Long Hairbrush Poems
Long Hairbrush Poems. Below are the most popular long Hairbrush by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hairbrush poems by poem length and keyword.
A small hairbrush
On a small shelf
Over her bed
We had talked together
The night before
Not about the weather
Hurricane
Raining; 40 days and 40 nights
Had we talked about the weather
We had talked about things
Things difficult to talk about
Hard to continue, hard to stop
I had seen her comb her hair
I had not seen her brush it
It was a small hairbrush
A brush made for smaller hands than mine
I could picture her mother; brushing her hair
A memento; of mother lost
I showed her the brush; standing in front of the mirror
Picture a beach: children playing under the sun
Picture a beach: winter storm coming on strong
Picture a mirror: two faces
Picture two facial expressions
Changing; like waves on the sea
Picture a bed
Picture two people sharing it
Close encounters
I decided to by her a gift
Thought about what to buy
Not a hair brush
A candy dish in cobalt glass
Reflecting temptations
Beneath the heavy cover
A hairbrush fuzzy with gray down
From the head it combed
On nights spent alone, awake
A cast iron skillet
Melting fatback and butter
Frying potatoes, tomatoes and okra
A earth colored hoe
Resting against the fence
Dripping hope against sweaty palms
A cigarette lit, smoldering
In the hazy Autumn sun
Leaving breaths of smoking hope
A prayer lifted to the sky
Whispered on eager lips
With a desire to do what’s right
A faded black bible
On the center of the coffee table
Waiting for her to drink of Him
A light flickering in the dark
Haunting the moon with thoughts
Of the moments that have long gone
A old plate with painted flowers
Alive with sunflowers and pansies
Glimmering through cracked edges
A dawn that awakens laughter
On the heart of one who praises
In the inspirational poems and prose
A woman who is gone now
Living in heaven with God’s Son
Where nothing here can concern her
She is remembered, missed, faded
Into the background of a tenderness
That dances through psalms with grace
Her heart was warm and rich
With humble kindness
A gentle faith that gives love its blush
She was my grandmother
And I will never forget her charm
The vibrant life flowing through her soul
Never forgotten – always loved
She is a tattoo of fireflies, dancing
Reminding me that I am still alive
cracked Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anthony Biaanco
March 5, 2023
after months
many moons
taking to my
hairbrush
pulling out
the hair that
my brush had
pulled out
from my head
and beard but
what to do
with it as it
seems a waste
to throw away
so pondering
thoughts thinking
recycle
so first i tried
to be a cat and
swallow then
throw up
but
hairballs
aren't any
fun so then
drying it out
trying to
push it in
as if lint
into my
bellybutton
but it was
too small so
next
puckering my
lips as to kiss
adding this
hair to where
my mustache
already
exists
it tickled
my nose
to sneeze not
wanting none
of this
so thus lit
the lightbulb
above my head
a great idea
super gluing
back where
it had
come
from
touche
toupee
Form:
A photo on a dating site
How gorgeous that girl looked
By text we flirted all that night
And I was truly hooked
She looked like a celebrity
Like Marilyn Monroe
With sexy eyes and pouting lips
And slim from head to toe
We texted till we felt at ease
And then we made the choice
We swapped our numbers eagerly
To chat some more by voice
She said some sexy things to me
(And some that made me blush)
I praised her lovely curly hair
She praised her own hairbrush
But I’m a proper cockney
And it turns out so was she
One thing she did the same as me
Was say ‘H’ silently
So when we met I got a shock
It seemed I’d got it wrong
Her ‘H’ had not been silent
For an ‘H’ did not belong
She hadn’t used her hairbrush
And her airbrush was long gone
Because the girl in front of me
Looked just like Elton John
______________
[‘Goodbye Norma Jean’ from ‘Candle In The Wind’
by the aforementioned Mr John]
Poe was always revising his prose between publications. Here are the longest extended versions of sentences he shortened for their final publication in his lifetime:
"We loved each other with a love that was more than love, more love than fit in an empty grotes bag, more than the love of worms if you were a hungry, hungry catfish."
"I became insane, with long intervals of sanity, then more insanity, then sane for a while, then my brain got all twisted up and went mad, then I got better. I've lost track."
"All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream, within another dream, within a rusty tubular tin box of sewing needles made into the handle of a doll's hairbrush."
"Believe only half of what you see, nothing of what you hear, three quarters of what you taste, one-tenth of what you feel, but the entirety of what you smell."
"Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night, as for example bats, yes bats, did you know you could leave the cage door open in the bright of day and your bats will go nowhere."
"Sleep, those little slices of death, how I loathe them, also the neighbor's nippy little dog, egads I hate that dog."
"If you wish to forget anything on the Spot, make a note that this thing is to be remembered, then tie it to Spot's collar, and turn him loose in some terrible neighborhood where people eat dogs."
"To elevate the soul, poetry is necessary, also those little candy root beer barrels."
"I felt that I breathed an atmosphere of sorrow, but it was Catterina that farted."
"I fell violently on my face, rolled to my side, grunted horrible grunts of gruntlyness, then flopped onto my back and waved my arms all about, still grunting."
"Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all, while Catterina licked her paws and I felt around in my pocket for my last dime but all I found was a raggedy little hole."
The 18th of December was her last day;
she neither knew the date nor cared to.
Gathered at the hospital, keeping vigil,
we never overcame her fright, or ours.
The pain, too great to be driven away,
was only managed with IV drips,
needles stuck in bruised appendages --
bony things, arms and legs, hands and feet.
Above the medicines and washes,
we sniffed her scent, which, more
than her familiar face, identified our mother --
a smell we never could mistake for any other.
It went quickly as her body cooled.
The rouged and pickled carcass they
displayed was more a statue than a person.
We planned to bury her with homely tokens,
like an ancient mummy: a family photo,
a brooch she liked, a pink hairbrush --
and the brass bell she rang to call
her keeper during her last years.
But, when the time came, I could not
bear to see her leave so finally.
I took the bell from her metal box.
Now, I ring it -- not to bring a keeper,
but to recall my mother on her birthday,
and on many dark days when I need her.
She could not stay, my friend.
It’s hurts to see a friend who yearns for a love he has lost,
No fault, no blame is his.
Just the cruel and untimely snatching of a life that held so much promise.
He wakes in the darkness -his heart still beats, his breath still draws,
His solitary sadness enfolds him in place of arms that once held him close.
While silent tears fall, he tries to recall the features of her face.
The smile that lit up his world, eyes that sparkled with mischief or flashed with desire.
The gentle mouth that spoke soothing words and laughed at all his jokes.
The lips that caressed his own … so long ago.
The world carried on regardless … how could that be so?
Why did it not stop, when the best part of it was no longer here?
He looks at the door each day … waiting for her to appear.
But no, the girl shaped space remains. He hears her voice in the growing silence.
He smells the faint, lingering perfume that conjures up the summer days of their love.
An abandoned hairbrush that brings to mind lustrous hair that once lay upon his chest.
What lies ahead?
Will his heart leap again?
Is there love to be found or will it come looking for him?
He waits … hoping … wanting … needing … his heart yearning to be filled,
Waiting for a hand that he can hold on to and a heart that will belong and never more be lost.
March 22, 2017
He primps that dome like it’s his crown,
A shiny orb, the talk of town.
Shaves that bowling ball twice a day,
No rogue hairs dare to stay.
Refined olive oil, scentless, slick—
His scalp’s own secret, glossy trick.
Then Axe spray rains, a scented storm,
Because the ladies find that charm.
Post-shower, towel wraps so neat,
Humidity’s spa for his heat.
Pores open wide, like welcome mats,
While he admires himself in flats.
Mirrors lurk in every nook,
Catching every shiny look.
Not married yet? “I’m picky,” he grins,
Waiting for love to roll right in.
On his dresser, a brush sits proud—
No bristles live, it’s just a shroud.
A hairbrush purely for show,
To tease the girls who don’t quite know.
No follicles, but full of flair,
Hair-care metaphors everywhere.
A follicle-free knight of sheen,
The baldest king you’ve ever seen.
So this is it. It’s finally here.
Your last school day has come
No more morning drop offs
No more rushed school run.
No more sandwiches to pack
No more sports kit to acquire
No frantic searching for the socks
Hiding somewhere in the dryer
No more crazes to embrace
No whirring fidget spinners
No scoubidos or scooters
No more school hot dinners
No more earnest pleas for help
Or passionate persuasions
To help with your maths homework
And solve quadratic equations !
A vista stretches far behind
When you were very young
And had to have your hair combed flat
But never in a bun !
Mum was taking all the flack
When your bottom lip would wobble
Armed with just a hairbrush
And a Clare’s, Pink Princess, bobble
Selling cakes and muffins
When cake stall day came round
Besieged by hungry children
At the home time bells shrill sound
Scrubbing out car carpets
With some enzyme killing spray
And vowing I would NEVER
Take you back to “Shakeaway”
No more sunny sports days
Then a picnic under trees
Nor helping at school discos
When the heat hit 80 degrees !
No more frantic walks to school
No chatting at the gate
No more nudge to hurry up
So we didn’t sign in late
No more uniform to buy
No September feet to measure
No school concerts to attend
And glow with pride and pleasure
No more avid watching
For the slightest trace of snow
Yearning for a snow day
Tuned to local radio
No more parents evenings
Time to sort out all the debts
To remember all those good times
and never have regrets.
We will treasure all these moments
Hold them close within our heart
There are other seas for you to sail
So soon you must depart.
These memories are so precious
These moments are so rare
So wherever life’s path takes you
If you need us - we’ll be there.
I’ve always loved the color pink.
It is the color of ballerinas, barbie dolls, butterfly clips,
And other silly things like those.
Pink is cute
Pink is frilly
Pink is girly
Who would love this fragile color?
Certainly not a strong girl like myself.
Why don’t I like a strong color,
A mighty color,
A fearless color?
Why would I love the color of weak?
The color of soft?
The color of meek?
I do still love pink.
Pink clothes,
A pink rose,
Even a pink nose.
It lurks on the covers of my notebooks,
On my hairbrush,
Even my mouthwash is pink.
Although bolder colors call, I still always chose pink.
Why?
Because kindness is hard.
And because meekness takes strength.
Because living life in love is a choice.
Pink is the courage to be kind.
I've always loved the color pink.