Best Ponytails Poems
We've always been obsessed with hair
Ponytails or long and flowing
Medusa's hair would turn you to stone
If you gazed on it, no joking
In the 60s a Broadway hit called “Hair”
With its popular anthem “Aquarius”
Prompted a new age of sexual revolution
Some of the sights were hilarious
What's the attraction I don't understand
Seems kinda primitive to me
Being obsessed with this body adornment
It's kinda pagan wouldn't you agree
Imagine if we had the same obsession
With some other interesting parts
How about plump and rhythmic derrieres
Call it “Bums” with the hit song “Farts”
Sorry I got totally lost in my thoughts
Such a silly billy I am
So back to poetry about social issues
To prove I can be serious, I can
© Jack Ellison 2012
Ponytails
Swishing madly,
Hurdling across the pitch.
Beads of sweat
Spraying in spirals
As fingers point,
Shouting directions
To strikers, wingers, and defensemen.
Defensewomen, really.
Get back!
Push it!
Don't lose form!
Take the shot!
Grazing past the clown gloves.
Concaving the thick nylon.
Back of the net glory!
Now run around like giddy school girls
For exactly 8 seconds.
Now mark your man!
Woman, really.
No whiners here.
No floppers allowed.
What's this look like,
Men's soccer? Pansies.
The beautiful game is proof that
The real soccer men
Are women.
"Now" she's eating her cheerios, one-by-one
She sits in a three ring circle with her friends
Warmth, she is, by the rays of the morning's sun
Her hair in ponytails all curled with loose ends
She sits in a three ring circle with her friends
Grandmother's knitted blanket rests on the chair
Her hair in ponytails all curled with loose ends
Playing, real life, with her friends (two) "Teddy Bear"
Grandmother's knitted blanket rests on the chair
She made it for her granddaughter, years ago
Playing, real life, with her friends (two) "Teddy Bear"
Grandma's knitted blanket- one day...she will know
She made it for her granddaughter, years ago
Warmth, she is, by the rays of the morning's sun
Grandma's knitted blanket- one day...she will know
"Now" she's eating her cheerios, one-by-one
( Picture 3. )
Feelings Of Nostalgia Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Eve Roper
6-17-2020
There are colors that please the eyes:
Rainbows, sunsets, and a sunrise
On psychedelic, I can't gaze
Without recalling careless days.
Ponytails, psychedelic shirts
Flower girls in long, faded skirts
Hippies searching in mushroom clouds
Anti-war protests drawing crowds
Talk of love is everywhere
Psychic wisdom floats in the air
Peace and love in every song
Thinking all the world can be one
While in the flower fields afar
Youths die fighting another war.
POTW!
(To The Memories of Jon Benet Ramsey, Sherrice Iverson and Ryan Harris)
Sometimes I reach down to hold your tiny hand
And I come up feeling powerless and helpless and
Unable to understand, why I will never see you
Playing in a schoolyard, backyard or
Playground because someone decided to take
What the world had found:
Three beautiful little girls,
With ponytails and bright faces
Whose pictures and stories have
Turned up in so many places
To tell stories of torture and abuse
To show the world that you refuse
To die down and disappear
Because if you do I fear
That no little girl will be able to play alone
Without the benefit of a bodyguard or chaperone
Increasingly, day after, day, I wake up
In the morning and I hear in the news that
Another little life has been taken by a crazed
maniac
I then immediately think of my precious
7-year-old and quickly react:
I say dear God, sometimes
I reach down to hold her tiny
Hand, and I still come up feeling
Powerless and helpless and unable to
Understand why I must never let go of
Of her hand... But God, I still thank
Heaven for little girls.
Way back then when I was ten
the year was nineteen ninety-three,
Mom was so proud when I said aloud
that I made the school spelling bee.
Days of math sums and bubble gums
have faded through the years,
but I sing along to a certain song
and it still brings me to tears.
It was a big fad to dress all in plaid
and wear a necklace with a peace sign,
ponytails and ripped jeans worn by every teen
and neon colors were thought to be mighty fine.
I loved cassette tapes that let me escape
at least for minutes through my headphones,
while I would read and write notes in a Mead
after school when I was home all alone.
Kids shopped the malls and covered their walls
with posters from every teen magazine,
what made us sob was each new heartthrob
from every band, TV show and movie we'd seen.
With Rollerblades and a new pair of shades
we roamed the sidewalks until it got late,
our backpacks were heavy and filled with a bevy
of boring English assignments that could wait.
For many hours I could stay and sit and play
with Nintendo games, stickers and Treasure Trolls,
then aside they were tossed and some became lost
except for right here in my heart and my soul.
That time proved to be the most fun for me
O, how I wish that I could relive it again,
way back then when I was just ten
and the year was nineteen ninety-three.
“Dam Change”
Dam change.
Mother and father love their plain ponytails and Lionel trains.
Then infancy crawls to scrap knees, tea parties. And headphone blast fast tones accompanied, by the arrogances of “me”.
Old Lionel trains sleep and ponytails worn plain train to feed or seek maternity.
Then mother and father love their plain ponytails and Lionel trains.
How I hate change.
Some days, I look within the book of myself onto the pages I have filled, and sigh. The folds of light and dark portray scenes, some simple, and others horrific. I sit still now. I have no need to wander. Today, I find the child, who rode a battered bike miles to hide within the library.
sister
runs behind me –
a faded Kodak
The building was brick, shaped in the round. I see it still: I see its trim, a heavy lacquered bead-board of white; the windows, broad and high; the door that opens with the depression of a brass lever. I can smell the books and the lavender perfume of the petite, round-shouldered, librarian. There is so much color, and light. The rolling ladders rumbled as I move them to climb, reaching for the jewel-colored books.
There were many of us there most Saturday mornings, girls in hiding. I never thought to wonder why. In pigtails, ponytails, and raucous curls: we would sit upon the floor within the stacks, our own piles of ‘get-a-ways’ in front of us. I loved Nancy Drew. I imagined her leading the boys into an attic, where blue-black chests were piled high to solve The Mystery of the Missing Child.
an open diary
lays beneath her hand –
pressed violets
There were no chests in my house, no place to hide from the screams. It’s horrid to be a blank-paged book in waiting. Outside and inside, there was just fear. Who would get me? What would they do? I can almost taste the hair of my ponytail.
Where did you hide? Do you hide there still?
First Published Vine Leaves Literary Journal Issue #10 2014
What happens to all the brown-skinned girls?
Sitting on the stoop waiting for the ice cream man to come
20 plats in their hair
Turning the double dutch rope
Sitting in the middle of the classroom
You know, that one girl . . . what’s her name?
ponytails neither pony nor tail
Who aren’t allowed to wear their hair down
or sport Brand X Jeans
Who can’t wash that Diaspora right out of their hair
or erase their royal heritage
The ones that pop their gum the loudest
Run the fastest
Fight the hardest
Dream the most
Ones who don’t wear pants and go to church all day Sunday
got tattoos
wear makeup
or slide into their short skirts on the way to school
Who are picked first for the team
picked last
or never picked at all . . .
Girls - who don’t have time to hang out ‘cause they “gotta go to work!”
for their new dress
or in their old car
to pay the light bill that momma “forgot”
Girls who roll their neck
and their eyes
their hair and their hips
to the rhythms of the Congo, Bronx, or the Swats
Girls who sing in the mirror as they glue, braid and towel on that
long . . . wavy . . . hair
Who, “hate that stupid light-skinded girl” because
“she thinks she’s so cute”
or hate themselves because they think so too . . .
Some may have never had him hold their hand
call them beautiful
take them to the father/daughter dance
come to their rescue . . .
See he was
in jail/out of town/in denial/out of time
insane
to forego all the love that just one little brown-skinned girl has to give
Girls. Not little Halle, Beyonce, or J Lo
But young Angela, Carol, Michelle, and Alek
Those awe-inspiring girls who don’t yet know
that they are
Elegant, intelligent
engaging
enchanting . . .
Who don’t see themselves
On movie screens - in magazines
The eyes of the world, little boys
Their own
Who buys them a bomb pop when the ice cream man comes?
Tastes the sweet undertones buried in dark chocolate
Loves them?
Loves them for themselves
Who loves them
Loves them
Who loves
1960 and the world was changing
A time for living and rearranging
Baseball in the school yard with a sponge ball and a fist
Donnie Brooks sang Mission Bell and Chubby did The Twist
Bobbie sox and ponytails, school dances were so much fun
Johnny Preston’s Running Bear. I loved the theme from Peter Gunn
A young senator from Boston was in the presidential race
Marty sang El Paso and there was a theme from A Summer Place
Mr. Custer and Alley Oop were fun songs to listen to
While Elvis said It’s Now or Never and also Stuck on You
Ford came out with the Edsel. Remember the unsinkable Molly Brown.
Everybody’s Somebody’s Fool even Cathy’s Clown
We had air raid warnings and marbles in our pockets
Movies in the park and Cape Canaveral shooting rockets
Gable and Monroe in the Misfits, Perry Mason on TV
And the Drifters were singing Save the Last Dance for Me.
There was a draft to serve our country and we were always ready
A time for holding hands and a time for going steady
Kirk Douglas was Spartacus and Burt was Elmer Gantry
Pies were made from scratch and there were apples in the pantry
Larry Hall sang Sandy and Bobby Rydell wailed Wild One
O Dio Mio From Annette. She and Frankie had so much fun
Lonely Blue Boy by Conway Twitty and Bobby’s Beyond the Sea
Duane twanged Because they’re Young and the Everly’s Let it be Me
Those days are precious memories that I hope will never fade
The world was so much kinder then and I was in eighth grade.
Waving ponytails
of silk
wrapped in skirts
browning green
red and yellow
sapphire teeth
play a game
at hide and peek.
Sparkling twinkles
from the sea
flew in millions
like the wind
at the fullness
of moon wink
fading with
the cricket sound
last stalks fall to the
ground
echoing farmers
harvest song
mountain splendor
at braking dawn.
First Place: Brian Strand- Contest 325-8/25/17
Sixth Place: Brian Strand- Mid Summer-7/20/17
Ponytails and blue jeans
Sat at Papaw's knee,
Watching as he whittled
On old branches from a tree.
And while he talked of cowboys
And big old Texas ranches,
He trimmed away the rough spots,
While I dreamed of pony dances.
A wild stick horse remuda
Began to run and play,
With every loving stroke,
As he peeled the bark away.
Using his "Old Timer"
And carving in my brand,
The best that he could find
And cut and shape with his own hand.
Now, each one of them was special,
And I felt I was too,
As they kicked up dust behind
This cowgirl buckaroo.
With reins of pink hair ribbon,
Shoe strings and baling twine,
There was "Buckin' Birch" and "Oakie,"
And "Ole Sticky" made of pine,
"Sassafras," and "Blackjack,"
"Willow," "Blaze," and "Scat,"
I never did corral 'em --
I just left 'em where they sat.
But next mornin', on the front porch,
'stead of roamin' wild and free,
They'd found their hitchin' rail,
‘cause Papaw lined 'em up for me.
Along our trails together
There were many lessons learned,
Like bein' a cowboy through and through
Is something that you earn
We'd partner up together,
And team up in cahoots,
Once he defied my Mama,
Bought me red cowboy boots.
And often, when I wondered
What to do on down the road,
He'd always tell me, "little girl,
When you get there you will know,"
Sometimes you have to let things go,
Sometimes you stand and fight,
And anything worth doin',
Is still worth doin' right.
With my wild stick horse remuda,
We rode the range for miles,
I knew I'd won my Papaw's heart
By the way he'd laugh and smile,
I still have his sweat-stained Stetson,
His boots, and his old knife,
Sometimes I take them out
Just to measure up my life.
And hold him closer to my heart,
And know I have to try,
To live up to the honor
Of the wonder-days gone by.
On my stick horse remuda,
I learned the cowboy way,
I’d give up everything I own
To ride with him today.
My wild stick horse remuda
Was quite the varied band,
Born and bred with me in mind
And trained by his own hand.
I’m longing for the legends,
And the way we used to roam,
With my wild stick horse remuda,
And the man that we called "Home."
First, I was a horse,
proud, fierce, untamed.
testing the texture of one continent,
competing with the winds and tornadoes
to achieve the ultimate granular vortex,
testing the manhood of the Cheyenne,
twisting the blistering ropes of the Sioux,
defying the white man with bared, scornful teeth
and a rusty, booming cloud of contempt,
rearing up disdainful hoofs at his challenge
of a lumbering smoking iron donkey
trapped on it's molded rails.
Then, I was a plane,
lithe, lightweight, defined.
with a body DaVinci once dreamed of
and a clear canopy
of tense eyes and sweaty, twitching fingers
on the throttle.
Soaring high over another continent,
beaten down by polished black boots.
The elegant, rich roar of Rolls Royce,
The searing steel death of Browning,
clamping together to mete out
justice and liberty,
higher and faster than any swastika propellers.
Then I was a car,
with clean lines and a pure promise,
born of optimism and innovation,
first brought forth under a steel sphere of the world.
My lean, youthful frame and bristling energy
beckoned to the untamed young,
bringing elation and
the whoops of warriors
as they pony up precious pennies
to slip easily into my low slung, leather saddle
and pick their soundtrack
and flick my fresh rubber hooves
across the next horizon.
Their nubile females in splendid mating colors
ponytails wagging their eager assent
in my ever growling breeze
as I assault their narrow strips of tar.
I have thundered through untrod dust.
I have been caught only by men like Remington.
I have sailed above exploding black skies
and landed farm boys safely to their futures.
I have raced through muggy summer nights,
blaring out my rebellion to a rock and roll beat.
I am freedom in flesh and hooves
and wings and guns
and canvas tops and pinstripes.
I am what Art should be:
I am versatile.
I speak in a thousand ways
in a thousand forms.
I please the eye and thrill the soul.
I am ..ME.
19 Girls chasing a ball:
Dirty shins, sweaty bodies, bouncing ponytails.
Grass stains galore,
I stand: panting, watching.
Never fast enough for this hunt.
For my father, I must stay.
For my father, I bloody my porcelin knees.
A spotted rocket flies my direction.
Think fast!
Kick! Goal!
Maybe there is hope for me.
she knew all the moves
Queen's Gambit
Sicilian Defense
Bura's Desperado Sacrifice
with her arms wrapping me
we barreled the freeway
racing headlong into the wind
balanced on two wheels below
as free as mustangs in the mountains
abandoned in the moment with the herd
where the only destination
was in the hooves desires
when emotions move beyond
any resemblance of logic and reason
my arms began to leave
their grip upon the handlebars
wings were birthed, expanding in flight
soaring in a vision of Magnificent Frigates
liberty in the thermals, gracing the air
ecstatic and free of gravity
casting fate into another paradise
look, mom, no hands
when came the scream
the slap to my back
what are you doing command
as my hands returned
slowly to the handlebars
i returned the conversation
the universe was out of balance
i put it back, time to think quick
not every move is in a book
of chess
later over lunch, there was the lecture
where bad boys are brought to heel
those stern warnings
you will never do that again
there could be a rock in the path
there could be
there could be
one of those times
they will never know why
or will you really, the stars align
the anger in her face
telling you in large measure
how much she loves you
not in any chess book
it is secret men keep, silence is golden
because sometimes a woman's anger
is her most adorable moment
when you fall in love yet more
where every upbraid becomes a rose
reminding you how precious she is
one of those ways fruition luckily forms
and you get attention, a bonehead move
pays in dividends
like pulling ponytails
not in any chess book
but what is, a most arduous trial
never mentioned in the books
of chess defenses
when the king takes the queen
OKC 7/22