Combed Poems

Coins On The Tray

They laid their gold
on a tray the color of midnight,
fingers ringed in stones
that caught the candlelight like captive suns.

Outside,
a boy with a patched sleeve
watched frost stitch lace
across the bakery window.
His breath bloomed and vanished,
a ghost repeating itself.

The men inside
spoke of progress —
steel rivers,
glass towers that drink the clouds,
oceans combed for oil.

A gull’s cry cut through the smoke.
It smelled of salt,
of a shore too far to see,
where waves still bow
to no one.

And somewhere between the clink of coins
and the rattle of the boy’s thin cough,
the truth waited —
patient as winter,
sharp as the wind
slipping under the door.

The Jungle Untamed

"Lost, in a fight for survival, a man refuses to succumb to a harsh wilderness."  - quote by poet.

    A great aerial adventure comes to 
A harrowing end for one man.
His hot air balloon malfunctions;
It comes crashing down in the middle 
        Of a vast sea of trees.

    He is quite fortunate to be alive, 
But sustained injuries in the crash.
He shot his flare gun up in the air;
The only one in his possession.
        T'was all for naught. Now what?

    He has combed through the crash site 
For his dislocated phone in vain.
Rainy jungle, untamed; It's no place to wait 
For rescue. Wild animals roam here;
        It teems with insects and snakes, too.

    On the move with a badly broken leg,
He beats his way through the undergrowth 
Back to civilization. Danger lurks 
In every corner, but with strong faith 
        And resourcefulness, he pushes forward...

THE DEVIL NAMED DEMENTIA

I'm in a pickle
Soured sometimes I cry
Because there's not much time here 
For I will soon leave memories behind
There is no time for regrets
No time for bitterness
Nothing needs to be undone
I'm only space filled with skin and bones
A beautiful mind only remembers from long ago
I brushed my teeth today
I dressed myself
Combed my hair
I looked in the mirror
I saw a stranger staring back at me
He was crying 
Soured by his predicament 
I washed my face and walked away
I don't remember
Did I comb my hair?

their lifeless fifteen year old daughter

She has not bathed for a week or two
Those pajamas have been on her at least six days
She complains of aches and pains
Moaning she has no friends
Listless, lifeless, and lethargic
Her parents are beyond worried

There is a knock on the door
A friend enters
“Let’s go party!”
Their sloth of a daughter turns into a carnival ride
Leaves twenty minutes later bursting with energy
Wearing a sequin dress, high heels, combed hair and lipstick
You cannot outguess a fifteen-year-old daughter

Mined Minds

I've met lots of people in my life
Most have just passed through 
But not one person who I've met
Was anything like you
We haven't even combed the mine
Of what you and I could do
If us together, ores refined
Became one mind from two

What's the capitol of South Dakota

Made a cuppa coffee this morning
Forgot about it
I think I ate breakfast
Can’t remember what
I combed my hair
Singular
Musta brushed my teeth
They’re back in my mouth
I wear a shirt that reads
“IF FOUND PLEASE RETURN”
Socks that disagree with each other
Shirts that read like a virtual menu
Shoes that tie themselves
The best place to look for my glasses
Is in the lost and found pile
I shave when my beard
Gets to that itchy stage
Bathe when the dog moves
To the far end of the couch
I laugh a lot
Not always sure why
Or for what reason
I have children
And phones
That are smarter than I am
Yet nowhere near as wise
When my doctors ask
“any questions”
I reply
“yeah, what’s the capital of South Dakota”
They are generally not amused
I don’t think they know….

My Cousin Jer has a Story to Share

My cousin Jer had a story to share
Said first, let me sit in my favorite chair
He combed his almost non-existent hair
On his bald head I saw a shiny glare

I sat down with my chocolate éclair
And handed Jer a pastry – claw of bear
This is the best I ever had, I swear
I love you cousin, you show you care!

Babysit Saturday and we’ll be square
We heard giggling upon the stair
It was my twins, a rambunctious pair
I’ll babysit, he said with male cousin flair

Happy glee promenaded into the air
What shall I wear? What shall I wear?
Are you sure you can? Are you sure you dare?
How hard can two five-year-olds be? Asked cousin Jer.

a portrait of a family at a dinner table

Father is dressed in grim face and a white shirt,
His unfriendly face could win the heart of Hitler –
mother combed her hair this time
and her deep brown eyes carries heavy love for her family.
in the painting i am sitting right in front of the grim face
with my eyes bent as if afraid to look
and my sister is dressed in a baby blue dress,
her hair is weaved and her eyes are so sad, so so sad
as if she has just lost her child through stillbirth.
the artist it seems has paid attention to detail in his work
plates are filled with food and glasses are empty of joy,
but it is the discomfort in our hearts that is missing on this painting
the painting and the artist failed to save us,
failed to reveal fear in our hearts with his brushstrokes –

Inclination Combed Your Eyes

where you must float around me
a snapped stone melted into
that bottom of water glass
beside myself, drift currents

it shattered up to sunrise
and rippled through my shirt for
my heart with blue lows drawing
from sea with her fingerprints

a million shores leading out
the more you ebb than ~our ebb~
we feel a thousand lifetimes
same reflections in our gills

Wily Wind Whisperer

The unseen maestro, the wily whistling whisperer,
Cunningly twirls a sway in the bending trees,
Dabs, daubs and draws impasto clouds in the sky,
Lilts, entices, leaves to dance in tune, as it whistles on by.

The field of grass compliant, bends to lithe gusts sly.
Laughing to tickling tongue secrets, beholden in every sigh.
The wind teases waves, torments lakes to ripples.
Their surfaces combed and drawn to rugged stipples.

The wily whisperer winds its way into cracks and holes.
Creating drafts that shake the drapes like ghostly souls.
Defying all attempts to block their breathy intrusion.
You can feel it breathing in and out, expiring confusion.

Oh wily wind, your whispers collude and unwind,
The peaceful slumber of earth and heart entwined.

When he came back

When he came back from the war
So much different than before.
He would sit and stare at the wall.
Thinking there was nothing more.
Do you know what I mean.
Because nobody knew what he had seen

When he decided to go to war
Thought that he would just explore.
He kissed her gently and said goodbye.
Promised he’d be back, please don’t cry.
But you know what I mean.
Because nobody knew what he had seen

His wife would remember all the good times they had had.
She’d recall he promised her
He’d be a real good dad
But now none of this will ever be.

When he came back from the war
He didn't need a woman any  more
She washed his face and combed his hair.
Only when she had time to spare.
But you know what I mean.
Guess you know what I mean.
Because no one saw what he had seen.

Howe Meadow ITQ

Written: January 22, 2024
            _________________________________________

I hear the wild cry as I sleep,
no roaming goats or gulls or sheep.
Tire them out, no trace of dread sweep,
seamless grass is combed by reap.

I heard the humpback cry whale site,
before the day turned into night.
Hunt for krill, girls, and young scouts fight,
boys, singing, as one, of raw dight.

Meadowlarks wave wings in the breeze,
hunt flies in the sun, fly with bees.
Breathe fresh air as lowly birds tease,
tweet, and perch on red tussock trees.

Meadow wrens chirp as streams dry out,
fly high to low till storms cross route.

A Tapestry

A tear in his heart, zigzagging on his own two feet, he combed through his emotions, back and forth, up and down, he was apprehensive but hopeful. A silver lining, A thread to keep him bound. Pray. 

The hands that cut and sewed this fabric tell a story of a life left behind, a story of new beginnings. The hands that have gifted me this tell a story of growing up in the 60s and 70s, a chapter yet to be written; a hope to one day visit the fatherland. Then there is me, I. A story of  a move across the pennines sculpting out a new home. And then there is them, a story of siblings, of two brothers bobbin through 'toddler-hood', weaving through the lives of people and places, ironed in, quilted. A story in the unfolding.

The seams held together, hemmed in memories, a web of stories that blend, woven through faith, gathered in prayer, entwined knots; A family fabric

This Reindeer was Prancy Dancy

This reindeer was almost too prancy-dancy,
Way too eager to look pretty and fancy.
I did not know what to tell my neice Lancy.

I doubted that he had any interest in her.
Too pretty, too neat, organized, too pure.
This reindeer hourly combed up his fur!

The Cat Named Cat Has Died

The cat, named Cat, has died.
The silky Persian who nested in my grandson’s arms.
Strange, how things of the past
are only a few weeks old.
The cat dampened the dog’s fox with his tongue
while Teddy was preoccupied. His paw
in the fox’s cavity, whilst the filiform papillae
roughly combed the puppet’s fur.

Cat was a friendly black Persian, right away welcoming me
into my son’s home. I captured the cockapoo and Persian,
in a photo, side by side, looking out the window.

My heart aches…

The other grandson, after they buried their beloved
in the backyard, was caught taking hair from the brush.

Oh, my heart aches…

• Short Combed Poems
• Famous Combed Poems
• Best Combed Poems
• Read Combed Poems
• Long Combed Poems
• Combed Quotes