colors...

But this is not about colors

This is about how
Each unshaved hair on my leg
Or shaved hair on yours
Is your choice, not society's

This is about how
Women should be comfortable
In their own skin

This is about how
Each and every girl
Should be able to feel
Comfortable
In public 
Without a mask of makeup
Hiding their natural skin

We are facing society
Head on 
Wether it has open arms for us
Or not

No longer do we care
About what society thinks of us
We are the rejects of middle school

We have broken out
Of our boxes
And traveled beyond the shelves

And do you know what we found?
An entire nation
Of diverse
Intelligent
Women

Siblings,

When Dad Was Daddy,
Siblings,
By: Tom Wright
8/14/00

taking turns running to meet him,
after he passed the corner of our block.
Toting his lunch pail after his daily task.
A stoop, a hug, from his unshaved face,
was not all that we would ask.
For oft times inside his pail, unclaimed,
a prize of sheer delight.
In a Hostess cupcake saved, or egg sandwich,
perhaps of either, just a bite.
In his vacuum bottle remained,
just a swallow of, by then, cold coffee.
Of course, then,
we assumed he'd had too much to eat,
only later did I realize,
that it was saved to be our treat.
Most items, were purposely saved, without fail,
knowing He'd be met, once in our sight,
and that those remnants, to a child,
would make both our day's end right.

What God Sees Is Who I Am

What God See’s, Is Who I Am
Written: by Tom Wright
4/2/2018

Mornings capture the reflection of truth,
When at the mirrors image I quietly stare.
I acknowledge this is my fountain of youth,
Unshaved face, old scars and graying hair;

Our mirror is unflattering in its report,
It reveals nothing I consider to be a sham.
While a smudge might, my image, distort,
The image is a reflection of the man I am.

God is aware of each miniscule imperfection,
What HE sees is much deeper than ever I can.
But it fails to influence or cause HIS deflection,
Though imperfect, HE still loves me, the man.

Thoughts On a Passing Stranger

In walking mist between the sunshowers
A careless passerby stumbles
He stares awkwardly for a moment 
And then carries himself onwards, 
I could have known him but for his haste 
And was sure something familiar struck me about him,
Perhaps the unshaved face
The careless erratic approach 
The whole untidiness of his appearance, 
Something kept probing my thoughts 
Asking questions of him,
Perhaps an old friend from the past
Someone with whom I had shared many troubles,
Perhaps no one that I knew at all
But who resembled someone that I did,
All these thoughts entered my head
And disappeared without any satisfaction. 

                W.A CHOLT.  Copyright Fergal O Reilly.  1993.

Look At Yourself

The skyscraper building this is
Perseverance of sacrifice

Steps after steps, thousands steps the staircase have
Conscience of humanity
 
But immorality enjoys snatching righteous
In falling down gravitational power of ground have no steps

Don’t the index finger aim at others finding faults
Before doing it looks remaining others three aiming at you!

Bad smell! This is dustbin of royal Earth!
No; they are famished corpse, stranded on hollow eye shore!

No stink from these; 
It’s your unshaved armpit!

-November 25, 2018 Chattogram

Trap Door

You hoped there’d be another
but it’s another night alone
the empty vines of memories
is a wine you call your own

It’s the ritual in a cigarette
unshaved, unwashed
and couldn’t care less
a single seat
a solo time
the prediction of it’s ending
a kaleidescope of nothing
to keep it off your mind

With no request for it’s suddenness
the picture of a smile
those eyes
her laugh
the body which drove you wild
and in your heart
repeat resist
repeat resist
as she floats there in her phantom
with all the mist of undelivered passion 
and ……………………………………….

Ignore the ghost
forget the wine
on cold lips the empty glass settles
ponder conspiracies
think of philosophies
drive the madness
and all it’s sadness
back into their blank memories
leave them there
please
to rest in the dark

You pray the magician and his trap door
find no cause to open it once more
still the wretched spring is tightening
a tweak  of agony on your heart strings
no lock
no bolt
no long years eulogy
but you had hoped there really would be

Tattered Fashion Inspiration

I saw him sitting on the street, 
With open arms and folded feet,
A beggar with a bowl,
He had on him a tattered jeans,
And matted locks that proved his means,
A poor and hungry soul;

I saw him coming out his car,
A rockstar with a new guitar,
The hero of the crowd,
A tattered jeans he had on him,
Uncombed long hair, unshaved face grim,
A rich brat spoilt and proud;

The beggar sat with hair not shorn,
Coz of no dough, his dress was torn,
I could understand that,
But that rich guy in clothes tattered,
Inspired by a beggar battered,
I think fashion fell flat.


08.23.17



Contest: Form T
Sponsor: Broken Wings 

Theme: Tattered 
Form: Tail-Rhyme

In Sanity

They roam the streets
In rags. The air about them
Reeks of unwashed and unshaved pits
With their unkempt hair
Only the bold would dare
Look them in the face
Market women keep their eyes
Peeled and alert
A broom or stick ready at hand
Ready... Watchful... Wary
Of their filthy fingers on
Precious produce placed on
Tables and stools
Their presence is a proof of
The absence of sanity
They are a scourge to society
The antonyms of civility... Yet
I do not despise them
I envy them; they live caring less
Unlike me, they are free.

- All Know Peter Daim, the Invisible Man -

You can see him
an invisible man
Peter Daim
is his name
He is weathered and gray
An invisible man
but you can see him

An invisible man
No one accepts him
But everyone knows him
Poor, dirty and unshaved
Everything he owns
he has in a plastic bag
His precious treasures
He's an invisible man
but you can see him

Under the bridge
where the shadows are
he sleeps at night
Invisible and just him alone
Peter Daim
has no coins
He lives of our
food that we throw
What we call garbage
Everyone sees him go hungry and thirsty
We turn around
Because he is an invisible man






06.05.2016
- Sun :) - Anne-Lise Andresen -
Copyright © All Rights Reserved

I Know

I have never laid eyes on him
And still I know every curve
Every edge of coastline of his body…
I know the way his hands feel
As they move joyfully
Over my breasts…
I know what it feels like
To dive into his hair 
At the nape of his neck
And run the tip of my tongue
Along his long long eyelashes…
I know what it feels like
To succumb to the unstoppable urge 
To press his earlobes 
Between my thumbs and forefingers
Or bury my nose in his armpits 
And breathe him in there…
I know the feel of his unshaved chin on mine 
When I kiss him…
I know how it feels to press my nipples
Into the rough black hair on his chest
When he pulls me closer…    
And I know how to gather my soul
Into the contours of his dreams as he sleeps…
And my body
More transparent and honest than my mind
Presses against the closed door 
Of the curve of his back
And my heart beats on it 
Pleading for forever…

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