Best Head Of Hair Poems
I put my shoes on back to front
to step into the past,
sent my watch by express mail
to make the time go fast.
Wrote 'atom' down as 'mtao'
just to generate unclear fusion,
told my friends I wasn't there
but an optical illusion.
Put my head on upside down
for a thicker head of hair and no beard,
when you can't think of topics for a piece of verse, then
what the hell-
do weird.
I live amazed in an amphitheatre,
A huge red and white domed tent.
Working with actors and jesters,
Enduring a perpetual torment.
The crazies I know are the clowns,
Red nose and a big head of hair.
And the gym junkies, they’re the strongmen,
Wrestling each day with a junked up brown bear.
And the farmers are the animal acts,
Talking with elephants, lions and a monkey.
While the women down town, they’re the hula hoop spinners,
Forever looking so spunky.
Then there’s the boss in charge, she runs the sideshow,
With magic acts, rubber man and the pony.
She makes up the rules as she goes every day,
Turning up as the bearded lady.
My life is in the flying fruit fly circus,
Others, are they oblivious to sights I view.
Every day brings a new surprise, I see it, I wonder,
I’m curious, do you see it too?
Long live James Tate. :)
A warm winds joins me for a cold glass of iced tea
under the rising summer sun
drying the morning dew
off of the freshly laid sod
bringing to light life's little questions
where am I heading
who am I
I look at my reflection
in the dripping drinking glass
seeing a weathered old soul
a head of hair turning grey
piercing blue eyes hiding her memory
wishing not for tomorrows
but that today would stay
that today will be the day
the day I fly to her
the day I take her hand
when our hearts become one
The day she leads me to His promised land
wishing not for tomorrows
but that today would stay
I would look, look at her and see
a lifetime, lifetime of making memories
Sitting in the waiting room in pre-op,
weight and height taken,
filling out a two-page form,
your hand trembling with age.
A history of a long life,
the body betraying the best years—
the Golden Years, where time moves slower.
The neck that needs physio,
the knee throbbing after hours on your feet,
the heart beating in time
with the new pacemaker,
its battery promising at least ten more years.
Thankful for technology,
we get to hold hands another day.
The myriad aches and pains,
a fleeting smile—
the young man with a full head of hair
and a light step,
looking back at me.
Forty years of a good life,
not wanting to see it end.
Together, hand in hand,
we will triumph.
Because each second, each minute, each hour,
each day we have together
is a reminder—
of the life we’ve built,
of the love mirrored in our eyes.
What a wonderful reminder
of the simple things in life,
as we sit together,
with hope.
As a kid my hair was a very easy fix,
just pull it back with a rubber band into a ponytail.
As a teen a ponytail was not going to work,
off to the hair shop with picture in hand.
I sat in the chair and said,
I want to look like this picture.
I sat dreaming about my great new hair style,
as I looked in their mirror I was horrified.
I did not look like the picture I showed them,
what had happened to my head of hair.
I will fix the professionals,
next hair cut was on me.
That is when I started to cut my hair,
I still laugh when I get asked -
can they have my hairdresser's information.
I have found some great new friends,
hats in all sizes - styles and colors.
~Frosty Interlude~
She ambled in the frosty woods.
Wondering, if with her imbalance
problems and her cane, if she should.
Still, she forged ahead bravely through
slippery branches and dead grass,
Till the world tilted and she went
crashing onto her _ss!
As luck would have it, a fellow-
canes-man was there.
He greeted her and brushed the
dead leaves and frost from her
graying, full head of hair.
Stood the grateful woman up,
and took her to his gentlemanly
lair.
Hot chocolate and cookies were
placed on the table.
He gave her a warm, Turkish towel,
to dry her long hair, making her
serenely comfortable.
They spent that entire November
day together!
A day she will always with sweet
thoughts and in her heart, fondly
cherish and remember!
11/1/2019
Dream in hues of blue!
Climbing celestial heights.
With silver, satin ladders in the Spring arms of the night.
With your amorous lover caressing
your dimpled hand.
So intoxicated, you, by him and his seraphic band.
Allow sensual, tropical winds to tousle your
gleaming head of hair.
Just dream in hues of blue, without a worldly care!
May 31, 2020
6pm PST
Poem # 1,309
Will someone say what's so extraordinare,
About my green hair.
Please explain why you stare,
Have you never seen a head of hair?
It's not like dollars...they aren't green,
And no calls them obscene.
Do me a favor and be half of half so mean
at me and my green hair.
Now everyone is acting unfair.
It's hairy discrimination.
Well at least I'm brave enough to dare,
At least kind enough to share,
Color with a black and white nation.
Since when do we get to be unkind?
Since when does color judge the mind?
Does no one notice we're in changing times?
Me and my green hair.
Does no one notice we're in changing times?
Me and My Green Hair.
He walks proud
Like a man
Who has much bigger balls
Dangeling there
In his underwear
He has attitude to spare
Even with
A partial head of hair
People look his way
They can't help but stare
Perhaps it's the fact
He doesn't care
He absorbs
The atmosphere
From each and every room
His mighty voice
In the air does loom
Like the after shock
Of a sonic boom
Short in stature
Yet it doesn't matter
Twin to Arnold
Just a bit fatter
One of my favorites
A consummate actor
Whether being a tin man
Or throwning mama from a train
I like watching him
Over and over again
He's got skills
He invades my brain
Loved him in Taxi
The beginning of his fame
He made insanity sane
He's been a Ruthless person
Causing other people pain
A slow driver
Occupying the fast lane
A comedic king
Long may he reign
I'm a black woman and I cry
I'm a black woman and I cry
You've been telling me
all my life
that everything was going to be alright.
But I cried when I was a little girl
when I had to cut my locks
into Shirley Temple curls.
And I cry now that I am a woman of the world.
And I can see
it still matters if I want to be
an afro or a weave.
Who should care if I want to be a blond?
If, I want my hair to be short or long?
No matter what I do I will always be black
or to be more politically correct
African American.
I will always have to pray for my dark son
for he can be shot because of a profile
or by a thug
no matter if his hair is nappy
or greasy and waved up.
And even if my lover be kind and white,
People will say he isn't the one that should be happy
but I.
They will say
the privilege to feel our love is totally mine,
no matter if I had braids,
or had straight hair below my behind.
And if we have children, their pedigree
will be determined by the black blood
that flows through me.
Even if their hair is yellow and curly.
For that was one law that never changed
After reconstruction or slavery days...
And all the laws that passed and said I was free
seems like a lie to me.
Because I can't even decide how to wear
my own head of hair
without it being such a big affair
and a symbol of how much I care
to demonstrate
that I am proud to say
I'm black and I'm beautiful.
But, that is the question to which I must answer
and tell the truth...
How do I say "Be proud!"
To the little girl that comes from my womb
if my appearance brings any doubt
about what I think my heritage
is all about.
So today I don't buy any Indian hair
And I throw my jar of perm in the trash
And I sit my pretty tender head in the chair
And when she says "Ma that cornrow’s too tight!"
I say "Child!
Be quiet!
Sit back!
Mama ain’t got all night. "
Have you heard about my renowned uncle, Gladys
Who by sexual makeup had an Aunt’s status.
Well, he or she, you can use whatever you want;
Like I just said, this uncle is loosely an aunt.
Anyways, she had to remove all her mirrors,
Since she said, each of them made too many errors.
She claimed that they never reflected her splendor;
While we thought, they couldn’t decide on a gender.
In any case, she seemed a hallucination,
But Aunty was more of an amalgamation.
And if you dared to ask most people’s opinion,
They’d say she was pieced from the animal kingdom.
She smiled like a jackal and grinned like a badger,
And her lips resembled those of a fly catcher.
Her frizzy head of hair, was pin-striped like a skunk’s,
And her mammoth nose swung like an elephant’s trunk.
Her eyes were as piercing as that of a boa,
Or any old reptile collected by Noah.
We played with her sideburns that were like Wolverines’,
Although our moms made sure we got extra vaccines
See, Gladys had kindness in a strong manly way,
With her big old bear hug that could crush a Steinway.
We must admit, Gladys had some fine attributes,
That may show up some day in oddball film tributes.
To be shown nationwide for the weird and plucky,
But my cousins and I would still think it’s yucky.
Anyhow, it’s time to stop picking on Gladys,
By switching over to her only son, Alice.
David Fisher, 11/22/14, iambic hexameter,
For Giorgio's contest
Ted once had a full head of hair
Now sadly his pate is quite bare
He wears a hair piece
In vibrant cerise
His toupee sure makes people stare!
Wife Betty lost her once trim waist
In corsets her waist is now placed
Much to her chagrin
She’s no longer thin
The aging process must be faced!
88558 checked with HMS
"Vanishing" old or new for a prize Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Carolyn Devonshire
02/26/21
Age is just a number
It's not a true sign
that one who is a senior
is not in their right mind
Age is just a number
it does not matter all that much
as long as you're a child of God
you will feel His merciful touch
I've always believed that the older one gets
the more one is filled with God's Holy Spirit
And I've always believed that like a fine expensive wine
as one gets older, you only get better with time
Age is just a number
getting old shouldn't make you feel sad
as far as I'm concerned
getting old ain't so bad
You might now need a walker or a cane
As arthritis and bursitis are your new middle name
You now have a fabulous head of hair that's silver or gray
But that's just maturity and wisdom on full display
People might start calling you "Pops" or "Ma'am"
or referring to you as an "Old Vet"
but just because there's snow on the rooftop
does not mean the fire in the furnace is out yet
So bask in the wisdom that comes with age
and savor the prime of your life
as age is only a number
it does not matter in your walk with Christ
Just simply enjoy the respect and honor
of attaining a ripe old age
as the "Baby Boomers" are becoming seniors
getting old is now all the rage
He noticed something rather curious in photos of past generations,
That seemed so rife among the male gender of his relations.
All his forebears were hirsute deprived, or bald if you will.
If this was an omen of things to come, him it didn't thrill!
At age twenty-three he sported shaggy, golden locks,
As thick and curly as that of an Asian wild ox.
He nourished his crop with pomades and tender, loving care,
Hoping he could forever keep that beautiful head of hair!
For some reason at age thirty-eight his forehead did expand,
And tufts of hair clogged his comb - this he didn't understand.
He spent hours before the mirror arranging his sparse tresses,
And in this having little success, just added to his stresses!
A shiny patch of skin mysteriously appeared upon his crown,
And around his ears little was left but wispy clumps of down.
At age fifty-two he had no further need for brush or comb.
There wasn't a trace of hair to be found upon his glossy dome!
For his plight he bought a "rug" (more delicately put, a toupee),
But his friends said he looked ridiculous so he tossed it away.
"Bald is beautiful and so provocative", he'd often heard it said.
Still, he hid his gleaming skull 'neath a snappy chapeau instead!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
A golden day, my mother said.
She had taken my father (who was dying - in the final stages of metastatic lung cancer, his face swollen and disfigured from the medicines, his once thick head of hair long gone from the radiation, his sure-rootedness now reduced to an uneven, unsure, unbalanced, slow unsteady sort of halting rolling step) to a place in a woods where they could see the tinseled leaves glittering in the sun,
Hear them moving in the breeze,
Smell the woody, loamy aroma of decomposition underfoot.
It was near a river and so water could be seen in the near distance.
One of the last good days.
A goodbye to the life they had
Lived.
A golden day.
See the sun.
Feel it's warmth.
Feel the air.
Hear the insects, the birds,the crunching of the leaves.
Smell the freshness,the marshy fecund scents.
See it all.
Feel it all.
A golden day.