Long Headband Poems
Long Headband Poems. Below are the most popular long Headband by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Headband poems by poem length and keyword.
In twilight's hush, where shadows play,
A maiden sits, in white array,
Upon the steps of ancient stone,
A temple's grandeur, all her own.
Her dark tresses cascade, like night,
Down her back, a gentle, flowing light,
Adorned with jewels, shining bright,
A headband, earrings, and a necklace's delight.
Her arms, crossed over knees so fine,
A pose of contemplation, divine,
As if lost in thought, she sits and stays,
Amidst the spires, that touch the cloudy rays.
The temple's carvings, intricate and old,
Tell tales of myths, and stories untold,
The sky above, a cloudy sea,
Adds to the serenity, of this scene, so free.
In this serene and peaceful place,
The maiden's beauty, is a work of art, a flame,
That burns, a gentle, peaceful light,
A moment captured, in the still of night.
~ Sabbath in the Olden Times ~
(Shabbos in der Alter Tzeiten) The title in the Yiddish language
Mama lit the candles
Totty blessed the wine Father
Tova's white headband Female (here, a girl) first name
her hair and face a-shine
Duvid sang a zemer Boy's nickname; Sabbath song
Totty and the orech pitched in Guest
The kneidlach oh-so-delicious Matzo balls (in the soup)
On Shabbos eating's no sin
We benched grace in style After-meal blessings
tender melodies lingered a while...
Time to wish a teyere 'Gut Shabbos' A precious 'Good Sabbath'
up to bed for a sweet night's rest
She knows her own heart, wears it well, shows it off.
People want to be with her, she has groupies.
They cannot wait to see her, every year, at the festival.
She is the pretty one with a flowered headband.
She creates while others merely chat.
Her tools are busy, as she develops new products.
A Gemini, she is always busy, never still.
Her smile is a delight, her laugh infectious as the sun.
We do not know her name, it is not important.
She is fun to watch, many come to do just that.
She makes the festival seem worthwhile.
Many buy one item from her each year.
She is always delighted when people buy her things.
Pieces of her soul she has put together in wreaths,
Dream catchers, vases, wind chimes and such
She is a beautiful, modern, lovely, kind hippie
Farewell, au revoir, goodbye, convivial summer.
The day is late now, and the breeze is warmer.
A vacant ocean-side barricaded motel.
Wild geese are soon flying in lines as well.
Vacation homes drop their literate barricades.
This rich sweeping green tone will soon fade.
In this season, buds and fruits are abundant.
Melons and garden load are ardent.
Tanned skin, sailboats, and folded linen suits.
When the world is more positive than disputes,
Pollen irritates the sinuses of sensitive patients.
Now they've fled to the farm, the coast nascent.
Stop their passing endeavor at escape.
The Ferris wheel in LEGOLAND is agape.
The Cape no longer trades in quirkiness.
A glum family descends from the murkiness.
To welcome their offspring back from camp.
Mature year, scarlet maple boughs, raised scamp.
Sunburned shoulders disappear at summer's end.
Goodbye to the peasant's headband.
Goodbye storms and dirty white shoes.
Goodbye summer friends, pants, shorts, and cruse.
Farewell, tennis peculiar desire to be difficult.
Farewell picnics, ice tea, and plane trips, munificent.
Written: August 19, 2022
Black Sheep
Her beleaguered parents, had it
with her.
That daughter and her mouth,
forever causing a mighty stir!
They went to downtown
Chicago,
To see Dr.Zhivago, hoping this
might quiet her.
But no, in their daughter, it was
more like an intellectual stir.
She stopped going to Mass
and left the Catholic Church.
Her Father weeping, he was
far more than hurt.
That spunky young woman
dropped out of college.
Then, in the dead of winter,
eloped to the West Coast in a
Midwest blizzard, she happily
left, without their knowledge.
Yes, she became part of the
50's Beat Generation.
And the "Tune In, Drop Out of
Work Nation."
Both parents, several years
later at a total loss, when she
sported a huge peace symbol!
And an Indian headband,such
a zany daughter, looking always
for a new struggle?
She finally settled down, moving
to the West Coast.
Where they found out, she was
having far more fun than most.
They wanted her back in the
boring Midwest!
Alas, she had fallen in love with
the gods of individuality and
wildness.
The Black Sheep found ultimate
happiness you see, in being
beholden to no one.
She, the Black Sheep, found her
home, heart, life and her love,
most assuredly!
Under the glorious, amber lights
of the Golden Gate Bridge on the
wings of a sea gull!
She, in her free and glorious state,
baptized him....poetry!
July 14,2019
10:30 pm
Entered in Anthony Slausin's Contest..
"Black Sheep"
It’s a bit of a pull running up from Maida Vale
to Saint John’s Wood but my legs feel no pain.
Back then I had corded limbs
that could run on the liquid fuel
of feckless youth.
Running shoes push spirited blood
up into a glowing muscular brawn.
Speeding past Abbey Road studios
listening to Warren Zevon
hammering a piano, his hair flowing,
the music coming together with werewolf howls.
Mind and body unwinding like a clockwork ******.
A woman with a pink headband
rests on a pavement bench.
She has also been running. I sit at her feet,
she pets my long hairy ears.
my lolling tongue slurping her hand,
but I must leap away to bay at many moons
until age gnaws away the very marrow
of these my last dog-days.
Let's applaud our
Adored Lord Broad
Fame and awards
Crossing swords &
Bossing visiting hordes
Name in the frame
On Lords boards
Cooing..wasn't it grand
Tanned boy with headband
Wooing the fanned stand
No wonder we're so fond
Of this towering..glowering
Powering flowering blonde
Plumping for knees pumping
Hearts a jumping
All a flutter
Tub thumping
Jaffas he's a scrumping
Utter bowling nutter
Batters in tatters
On the ropes
Slain with disdain
Hopes in vain
Dope tropes
Broad roared
Insane hurricane
Yet again
That strength of fine
Alright divine
Line and length
Vertiginous delight
Prodigious insight
Canny..crafty will
Log in to his noggin
Didactic tactic thrill
Found going round
Was gravy..on the money
Crowned genius genesis
Hefty lefty nemesis
Davy Warner..his bunny
Gladly listened to Hadlee
Took note of what
The Goat did float
Shorten your run son
Well must embellish
Relish to hone
To still cherish..own the throne
With Jimmy his friend
Found at their home grown ground
Got their own eponymous end
Game's pantomime dame
If everything else fails
Wrist twist of the bails
Burning beacon flame
What a gusto way to go
For our dearly loved maestro
Bravado even braggadocio
Willy Wonka winning ticket
Plucky...jammy...lucky
Hero cheerio double whammy
As Broad encored..
Last ball bowled..got a wicket
Last ball faced for 6 did flick it
Helluva a way
For our stellar fella
To say goodbye
To Test cricket
I search my purse for money or credit cards.
Discovering four brochures from September
Receipts from the veterinarian clinic with dog tags
Twelve poem ideas jotted on a red napkin
A used toothpick with gum at the end of it
Four pens that do not write
One pen that writes which I can usually never find in this purse
A blue dog collar
Battered melted peanut butter cup
Sticky roll that has escaped a baggie
House key I do not remember having
Grandchild’s pink and yellow headband
Shot glass, but why? I do not drink.
Two outdated postage stamps
The popped pieces of an orange balloon
Should I clean this fiasco?
No.
I just found my credit cards.
I look at her picture ... she'll never grow old.
A feathered headband on her small, downy head.
The pain will lessen, that's what we've been told
but we've so few memories of a babe , now dead.
Scarlett of name, a moniker bold,
for such a wee thing, fragile and young.
She won't grow into the name, will never grow old.
Won't learn to walk or talk or ever have fun.
I look at her picture, tears brimming my eyes.
She sleeps so peacefully in repose.
They say time will heal but I believe it's all lies.
The grief that we feel, no one really knows.
Her unbearable beauty left scars on our hearts.
On the day God reclaimed her ... we all fell apart.
When I was very young
All I really wanted
To be was an Indian.
My mother always read to me -
Stories of fairies and elves,
Of princesses and ogres, witches,
And brownies who did good deeds.
Poems, “Wynken, Blynken and Nod”,
“The Gingham Dog and the Calico Cat”,
And “The Sugar Plum Tree”.
Books, Alice in Wonderland,
The Little Colonel stories, and
The Five Little Peppers.
(I wonder if my grandchildren
Have ever heard of any of the
Old-fashioned stories and poems
Which were all magic to me.)
But, most of all, I loved
Longfellow’s poem Hiawatha.
“By the shores of Gitche Gumee,
By the shining deep sea water,
Stood the wigwam of Nokomis…”
I hear my mother almost singing
Those magical words from
“The Childhood of Hiawatha”.
I could see Hiawatha growing up
And learning Indian ways in
The woodlands of his youth.
I wanted to live in the woods,
To learn to talk with animals
And know their secrets.
I wanted to wear moccasins
And build a birch bark canoe!
One Christmas my brother got
A cowboy suit and hat and holsters,
But I, wonder of wonders,
Got a “real” Indian dress
With designs of tiny beads,
A fringe on the skirt,
And a headband with feathers!
I told my friends I was part Indian,
That my great grandmother
Was a real live Indian!
When it got back to my mother
She just said, “What stories you tell!”
Although I outgrew the dress,
The dream stayed with me
Throughout my childhood -
Sort of wishful thinking.
I always wanted to
Be close to nature.
Much of my childhood
I spent by myself, somewhat
Of a loner, climbing trees,
Making hideouts in the woods,
Walking in streams
To “cover my tracks”.
That “Indian child” I was
Still lives on in the
Recesses of my memory.
Maybe that’s why now, “grown up”,
I love walking in the woods
Or foraging by the ocean,
Why Stalking the Wild Asparagus
Is one of my favorite books,
Why I love picking wild blueberries
And grapes and making jam, or
Digging for clams and mussels.
Why I HAD to experiment with cooking
Slipper shells and making
Seaweed pudding and “Sumac-ade”.
Of course, I realize,
As well as anyone, that
The life of an Indian was not
As idyllic as I had once believed,
But, even now, after
All these years have passed,
It appears that
My “inner Indian”
Is alive and well and
Living on Martha’s Vineyard!