Long Hair Poems
Long Hair Poems. Below are the most popular long Hair by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hair poems by poem length and keyword.
Dear ghost in my wall, do you hear when I call? Do you fear that we all, will disappear? Maybe no. Do you crawl, beneath my bed, while I lie down my head, and I dream of you? I'm sorry that I screamed at you. Do you come out at night? Do you play with my hair? Are you so, unaware that I know? Are you where, there are no more tomorrows? Is it anger that you fight, or is it despair? Is that why, you're still here, living in my wall? Don't be frightened, by the sight of my humanized life. I'm just so insecure, of that light shining there, at the end of that hall. Oh dear, insincere, my biggest fear, I'm talking to you because I'm, in the wall. My God, you're not dead, it was me, that instead, died where I fell, down in that hall. I'm in Hell. I feel unwell, I'm sorry for the way that you all ran away, when I was sad, and haunting y'all. But please say a prayer, because now, I am aware that I'm the ghost, you all fear, that's living, all alone, down in the wall.
WHEN I WAS A KID, I DID THE USUAL BALLET AND TAP
THEN, I JUST DIDN'T ANYMORE BECAUSE I WAS A TEENAGER SEE . . .
WHEN, I WAS IN MY TWENTIES MY BFF AND I SAW AN ANNOUCEMENT
AT THE UNIVERSITY LOOKING FOR DANCERS TO JOIN A GROUP
AND WE SAID TO EACH OTHER WHY NOT, HECK YES, LETS DO IT!
SO WE WENT TO THE MEET AND GREET, OH MY,
IT WAS INTIMIDATING, THESE GIRLS WERE BEAUTIFUL
AND DANCED LIKE BUTTERFLIES. I WAS NOT SO SURE ANYMORE
BUT, MY FRIEND WAS CONFIDENT WE WOULD BE ACCEPTED.
THEY DEMONSTRATED A SIMPLE ROUTINE FOR US TO USE . . .
AND MY TURN CAME TO AUDITION. OH, WHY WERE MY FEET STUCK?
WHY HAD ALL THOUGHTS LEFT MY HEAD? I KNOW I GOT MOST OF
THE MOVES WRONG, BUT I PUT MY EVERYTHING INTO IT
I SWUNG MY LONG RAVEN HAIR, SWIRLED MY HIPS AND FLASHED
MY LEGS AND CRASHED INTO A WALL . . . NO ONE SPOKE
THE ROOM WAS SILENT. THANK YOU THEY SAID.
THEN, MY BBF HAD HER TURN, OKAY, I WAS BAD BUT SHE WAS
AWFUL, SHE LOOKED DERANGED, I DON'T THINK SHE GOT ONE
MOVE RIGHT AND EVEN I HAD TO HOLD BACK LAUGHING, LIKE
WAS SHE DOING THAT ON PURPOSE OR WHAT?
ANYWAYS, WE DIDN'T MAKE THE GROUP THAT DAY . . .
WE LEFT THERE FEELING LIKE TWO IDIOTS, FULL OF DISGRACE
AND WENT FOR A DRINK OR TWO, OR THREE . . .
OKAY WE GOT DRUNK AND HAD A GOOD LAUGH AT OURSELVES.
TO THIS DAY WHEN WE GET TOGETHER WE RECALL THAT
AUDITION AND LAUGH AT HOW WE LET OUR HAIR DOWN THAT
DAY . . . SO THAT OUTRAGEOUS ATTEMPT, THOUGH SILLY AND
STUPID IS A FUN AND WONDERFUL MEMORY WE NOW SHARE.
__________________
January 24, 2017
Poetry/Free Verse/ME AND MY FRIEND
Copyright Protected, ID 17-8686-19-0
All Rights Reserved. Written Under Pseudonym.
Written for the contest, Letting Your Hair Down
sponsor, Frank Herrera
Third Place
("Noh" is an ancient Japanese style of
drama, broadly similar to Elizabethan
tragedy. "The Wind in the Pines" is
my version of a well-known Noh play.)
2. The Beach, After Dark
The coast has drowned in the gloomy night,
but the moon shines. Two women in white
come along the shore - Matsukaze,
with her sister Murasame.
They seem to float like smoke, in dresses
with long, wide sleeves, their hair in tresses.
MATSUKAZE
The sad waves lap on our feet,
then slide back. Like hope, they meet
us running, then dissipate. Once spent,
they slink off, ashamed, but can't prevent
falling down to the cold sea.
This is how it must always be.
MURASAME
When the tide relinquishes its assault on land
and drains away, it is sure to strand
small pools among the boulders, strewn
along the beach. And, all too soon,
the life in these tiny oceans, forlorn,
will fade, like you and I, before the dawn.
MATSUKAZE
The moon can't cast any light through the pine.
Our lovely sleeves, weighted down with brine,
will tire us quickly. Crabs without shells,
we are women who have no lover. Smell
the sea fog, sister! Like a clammy dress,
it clings to us, like our loneliness.
MURASAME
Salt in everything. In our hair, our skin.
It sucks out our essence, leaves us thin
and pale. Our only company, the moon ...
and she will weaken and flounder, soon
enough. She stirs the ocean, churning
chill water, exciting in us a hopeless yearning.
MATSUKAZE
I hear the fishermen out on the sea,
and I want there to be a man for me.
They call, one to another. Out there.
I smell smoke stinging the air,
but no woodsman sees my boxwood comb.
They cut fresh reeds, not for my home.
MURASAME
Look, sister! The moon's in my pail!
And in yours, too. But there it sails,
up in the sky, singular, not two.
These little moons are like me and you,
illusions that can never truly be,
two facets of one destiny.
LUCKY MAY
May, May is welcome
And by these roads, these lanes
Young people come to home
To sing to my sisters.
What pretty they are
With her golden hair
And coloured lassos
And my mother combing them
To disentangle it.
That is their faces
What face so bright¡
Their lips, what loveliness¡
Painted with lipsticks
Where the same Cupid
A Kiss plant.
Their eyes, waht pretty and lovely¡
As star lighting the same Sky.
Their snub noses
(I wish I could to have them¡)
Silver twists are
That none of the jeweller
Knows draw
Only mother Daniela
As their ivory teeth
And their two little bust
Behind their white blouses
As two early lemons
With a dress of virgin
With brads in its shorts
Straight to the point
Axle of dancing and music
Moving their nice legs
And their agile feet.
And Me, now, an injured angel
With all my features as seraph
Imploring to our mother
That she plays a May with me
Dressing me as my sisters
With Rosemary flowers
With legominous flowers
Puting in my hand
A palm of Sun and Moon
As my lovely sisters
Because I want to dress as a little girl
And don’t want to be more
The Little man of the home
In the Lucky May.
Hisajo Sugita was an innovative and influential female Japanese haiku poet:
I remove my beautiful kimono:
its varied braids
surround and entwine my body
?Hisajo Sugita, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
This day of chrysanthemums
I shake and comb my wet hair,
as their petals shed rain
?Hisajo Sugita, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
This sheer kimono?
how the moon peers through
to my naked skin!
?Hisajo Sugita, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
These festive flowery robes?
though quickly undressed,
how their colored cords still continue to cling!
?Hisajo Sugita, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Chrysanthemum petals
reveal their pale curves
shyly to the moon.
?Hisajo Sugita, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Loneliness?
reading the Bible
as the rain deflowers cherry blossoms.
?Hisajo Sugita, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
How deep this valley,
how elevated the butterfly's flight!
?Hisajo Sugita, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
How lowly this valley,
how lofty the butterfly's flight!
?Hisajo Sugita, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Echoes from the hills?
the mountain cuckoo sings as it will,
trill upon trill
?Hisajo Sugita, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
A "Real Man"
Written By: D. Collins 3/26/17
We’re all sub-standard to hear women tell it.
With no emotions, low-down, mean, and jealous.
We should provide them with funds to feed their kids.
Step up to the plate, and get their hair did.
Paying child support, a car note, and all his bills.
Makes a “Real Man” with unblemished skills.
He raises his daughter all by himself.
Never seeking assistance from anyone else.
He puts in the work to keep his son alive.
Teaching him the ropes, and how to survive.
A “Real Man” shows his children nothing but love.
No different than what a strong, woman does.
He bears the brunt, and even takes the bullet.
Ten times over, that’s just how he would do it.
Even sharing the love with those who aren’t his.
That’s what a “Real Man” does, and always did.
I see you
I see you in the smoke thin air
I see your hair fluffing in the wind
You look so handsome
The man who is so proud
A lion in this animal kingdom
Who is the leader of the pack
Who speaks no nonsense
And seeks no pretense
Who cares about what others think
What he can do for the good of the people
I see your dreams and visions
That you want to trump
I see your unshaken beliefs
Your foundation to the Father
Who we all hold dear
I see the love that speaks volume
The passion smoldering in your eyes
The fire that burns within
The smoke that could start any fire
The brilliance that you display
The unaffected conviction that can overcome any resistance
The challenge that you pose to others
To conquer or be conquered
God had made you like that
The wind
The song
The air
The life that blows
Can you see?
Clearing dumb thoughts
like sunspots that cool my gleaming demeanor.
I am brilliant and shining brilliantly.
My light is dying the deep-blue sea
yellow; Laughter in its dark hungry belly.
Happy, dancing, rainbow jellyfish
wave long angel-hair arms back at me.
So what if the light only hits the water?
The ocean is my daughter and she sings for me.
When you look away to shield your eyes;
I have no disguises in which to hide.
That light dances and bounces off you anyway.
I'll find you any time of day you need me.
everywhere you are, you're seeing. You're seeing me.
I am shining brilliantly.
Look up to your sun
I am warming everyone.
I will never forget
grandma's gentle touch, and
no time spent with her will I ever regret
because I loved her so much
and those hands would reach out for me
holding me tightly to her beating heart . . .
that is, until death came and she had to depart
and it was I, who stroked her soft white hair weeping
with tears to fill the wide blue ocean
weeping 'til those hands that had grown so fragile lay
still, like a twisted road map of her life . . .
__________________________
August 15, 2020
Poetry/Free Verse/Grandma's Hands
Copyright Protected, ID 20-1279-021-03
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
Written for the contest, STRAND COMPLETELY NEW (22)
sponsor, Brian Strand
First Place
Her skin is softer than the cotton of a Southern field;
she ignites the desire of a knight deserting the battlefield,
slowly caressing every inch of her body...
arousing in her the thrill of ecstasy.
Her young lips are warmer that the evening sun,
and they can't escape the temptation
to explore a short-lived obsession...
deluding themselves with the hope of passing it on.
If sweet kisses could turn into snowflakes and become indelible as memory,
her velvety dress would be decorated with their unutterable beauty,
never allowing the distant sun melt them with its blistering breath...
winter clouds would brush her highlighted hair bringing in a surreal sunset.
Her skin is softer than the cotton of a Southern field...
much silkier than a rose illuminated by a moon so pallid;
her image is similar to that of Mona Lisa with lovely eyes so wide,
and a virtuous, radiant smile that captures a weak heart like mine.
Let me squeeze her like I would squeeze the fluffiest pillow;
she may giggle, or scream for the tickling sensation...
making me fondle her more: until I slip into another tomorrow
with the notion that I have reached my gratification.