Long Hairstyles Poems
Long Hairstyles Poems. Below are the most popular long Hairstyles by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hairstyles poems by poem length and keyword.
So many of us will sell ourselves for the "hype"
Just for a moment in the limelight
Selling their souls for minute of fame, just to see their names in the big bright lights
It can't be easy living in a lie
You can't pay your bills but you wear million dollar hairstyles and name brand shoes just to maintain the "hype"
The Bling Bling life and the social media likes that's all in the "hype"
Driving a Range Rover and you still paying rent. How does that spell sense ? Just to be in the" hype " in the limelight
Fame must have an expensive price
You sleep with Dick, Tom and Harry just to be on the arms of man that the media calls a star
Yes, the "hype " has an expensive price
You sell your values for a moment of fame, all in the name of a" HYPE "
What an expensive price to pay for moment of fame.
If our hair was on trial
And it was called to testify
And tell the truth
Of what the world put it through
It tells the stories
Of all the hairstyles
That it was
It starts with when it was cornrows
It takes the jury back to the fields
Where the blistering heat
Sucked the life out of it
But it tells us a secret
Kept hidden throughout history
Of stories Of survival
To send messages without the slave owners knowing
A way to escape and a form of rebellion
It helped with their freedom
It talks about the how it has been an afro
An act of radical expression
A form of resistance
To say you can't control us
But it also talks about how the system
Tried to silence its existence
And how the ignorant
Took it as an invitation
To touch it without permission
It then talks about all the different braids it was
How it was a form of creative expression
How it captured everyone's attention
In awe of its versatility
But also causing jealousy
This was apart of black legacy
The jury have made their decision
And gone through generations of history
To find our hair not guilty
They offer their apologies
Of the brutality
We endured throughout history
And for us this would be a victory
El Dorado
by Michael R. Burch
It's a fine town, a fine town,
though its alleys recede into shadow;
it's a very fine town for those who are searching
for an El Dorado.
Because the lighting is poor and the streets are bare
and the welfare line is long,
there must be something of value somewhere
to keep us hanging on
to our El Dorado.
Though the children are skinny, their parents are fat
from years of gorging on bleached white bread,
yet neither will leave
because all believe
in the vague things that are said
of El Dorado.
The young men with the outlandish hairstyles
who saunter in and out of the turnstiles
with a song on their lips and an aimless shuffle,
scuffing their shoes, avoiding the bustle,
certainly feel no need to join the crowd
of those who work to earn their bread;
they must know that the rainbow's end
conceals a pot of gold
near El Dorado.
And the painted “actress” who roams the streets,
smiling at every man she meets,
must smile because, after years of running,
no man can match her in cruelty or cunning.
She must see the satire of “defeats”
and “triumphs” on the ambivalent streets
of El Dorado.
Yes, it's a fine town, a very fine town
for those who can leave when they tire
of chasing after rainbows and dreams
and living on nothing but fire.
But for those of us who cling to our dreams
and cannot let them go,
like the sad-eyed ladies who wander the streets
and the junkies high on snow,
the dream has become a reality
—the reality of hope
that grew too strong
not to linger on—
and so this is our home.
We chew the apple, spit it out,
then eat it "just once more."
For this is the big, big apple,
though it is rotten to the core,
and we are its worm
in the night when we squirm
in our El Dorado.
I believe I wrote the first version of this poem during my “Romantic phase” around age 16 or perhaps a bit later. It was definitely written in my teens because it appears in a poetry contest folder that I put together and submitted during my sophomore year in college.
Keywords/Tags: city, life, culture, society, social, addiction, drink, drugs, big apple, New York City, Broadway, Times Square, dream, dreams, reality
Our family came together again yesterday, (which is the reason for this poem)
and, as is our tradition, we took a family portrait before everyone headed home.
Why do we take so many family portraits….it’s quite simple to explain…
because no matter how many family portraits we take…no two portraits are the same.
Every time our family walks out and then back in through our front door
we’ve all changed a little bit…from the portrait we took before.
Sometimes those changes are obvious…the photo captures a singular time and space
new clothes, new glasses, new hairstyles…is that another wrinkle on my face?
Often, however, the changes are more subtle and only our heart is reawakened…
to the metamorphosis each family member has experienced
since the last portrait was taken.
Which is why I pause as I look at each new family portrait…pausing is a must…
It gives my eyes a chance to see the smiles…the changes…
and my heart time to adjust.
I imagine the reason we take so many family portraits
so many times throughout the year
is to remind everyone that whatever changes we go through…
your family’s still here.
Which is why when our family comes together…
even for a little while….
there will be a moment…
sometime in the evening….
when they’ll be asked to SMILE!
As The Rising Sun, The Dawn Came In Softly & Slowly;
&
So Did My Suffering.
Maybe Unexplained Or Unexpected Feelings;
Which Have Been Ignored;
A Sudden Melancholy Skulking In The Silence;
Awaiting The Arrival Of This Day.
The Days Have Regrettably Passed Since We Parted Ways;
About 4 Years Ago, & I Now Wonder If There Was Anything I Could Have Done;
I May Not Have Needed To Spend As Much Time In The Closet;
I Probably Need To Have Paid Closer Attention To How You Felt About Being Anonymous;
Or;
To Anything Else That Would Have Kept You By My Side;
I Am Sorely Missing You Right Now.
My Thoughts Are Hitting Barriers, & My Tears Are Falling Like Waterfalls;
All With Photographs Of You;
Including Your Wild Hairstyles;
Wild Kissing Technique;
All-Gleaming Beard;
Lovely Eyes;
Beautiful Voice;
Undetectable Abs;
&
Silly Smiles.
The Monotonous Music You Listened To In Your Place;
I Can Still Hear Them Playing In My Head From When I Visited;
I Still Occasionally Hear Them In My Brain;
Which Is Shocking, But I Genuinely Miss You & Those Awful Songs.
Waist not an outfit, Barbie with her slip-on shoes,
fairy-belts; plush hair, sometimes in ponytails.
Forget-me-not her impossible figure. Why do some
suppose that Barbie should be fat or ostracised?
So what we dream in fairytales! So what, feminity
is only skin deep and doesn’t include secret places.
Us girls always knew what was there. It’s all pretend.
We live in a fantasy. So what, Ken is not the doll
he’s cracked up to be. He still represents those others,
when we were too young or shy to approach those males.
I loved my Barbie dolls! I didn’t have enough - my aunt
had a whole boxful that I’d play with on yearly visits.
I had a Barbie wig, the kind for a doll’s head. Missing
a wig that just happened to be at my neighbor friend’s.
She said it was hers…it could have been. I didn’t believe
it then…do I believe it now…I do if were meant to
stay friends, even at a distance, because I might fight
for a boxful, but a wig - that’s just ridiculous. Even in
swimsuit stripes, Barbie is striking. She bares her shoulders.
She has those long, luxurious legs. I’m short, but I
can have fun dressing her up. I must buy my wardrobe
on the spot, if it looks good; if it’s a good fit. But
Barbie, she can wear anything. She was better than
paper dolls though I still enjoyed dressing them.
Barbie can be dolled up or wear a tweed suit.
She can have a modern do, wear gloves and a hat.
This trending doll grooves through the ages,
changes colors, hairstyles, and outfits.
Lastly, covid inspired a book idea, for Karen Feder,
Barbie Takes The Catwalk. I saw this Mattel doll
in my library’s oversized book collection…
I had to bring it home, as if it was a puppy dog.
The old combs
Stay with me many years
Now I bought new combs too
But too lazy to use
I stay at home
Especially during MCO
I seldom use mirror or comb
I use my hands to comb most of the time
To tidy the short hair I cut myself
I'm too old to use comb often
I'm too lazy to bother appearance
Which was spoiled by dimmy eyes and ugly wrinkles
Suddenly I think of my parents
Everyday they couldn't do without combs
They brushed their hair tidy and shining
Father with a quick sweep
Mother with a long hour combing straight down
Olden days people like tidiness and cleanliness
Their days are simple
And follow routines and etiquette
Their hearts loyal and simple
Like the being straightened hair
Now people like fashions ,excitements and hairstyles
The combs bring me back
The sweet memories of my parents and their love
The old combs deserve to be kept
In my heart
Especially during this Mother's and Father's Day
The deep fake is running wild in the street, messing with the people you meet, it has turned my voice into a money making machine and exposed my well thought out dreams. Some things that I did not want you to know is used as the main highlight for the morning show and something that I whisper in my dreams are echoed in the middle of the street, the deep fake is all around and my natural voice is nowhere to be found; artificial intelligence has invaded the town.
They have dubbed the mad-man voice to sound like you, and when you speak another voice is speaking over you, the lip-syncing, is what is being done to impersonate the one that carry the dangerous gun.
There are several versions of you on the screen and no one can tell which one is you, the voices sound same but the faces are different and the smiles and the hairstyles gives it away. Sometimes you appears walking without shoe and it is hard to tell who is who, AI has clone you to wear socks and shoes and I know that’s not you.
Come let me show you the proof, the original house has no roof but AI has change it into a luxurious dwelling with gold and silver awning smiling in the middle of the morning.
It has windows that look like castles and gardens that look like paradise, the image you see on the screen is a deep fake and you must visit that place in the middle of the day and your imagination will never lead you astray.
The deep fake has turned the meeting into a circus creating bodies that does not exist and voices that running out of breath oh what deception that has risen from the pit of hell, everyone from France is waking around with straight nose that has no bridge and perfect lips that are ready to sing, is the kind that I have never seen and they only appear in my dream.
Beware of the deep fake in your school for Santa clause is coming soon; you must know the real from the unreal and separate facts from fiction. The deep fake is running errands in town.
You call me a piece a trash and I don’t appreciate that; you call me a piece of trash when life is all that I’ve got. You run around the town courting girls in colorful gowns, exorbitant hairstyles, and eyelashes and make up, with bright red lips that mirror the red sea with vanity stuffed inside and one that hurts the moral and global pride.
You sleep here and you sleep there with sponge from pillows sticking all over your hair and lipstick stuck at the back of your ears and you keep chasing off vanity in your youthful years. You must take time to measure the distance between the moon and the sun for destiny will meet with you very soon so be ready before noon.
I sat underneath the palm tree enjoying the cool breeze blowing from the sea; I absorb the color of the sky, hoping that life will move the other way, but you treat me like trash and the garbage that is piled up around the back, attracting mongoose in the town to bore holes beneath the ground. I could see all the scenario flying in the air, and from the look of things you just don’t care, daylight starts with a fight and at midnight you mess with the lights.
You spend more than an hour in the shower gargling and whistling as if you are singing; I had to pass my urine on the ground for no one can disturb you when your women are in town. You wipe your foot on me, the trash that is scattered on the ground, how happy I will be when life suddenly turns around, and the path will lead me out of this tormenting town.
I mingle in the trash every day, hoping that something good will come my way; it is the agony from the sea, that blows the wind towards me, but I can see something that you cannot sea; there is a wilderness around thee. Everything is in the trash including hidden money that I have not got, the evidence always shows up in the trash with all the clues that you don’t have.
Meet with me at the trash can as soon as you can and learn the truth of how I survived from my youth .Trash is all that you see for your dignity is buried in the sea and when the sea is rough they come up on the shore, but life will give you something much more. Trash is waiting at the door, so get ready to clean it up for heaven is in a rush.
I have always admire hair waves back then,
My hairstyles speak of culture far the sea...
A place I dream but I have always pen;
Maybe if not wrong, my country would be
Just like her, one day.
Visa henceforth, won't delay...
What government portray.
My swags recount past familiar legends
Of insightful pride taking love's guardian,
Haunting down ego to help all survive...
The beast of time, change and grace-- being alive.
Just as fierce as fire,
Dreams keep whole, intense desire
Burning to acquire...
My stepping while on every walk seems cool,
As though I am a peacemaker cum chaos...
That film beasts tempting forsaking wrath's tool,
Ego had long abandoned to hamas.
Just as Gaza cries,
Daily for relieving sighs...
To bring war's demise.
Only my wallet has never, not once
Envelope dollars with handy texture,
That holds transformation to trusty bunce...
Cum life cycle's change- an adventurer.
Just like chance stakes luck,
Fate's creation plays faith dumbstruck
Cum enough havoc.
My supposed tribal marks leads on dispute,
Betwixt my parents; each for a nice take
Arguing her stand of him to bail repute.
How early I am ancestral heartbreak!
Just wondering why so,
Yoruba looks Igbo pro...
My look shines aglow.