Long Haircut Poems
Long Haircut Poems. Below are the most popular long Haircut by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Haircut poems by poem length and keyword.
Oh god, has he lost the plot again?
Look at his eyes, he can’t disguise it’s all on top of him
what kind of person can down vodka at the dinner table
once could’ve earned six figures well now he’ll never be able
every time I see him he’s got some new haircut
he barely says a word and he spends his days half cut
why did he post pictures looking such a state
I guess no one’s gonna see them has he got a single mate?
Oh god, I think he’s gone mad again
did he just spark a *** and smoke it to its end?
Such a bright promise he’s wasted it all
what a steady rise, what a sudden, tragic fall
he clearly isn’t on meds not like the doctor had said
his future what a real dread he may as well just stay in bed
Oh god, he’s absolutely lost it
had it all there in his hands but now he’s gone and dropped it
someone should step in and shake it out of him
all those years of hard work and now he’s thrown it in the bin
with him you never know what’s coming
open up his mouth and he’ll soon send you running
what a disgrace, he’s ended up such a state
but I have no sympathy he’s sealed his own fate
Oh god, has he lost the plot again?
Look at his size, his glassy eyes
he needs it all to stop again
is he low or is he high
could he even tell you why
he gave up on it all
thought he was a fighter but he can’t recover from this fall
it’s all on top of him and this time he really knows it
just one look at that tired face and every bag really shows it
with everything he’s lost what is he going to do? Type of person that you see and you’re glad it’s not you
In so many shades of black and white, I find you after all these years;
leaning against that old weathered clapboard schoolhouse,
high on the hill overlooking the Fundy Bay,
and again, I inhale the fragrance of those wild sea salt roses
and feel the ocean mist upon my face, as I look out at those
sunbeams dancing on the tops of those rolling waves.
There you are, in your hand-me-down dress,
with socks pooling around the tops of your shoes.
There, third row to the far left, sporting a home made bowl haircut,
and a smile of utter joy.
After all years, in so many shades of black and white,
I find that little lost girl, and I am a kid again.
In so many shades of black white, I find the true colors that are me.
~~~
Author: Elaine Cecelia George
I made love - felt like I hadn't shaved for 24 hours,
went outside, wet, got caught in some snow showers,
white specks on a black man, an albino down the road,
when I returned, my partner was reading 'The Da Vinci Code.'
Someone said that those guys had a poncey beard,
The Illuminati gathering just like Robert Langdon feared,
I wonder if anyone else had drawn a perfect circle,
yes, my barber design with the fade haircut magical.
Not forgetting my tattoos, logos on my designer shoes,
the winner takes it all, what is there left to lose;
I was accused of looking just like D'artagnan,
they can say what they like, I'm my greatest fan.
See the muscles chaps, never mind 'Angels and Demons,'
my ears are listening, glistening, filled with diamonds.
stepping out of the post office, I turned towards sounds of loud
crashing glass and shredding metal. Through the bright summer morning I
can see what just happened, two cars (actually, a guy in a pickup truck and
a lady in a car) tried to challenge amber lights, and upon seeing another
vehicle competing for the same amber, both sped-up to beat the other at the
last second. Well, it didn't work out real good, see'ins how they both
were thinkin' alike. At mach-speed, they veered away from each other at the
last second, the pickup slipped by (and kept on goin) but the car with the
lady crashed into the barbershop on the corner (that's what I heard) throngs
of onlookers converged on the scene. The lady sprawled halfway out of her
car, with her lower half wedged under the steering wheel, staring lifeless at
the sky. Joking to the crowd, one of the Postmen standing around shouted
"she musta wanted a haircut" I heard laughter echoing around me. Anger
filled me, I wanted to shout "what about her family? they don't know how
much their lives just changed! how can you laugh?" ....... the Postman went
back inside to sell stamps ...... I went home ......... she went to the morgue for
identification.
My biggest influence was Van Gogh, after he cut off his ear.
For being lopsided and askew is what I don’t fear.
His uneven brush strokes and off-balanced yellow sky
Makes his art intriguing, he simply is the real guy.
I am a cartoonist, a poet, a writer, a painter too.
Like Van Gogh, I am off-centered, slanted, and slightly askew.
My fingers are crooked, my haircut is gorgeously uneven for sure.
I squint when I see you, my artistic prowess is childlike and pure.
Like Van Gogh, my art is not appreciated, yet, I am fast and I’m quick.
I love stirring up paints into mixtures furiously colorful and thick.
My biggest influence is Van Gogh, after he cut off his annoying ear.
With this kind of guardian angel, I have less than nothing to fear.
he sits
she cuts
hair once dark
like nights
of passion shared
now white
with streaks
and still she cuts
remembering
this once bold man
strong and full of challenge
mighty shoulders
arms that lifted her with ease
squeezed her breathless
brought her to her knees
with love
now flaccid weak
balding gray
this man she loves
so dearly
fades away
through her tears
she cuts
remembering
his loving touch
with hands
firm and smooth
marked with veins
that pumped
his hearts longing
through his body
to her loins
and now
a morning kiss
a peck goodnight
what love remains
she cuts.
(Was on a pic of a llama with a thick lock of hair on his head, styled in quite human like fashion and it was grinning. If u google llamas perhaps then u will understand what I mean)
This flesh 'n' blood cousin of the ship 'o' the desert
here is given that funky punky , stylish haircut?
Could it be optical illusion or screen manipulation
causing him to grin in mock jubilation?
And ain't he gonna toss those bangs like some real groovy llama?
My doesn't he look ready for any showbiz dromedary drama?
Ah yes, he does look handsome, do come have a view
of this fuzzy, comedy dromedary beau!
Send in the paparazzi, for he's already saying cheese
But he prefers his own kind, send in some lady llamas please.
Hey, like humans, llamas can stick their tongues out and spit to express displeasure
So keep your distance from angry ones or you will regret the mismeasure
The one I see in the picture is a cool llama teenaager
but he's no teeny-bopper, for he's a teetotaller
as no one ever saw him
with a bottle of gin or lager!
Now, as a general rule, sergeants are rather decent guys,
Compassionate, reasonable to a degree and uncommonly wise.
But woe to the private who incurs a sergeant's wrath;
That young feller is destined to tread a very treacherous path!
For minor infractions, privates are relegated to the latrine,
To scrub and polish therein to make it squeaky clean!
A prudent private daren't give his sergeant any sass,
Or he'll push a lawnmower, cutting acres of never-ending grass!
If in close-order drill and saluting he is less than deft,
The sergeant will nix his pass, leaving the lad bereft!
Lord have mercy if buttons are missing from his uniform;
That will incite the sergeant into a massive, raging storm!
If he fails barracks inspection, he'd best not make any plans,
For he'll be in the dining hall scrubbing pots and pans!
If his haircut is not up to snuff, that'll add to his plight;
He'll be pacing his post on guard throughout the lonely night!
Although some sergeants are more endearing than many others,
And some it seems could be loved only by their mothers,
A canny private will play the game and abide with all the guff,
Praying his hitch will end, never more to suffer all that fluff!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
What a colourful world we live in so much beauty to see
From the clear blue skies above birds flap their wings so happy to be free
The bright yellow object in the sky sends light and warmth, surely sending waves of happiness our way
The tall green grass requests a haircut,take a little off but not down to the clay
My day begins with a glass of orange juice and my toast waiting patiently to be smothered with blackberry jam
It, 's a good thing traffic lights are bright red, green and yellow or surely there would be a lot of slams
To show your love to your partner a dozen roses I am sure she would adore
When the skies turn grey and the rain funnels down the black asphalt inherits puddles galore
Imagine the dilemma of finding your car in a parking lot if all cars were white
Christmas lights with their bold, beautiful and bright colours such a delight
Life is full of a wide array of colourful things for us to enjoy
The site of a rainbow with its multi colours about to deploy
How small we were sitting in the backseat of that mammoth car. We were dwarfed on the giant sofa-like bench waiting like a great amusement ride about to start. While we waited we explored our new surroundings. The lining inside the cavernous car was short-hair and smooth and as we ran our small hands across the surface, it felt like a young boy’s scalp after his first summer haircut. It was grey, the color of an elephant toy that had been won by our uncle last year at the fourth of july carnival. We explored the shiny chrome ashtrays. You could see your reflection in them like a mirror and we wondered if the owner used them to shave in the mornings as his chauffeur drove him to work. They were spring-loaded and snapped viciously at our little fingers. They smelled of foul ash and stale gum. There were large cranks with polished brown knobs, handles that controlled the windows. Turning them took all our strength like cranking the hand pump for water in the kitchen at Grandmas house on the farm. There were baby windows beside the big ones and they closed with little widget clips, swiveling inward so you could control the direction and amount of air that rushed in when the car was in motion. Too small to see outside, we sat dwarfed in the backseat watching the tops of trees go by and playing with a doll and a green plastic soldier. The doll was homemade from an old sock. The soldier, alone, separated from an army of plastic soldiers that came in a bag we could not afford. He was found, as most toys were, in the gutter or on the schoolyard, abandoned by the more affluent children. Small, simple toys that would not be missed from a rich kids over-stuffed closet. We knew we had to be quiet, for to make noise would be to draw attention that would come in the form of punishment. A slap on the bare thigh of a young boy in shorts or a young girl in a dress would leave a red welt for hours. The ride always seemed so very long that soon our patience would give out and a bump in the road would trigger a tidal wave of emotions; a push escalating to a shove, a pinch and then a shout. The crested wave would end in a crashing roar with a parents’ curse, a stinging slap, and a whimpering cry. Only puddles remaining, tide pools composed of wet pants and tears.