Old Bald Man Blues

Old Bald Man Blues short poem

Photo by MMcQuade

I want the hair of that Latino boy
long in front and swept up
an etched obsidian wing
to hell with the rest of him
slumped, slack, waiting
for school day’s start
listening with his eyebrows
independent as two plump minks
chasing the same toad
sleepmarks impressed on his face
vacant as girls talk around
done up bright and freshly
cologned, accentuating syllables
with dancing hands their skin
dusky as dawn breaks pearly
the weather undecided, rush hour
tuning up for its roar.
I want a hairline near my brow
and near-limitless possibilities
of form, a darkness
above my features to mirror
the darkness in my soul

Rate the poem
1 Star2 Stars3 Stars4 Stars5 Stars (1 votes, average: 3.00 out of 5)
We are posting your rating...

Have something to say about the poem?

Profile photo of GlenDodge

GlenDodge

Signup / Login to follow the poet.
a poet from Seattle Washington USA. His poetry has appeared in print in publications such as Bellowing Ark, Point Nopoint, and most recently in Contraposition magazine. When not writing poetry he is a Human Resources professional, a repentant glutton, and a novelist specializing in the weird-fiction genre.
Poems you will love

Give your feedback / review for the poem

1 Comment on "Old Bald Man Blues"

Notify of
avatar
Sort by:   newest | oldest
Sahana
Member

Well articulated and written about a man’s desire.

wpDiscuz

Like An Old Song

Like An Old Song short poem

Walking in mental fog, you become a swaying tree. In mistiness one becomes lonely like a blackbird. Hollyhocks would wait, till the sun comes out. December rain brings the gift― of sleet on lips. ————————————– Walking in mental fog, you

Mortal Blues

Mortal Blues short poem

That satanic streak of tireless undressing of a hapless monarch. Wings were gone. Cannot fly across the tree of hypocricy. A footmat for the suicidal jump from the elegant hierarchy to grainy lies. Why are you turning ungreen? You will

A Hybrid Of Man

A Hybrid Of Man short poem

Confessional truth is not my aggressive ego, it is my fault. The resolution of my conflicts with time, the smell of the broken limbs, my head in hoisted fever, my eyes searching for a cloud. The ultimate otherness, of an

Old Man Zombie

Old Man Zombie long poem

couples run naked then plunge into the vast sea laughter ensues… through the duration of the night a flock of birds with intense sounds In the distance the still silence then an old man appears gets into his boat and

Old Men

Old Men short poem

I saw the soldiers Marching off to war. Lean, strong and hard Like young lions. I went to a mirror and there I saw a grey haired, fat old man. How did this come to be, What happen I ask