Best Strands Poems
Slate gray streets made even darker by cutting raindrops
Umbrellas popping up everywhere, people seeking shelter
But I stayed put, wanting to get drained with the rain,
then I hear this tinkling voice that says, “Don’t you just love it when it rains?!”
I look at her wearily and her eyes actually gleam with laughter
Oh geez, this lady was my total opposite. I was brooding, she was brimming.
I power-up my go away vibes, but she was like a darned magnet…
Was I the ferromagnetic one, or was she?
She gushed on the metaphor of rain in her life, and I didn’t feel like drowning.
Listening to her amidst the onslaught was so refreshing, making me thirstier…
There we were, two drenched souls, sitting on the pavement, chatting up a storm.
Of all her descriptions of rain, one in particular stood out for me…
Pearl drops strung on silver strands …
She said, “Rain for me would be silver strands streaking an otherwise somber sky…
pearl drops strung on silver strands, broken by the heavens to share with us.
See how precious it is?” Then she continued on with the metaphor for pearls…
Her words felt like windshield wipers to me, and I could see clearly now
By then, the rains had softened, and a lone pearl drop landed on her eyelashes
-that made me look closer at her eyes… her beautiful, wise, yet cloudy eyes…
I have never looked at rain the same way since then.
For Andrea's and Susan's Silver Strands contest
Silver Strands
Platinum it was, not a hint of gold
Silver tiara was grandma’s crown
Brushed over her head, to a bun rolled
She always refused to wear it down
It shone in the sun silvery bright
Her bun boasted a badge of honor
Holocaust survivor fled at night
Now in the free world as a senior
Nazi tattoos, numbers on her arm
Smallpox scars were evident too
But they never filled her with alarm
A lucky lass, she had made it through
A dark-haired teen had boarded a boat
Marrying a man she met at sea
Just their clothes, nothing else to tote
Seeking the Statue of Liberty
Each silver strand was born of worry
For family in Poland left behind
Her escape had been made in a hurry
In a brave quest for freedom to find
*Written for Susan and Andrea’s “Silver Strands” contest and inspired by my maternal grandmother’s escape to freedom
Her dark hair, laced with silver strands,
cascaded once with sable glint,
then lost (with drifting of the sands
of time) the chasteness of its tint.
It still grows long, but she has kept
her dark hair laced with silver strands
pulled back, attractively upswept,
at times enwrapped in stylish bands.
She misses days of few demands,
the ragtop down, her locks wind-tossed.
Her dark hair laced with silver strands
reminds her now of all she's lost. . .
She combs it out in dying light
of dusk and dreams a lover's hands
were touching it this moon-streaked night -
her dark hair, laced with silver strands.
Mirror mirror on the wall
I went to the beauty salon today
Silver strands ~ gone
Long dark wavy hair ~ beautiful
Bet you're jealous ~ ha
Twirling away and singing "because I'm happy" by Pharrell Williams
Six weeks later...
Mirror mirror on the wall
If you keep showing those silver strands
I'm going to give you some cracks
Bet you won't like that
Walking away mumbling how people are talking to her but their eyes upon her head
Days later...
Mirror mirror on the wall
What is the meaning of this
Each day I'm seeing more glitters spreading
I'm plucking them out but they seems to keep surfacing
"Sighing" knowing full well
She'll never beat this medallic battle
Weeks later...
Mirror mirror on the wall
I've come to realize these silver strands are the enhancing highlights of my life
For every silver strand had its own enchanting story
So color me away
They say she's too young to go silvering
Maybe they're right
Today...
Mirror mirror on the wall
Keep calm
And go authentically silverlicious
My hair
My beauty
My silver strands
Smile
Akkina R Downing
1-5-18
I still have the afghan you made for me all
those years ago mother
Although I have washed the afghan dozens
of times the silver strands are still interlaced
through the yarn
I feel your love and warmth each time I cover
myself with this special afghan.
You are always here with me when I am ill
and covered with my afghan interlaced with
silver strands through the yarn
Yes mother the silver strands are your hair
As you so lovingly made my afghan your hair
fell into the weave left behind when you left this
earth heaven bound
For the Early Mothers Day ~ Contest of P. D.
Written by: Carol Brown
3rd Place Winner
Dedicated to my Mother
Helen Elizabeth Huebner
08/1928 ~ 10/2005
Beneath the earth in the vale of the kings
For countless years undiscovered, unseen
In an old leather bag bound with brass rings
A necklet so rare, ‘twas fit for a queen
This beautiful piece with deep lustrous shine
In beaten red gold and fine silver strands
A stunning linked chain of complex design
Depicting the skill of artisan’s hands
From where had it come, to whom would belong?
A Queen, or princess of elegant grace?
Whose story was writ in the poet’s song
Sung by the slave girls in this ancient place
A priceless treasure found under the sands
A link to the past in fine silver strands
Tuppy
Silver strands silver bands and the rings on her hands,
Her hair was the colour of grey,
Eyes far away, with the thoughts of her day,
As her grandson an audience sought,
I was there that day, with an empty head thought,
just a boy, but loved this I say.
As I looked at her troubled eyes,
A Catholic she’d once been married,
To a Church of England, man called John,
so now she was surely harried,
Excommunicated by a priest on that day,
So she caught up a rifle, pulled off a few shots,
Bounced bullets, as he was running away.
The only pleasure to be got,
Anyway.
With polio born she couldn’t stand,
But dragged herself onto a pony,
She did eventually walk,
But she walked in the path of the lonely.
Susan Burch
Contest Name Silver Strands
One fine morning the mirror showed
some silver strands in my black hair
though few in number but very bold
started sprouting here and there.
For me it was a disadvantage
started thinking to get rid of them
so that I could hide actual age
told my son,'Let's start a new game'.
With him soon I made a small deal
'Rupees one for each silver hair,
just pluck them off my black head,till
no more patches remains there'.
Merrily he agreed with that,and
whenever wanted to make some quick bucks,
used to tell me,'Just lie down dad,
I can see some patches to pluck'.
Soon those silver strands disappeared
son was happy with the bucks he got,
but something different started to appear
the mirror now shows a big bald spot'.
© kash poet
==============================
Placement: 5th; (December 2011)
Contest:Silver Strands
Sponsor:Susan Burch
.
strands of pearls
falling gracefully
where they may
AP: Honorable Mention 2021
The trickling teardrops fall like rain
dousing love's spark; and as you cry,
passion's flame begins to die.
For all your pleadings were in vain:
and every lie summons a tear,
that drowns your hurting heart in fear.
Treating you with scorn and disdain,
leaves little room for love to bloom:
despite the babe within your womb.
He fabricates lies to explain,
although you've heard them all before;
and don't believe him anymore.
He doesn't love you; that much is plain:
and it's getting harder to cope,
clinging to dwindling strands of hope.
And yet, you'll take him back again,
and try to cope the best you can;
for you're afraid to lose your man.
The trickling teardrops fall like rain,
for all of your pleadings were in vain.
Treating you with scorn and disdain,
he fabricates lies to explain.
He doesn't love you; that much is plain.
And yet, you'll take him back again.
The master forces his clowns to laugh
when polka dots become the wearers.
An audience roars…a pained choreograph;
behind the scene, the wounded howl tears.
What man is he who tugs the moppet strands?
Twisting acts at whim for raunchy tricks
and controlling moves through strict demands,
only to bruise the shame he inflicts.
The crowd hollers as he waves the rope
Oh master gloats; new slapstick begins.
Hushed are the young mimics just to cope,
till one bawls ,” please Dad, we are your kin.”
John Lawless' Puppets Contest
by nette onclaud
12/25/2014
Will strands of thread hold
Hidden thoughts within my mind
Words never spoken
Fearing to give utterance
Or will silence be broken.
(February 9, 2011 Wausau, Wisconsin
(c) Copyright 2011 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved
the hairdresser
cut my long silver strands—
locks of love
Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest: Silver Strands Sponsored by: Susan Burch
Strands of dried leaves that
hang about your neck,
they dance with each motion,
their bodies rustle in wonder.
Did you notice the stripes
on the bathroom walls?
Orange, cream,
rotten green,
shivering in the electric air.
My hands find the ground,
hard and cold,
they count each tile.
Three-hundred-thirty-five.
The interwoven lines that the tiles create
form the grid of life.
I am sitting on square
two-hundred-twenty-three.
Only a few left to conquer
until my trivial existence
is at an end.
The heaves and the roars and the sighs
Are less frightening to passer-bys
Than the terrible moans
Of the hollowed out stones
Which bring forth the dead sailors’ cries.
The sky in the west has gone red,
Dyeing rocks on whom many have bled
Men defended their homes
Legends filled foreign tomes:
Devil’s ile is what far scholars said
Thinking savages roamed ‘round uncouth
They could not have imagined the truth
That a goddess lived there
With star light for her hair
Who gave to all many life times of youth
These people they could not feel fear
For as long as their goddess was near
Despite the fall of leaves
They had endless reprives
A silver strand and at death they could leer
But when one girl fell deeply in love
With one resembling a sweet mourning dove
When she asked for a strand
From her tribe she was banned
Left to die with her husband alone
First of her people to grow wise with age
She tried to make others give up their rage
But with her own son she failed
And to his people he sailed
He hanged the goddess by her hair on her stage
*I know that this is a bit creepy and gross. I don't know why I wrote it.*