Best Bareheaded Poems
As evenings dark began to close in
a little girl wipes her nose on her sleeve.
Listless and hungry she walks in the snow
a poor and lost soul, one cold New Year’s Eve.
Her dead mothers slippers were much to large,
they were flip flopping while crossing the street,
two wild carriages coming full speed
made her lose them, now she walks in bare feet.
She glances in windows as she walks by,
families eating and making good cheer,
her pains from hunger she tries to ignore,
she’s starving and freezing, poor little dear.
The north winds cold breeze keeps blowing her face
catches her breath as it blows back her hair.
She spots a dark alley where she can lay,
Tired and windblown she can no longer care.
She curls in a ball tucking frozen feet
carefully under her old blanket cloak,
she leans on the building, closing her eyes
now given up and her spirits are broke.
A shaggy old dog, nudges her gently
she hugs him and draws him close to her heart,
smiling she whispers, we’ll go together
when Jesus finds us, we’ll never more part
Then both of their eyes close, she bathes in dreams,
sitting at a fire, with food on the hearth.
When she awakes, a lady stands smiling,
pats the old dog saying, good boy old Barth.
The Little Match Girl by H.C. Anderson
Most terribly cold it was; it snowed, and was nearly quite dark, and evening-- the last evening of the year. In this cold and darkness there went along the street a poor little girl, bareheaded, and with naked feet. When she left home she had slippers on, it is true; but what was the good of that? They were very large slippers, which her mother had hitherto worn; so large were they; and the poor little thing lost them as she scuffled away across the street, because of two carriages that rolled by dreadfully fast.
Written by Brenda Meier-Hans
12.03.2014
Contest: A Christmas Tale
Sponsor Debbie Guzzi
As time flies, so her emotion swiftly fries,
As life frowns to dust, so her affection swiftly drowns to lust,
As love turns to coal, so her smile swiftly runs to the cold,
As sunset sets away, so her truth swiftly upsets the root of likeness, and erects away the boldness of trust,
but her hate doesn't rate me to roasted rat, because her hate is wingless, and no other can make her sweat and melt to hashes like I do.
Damn! I’m damned, if I get soak in her socking beauty,
Damn! I’m damned, if I get stolen by her golden smile,
Damn! I’m damned, if I don’t bench her lioness sex drive, I’ll infinitely feel less, like a quenched man.
Damn! I’m damned, if I merge with her chameleon cries and battalion kisses.
If I give in fully, just for the sake of ‘be a real man’, not 'a steel man',
my life will end up like the life of a North American bug, which inflicts painful bite on love and life.
When I transparently decide to give into love, all I get is:
Vultures smoking cigarette in an uncultured manner,
Kangaroo's doing Michael Jackson’s moonwalk in a live show in Cameroon,
Monkeys ordering for coffee, while wooing female donkeys
Zebras playing golf, with liberal views,
Lizards rearing Afro and trying to reawaken Lazarus from the dead,
Dingo's wearing costly tuxedos in Mexico, and speaking Spanish fluently,
Frogs driving Rang-Rove jeeps, in a foggy weather
Snakes wearing condoms to nibble into snacks,
Female Goats, wearing sexy underpants, to enable them float in a sinking Titanic boat
Bareheaded demons and bears drinking chilled bears together in a beheaded mood and using chilly pepper, to chill down their temper,
Horses babysitting housewives
I trip endlessly!
lost in a confused mood and temper, for she false me, she false me not.
I limp endlessly!
No matter how we try to put souls together to make our love bright and wealthy like the brightened face of Paris and the fat pocket of Las Vegas,
We always end up creating a poverty of love.
I have relentlessly tried praying forcefully for our love,
but I end up noticing that people, who aggressively pray the most for love, end up marrying angry praying-mantis.
I will just have to remain light-footed in love, and let her featherweight affections for me, turn to true feelings, or get carried away, because she false me, she false me not.
The Little Match Girl by H.C. Andersen Part Rewritten By Scarlett G. Rollins
Most terribly cold it was; it snowed, and was nearly quite dark, and evening-- the last evening of the year. In this cold and darkness there went along the street a poor little girl, bareheaded, and with naked feet. When she left home she had slippers on, it is true; but what was the good of that? They were very large slippers, which her mother had hitherto worn; so large were they; and the poor little thing lost them as she scuffled away across the street, because of two carriages that rolled by dreadfully fast.//She had a long cloak over her that also had been worn out and ripped. Her feet were getting colder by every step she took. She passed the Burling's home, the richest people in Denver. Their house was big and quite tall too. It was painted a nice white color. She could see smoke coming out of their chimney and longed to be in there. "Hello Ms. How ya doin'" said a man behind her. She was brought back to reality quite quickly. She turned around to look at the man behind her. "Fine I guess. How about you, sir" She replied. The man looked surprised by her manners. Appearance isn't everything. She thought to herself. "Abou' the same here. What's your name little Missy? Mines Albert." He asked her. "My name is Angelina Anderson." He had a look of shock again. She was now starting to get annoyed. "I must get going now." She finished. Angelina turned and walked away. Now eager to get home to tell her mother about this strange man she had met on her way home by the Burling's hom
THE CERTAINTY?
Every Sunday at 10.35, whatever the season,
The elderly couple from down the road walk by on their way to Matins.
It used to be 10.45 in their prime but, as age creeps on, it takes more time to get there.
He still wears a suit with collar and tie, whatever the season.
She still wears a hat, complete with hat pin, whatever the reason. Well, her generation did,
Convinced no doubt of eternal damnation for bareheaded women.
So here they are on their way to their Church -C of E, medium high,
Where the service is just as it’s always been. No guitars or modern beat, no gimmicks from the pulpit.
Just Hymns Ancient and Modern and Psalm eighty-four; and later the Vicar shakes hands at the door as they leave.
They’ve prayed to their loving and merciful God; and I’d like to ask them,
“Is this the same loving and merciful God who let children die in that earthquake last week?
And who sends no rain to an African state so that more children die at a terrible rate in the sun?”
But, of course, I wouldn’t challenge their faith. Just think how I’d feel if they were convinced
And I’d taken away their strength that saw them through life.
But they would simply smile indulgently at one naive enough to question what enlightened folk have known two thousand years.
“It’s all in the Good Book,” they’d say and quote a verse or two that proves to them that everything in that same book is true.
And now, at 12.25, whatever the season, the elderly couple from down the road return to their Sunday lunch.
To the warm smell of the slowly cooking joint and the scolding yap of the poodle who doesn’t see the point
of Matins.
They’ll carry on in the simple certainty of their faith,
And leave me to ponder my uncertainty.
November 2018
Spring, bareheaded, seems to float
Across the grassy countryside
It’s cast aside its snowy coat
And dances carefree far and wide.
The sun looks down on spring anew,
Sends a gentle breeze to kiss a rose,
Dandelions buttery and violets blue,
In new grown grass to tickle the toes.
Butterflies blue and black and gold
Flutter and flit in the perfumed air
Drinking nectar in flower heads bold -
Sun-sweet food for a faery’s fare.
Boys skim down a playground slide
Girls fly high on wings of a swing.
Spring ruffles their hair on a bicycle ride
And whistles the song that children sing.
It’s here at last, that sun-derful season,
Which gives us strength and brightens the gray
For surely it’s spring that gives us a reason
To open our eyes to a whole new day.
She kept walking, kept travelling...
A Traveller by profession, she kept exploring.
With a pure and kindest heart inside her soul,
She was pretty easy to pick, easy to be fooled.
Her feet reached a small town,
Tired, she was happy to have it found-
And hoped for some water and food,
With her kind eyes, she now intrudes...
In a small village, with no roof.
She asked for some food,
If she gets, she will pay them good.
But All they did was to cry in front of her-
A pure soul, sang a song there,
Her heart couldn't keep up with the utter cries-
And she gave them what was with her, to see their eyes dry.
With everything given, she proceeded bareheaded and barefoot-
All she got was the happiness from helping those troops.
With sparkling eyes, she headed forward-
And saw an old lady, sobbing, cuddled up.
Not noticing the suspicious air around, she thus proceeded-
With nothing, but a body- bare and naked.
Didn't want to appear in front of others,
She ran to the nearby forest, in the southern.
She walked shivering, yet with kind gaze,
And met the forest demons, hungry and desperate.
She noticed, yet she smiled, as a mist.
She opened her arms, inviting them for the feast.
All she did was to help others, she did her job well, I guess.
In return, got nothing but more and more pleases.
She offered her arms, her limbs, her feet-
As she pitied the hunger of the demonic beings.
All that was left was her head, rolling around-
The last demon took out a kind eye and licked it, very much bound.
"Here is a gift from us demons" he said and flew away-
Leaving a piece of paper, leaving the one-eyed head for decay.
She rolled out her eyes, with the strength she had left with her-
To look at the gift the demon left as an honor.
'IDIOT!' it said, said the piece of paper...
Tears rolled from her eye; she couldn't feel more satisfied from her works.
"Thank you!" a mumble came from her mouth, and she smiled-
"It's my first return gift! Thankyou!" Were the last words that came from her mouth.
Her one-eyed head now rested for eternity, no more kind deeds to be done.
Ah, The cry! The song of the dead bird sure was a pitiful one.
Never heard a pure soul rest so peacefully in this world.
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