A girl's soft-eyed glow
Of fascination.
Sweetest, if but looked back on
Could not bear to then
Of what did frighten.
From this safe distance
Time's, easy breathed Time's
What can, now with tears, be told
Does more horrify:
Why, faint hearted, why?
Blond blue eyed or black with brown
Ebony shoes matching ballroom gown
A delicious laugh and vexing green frown
Uniquely pretty from a small teal town
Tender hearted not a nicer soul around
Yellow star shines like her so profound
I drive alone down misty roads
where the morning’s frost still lingers
on the earth, grass, leaves unreached
by the feeble winter sun
whose fingers slowly withdraw
into the white blankness
of unmoving air.
The road bends as it climbs between
the shadowed pines and
leaping across the road
two roe deer, almost always two,
run from the shrouded trees
slowing my progress as I scan for more
to disappear again in depths of forest.
Higher the road climbs these mystic hills
higher still until the sky appears
that clear blue dry-air winter sky
full of all light but bereft of warmth.
I think of home, as I clear the misty hills,
mystic still but now illuminated
by the light of memory, of love departed,
thoughts of you beside me
almost always you beside me.
As I drive alone out of the higher ground
the frost still lingers but the feeble sun
has banished the obscuring mists
full of all light but now
bereft of warmth.
Many writers, poets and academics know how a beautiful
And striking alliteration is in a grammatical, congressional
Contextual and conventional debate or literary debacle
Like: blank blind badly bounced blue bowl
Oops! I meant to quote the beautiful Congresswoman
Jasmine Crockett, word for word, verbatim; man
I can never get it right. I fell short, because I’m not tall
Enough to reach that height. Oh! Many contractual
Agreements are in the works: blank black badly bounced
Blue ball. But I’ll keep on trying over one ounce
Of Vodka, maybe I will finally get it right or correct
Ladies and gentlemen, life is never easy and perfect
However, it’s okay to have fun; politics is abysmal than ever
We hope things will not get worse, but much better.
P.S. Homage to Congresswoman Jasmine Crockett (D-Dallas, Texas):
‘Bleach Blond, Bad-Built, Butch Body”.
Copyright © July 2024, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poetry.
Hair golden like the suns rays,
Figure that was va-va-voom,
That wiggle when you walked,
Men stared women frowned,
That beauty spot was not needed,
Acting like a dumb blond,
Not dumb, nor blond a redhead she was,
Actress and sex symbol,
Talented through and through,
She died to young,
Legend, icon remembered by everyone,
Murder, accident or suicide,
We will never know,
Norma jean remembered.
When I was young, my hair was blond
and my Mom even kept some locks
saved from a buzzcut when Dad came
home from overseas. They are long gone
now but I still have a pair of bronzed baby
shoes, which were popular at the time,
especially for firstborn males.
My hair stayed light, through childhood
and adolescence but darkened in my
twenties and I was often called upon
to First Foot the residence of that
year’s New Years Eve celebrations
and well into my cups, I would
pontificate on the potential
evolutionary significance of
being cute and blond when young
but dark and fierce as an adult
at least for males.
These days my hair is going grey
I think they call it salt and pepper
but I still have hair and I’m still here
Early each morning
When I was a wee lad
I looked for the maiden
Who danced by the swing.
Her eyes were as green as
The grass in the meadow
And all of that summer
My heart was in spring.
She told me her dreams.
Her lips were like flowers.
Her arms were as dainty
As branches above.
Her hair decorated
A freshly picked daisy.
Though just four years old
I was deeply in love.
She pushed me to heights
In apple tree blossoms.
The cords of the swing
Were tied to my heart.
I told her that one day
We two could get married.
She told me that soon she
Would have to depart.
For she was in college,
Someplace called Toronto.
September was coming
And she would be gone.
That morning she hugged me.
It's all I remember.
I'll never forget
My strawberry blonde.
Cross Between Purple and Blond
Write poem about cross between purple and blond; In your direction we have waved a wild magic wand; Wind was blowing; Curiosity growing, And of had many thoughts before we became fond.
Jim Horn
Setting is Germany 1943
Seven-year old wide-eyed
Little blond boy four foot three
Loves the freedom of running outside
Life is grand he cries out with a smile
Naïve to the ways of the world
Blissfully happy and without guile
Oblivious to the fates suddenly unfurled
For little boys with dark colored hair
While he greets every sunrise with bliss
Innocently carries on debonair
Blind to toxic prevalent prejudice
Letting grown-ups do what they do
Trusting they have best interests in sight
Ignorant of mankind’s vices askew
Of the extent everything is not alright
Just a sweet little blond boy
Naïve to the concept of injustice
Full of dreams and hopes and pure joy
In his heart not an ounce of malice
(inspiration: John Boyne’s The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas)
AP: Honorable Mention 2021
Fond Of A Blond
What I did was to have waved a wand;
Before me appeared a beautiful blond;
Was fond of.
And did love;
Now brunette when blond washed off in a pond.
Jim Horn
PS. Dedicated to Tuniabjc.
If she say,she is an angel she humbles
When her hair waves my heart tumbles
When she talks,the heaven rumbles
When she talks,the earth crumbles
When seeing her,mytongue fumbles
When will my dream become feasible. In this darkness,your eyes become visible.
The part way of sleep and reality is vague. Come to me and make it tangible.
coltscoach56
When summer rain, tackles the sun. Blinding the willing, and then again none. Directive span, stretching in the sand. From whom, will we demand, this lacking warmth. you may say, I have gone daft. that you may be right. Locked in this mental, waking frustration. what am I to do? sit and view the blond fool, who offers nothing but lies, for the willing. those who choose the reed, stretching to no where. only the fragile greed, of peace bought with the lives, gone then past, this i will not tolerate, this lying path. Now the rain is more tempting, drops big, hitting hard. these i can tolerate, pain no longer the choice, wet is better then knowing, that the blond mongrel has no regard.
You found a way to my heart,and came inside.You looted my heart like a pirate.It was written on my heart;No entries,You came in and said i am illiterate.
Your hair is like the sun I want it to rise upon me
Without your sunny hair I'm dying from lack of vitamin D
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