Long Redhead Poems
Long Redhead Poems. Below are the most popular long Redhead by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Redhead poems by poem length and keyword.
Lady, weave Your circle tight
With a web of living light
Earth and Air and Fire and Water
Bind us to you.
MacDermot, the Prince of Coolavin came
to Connachta a fair maiden to win,
as the maypole rose a redhead proclaimed,
that to marry him, her heart was aflame;
so life comes again with a slow spin.
The pole is lifted and she beribbons him;
merry as their red and white ribbons crossed
wedded like wefts in the weave of the Lord's skein.
MacDermot the Prince was right chivalrous.
How the town folk of Sligo laughed and danced
each youthful suitor had bells on their shoes.
Eight at a time the couples round pranced
every Da's hoped his daughter to loose.
But, Meg the red had a mind to seduce,
and the Prince, well the Prince, was Goddess crossed.
Meg's lips were wine and he had but those two;
MacDermot the Prince was right chivalrous.
White for the virgin each Goddess blessed
red for the God of the green woods so old
green ribbons the forest, gold's sun's tressed
all twirl round the royal wreath topped Maypole.
Blessed is the tree, with honors foretold
as maids and masters their ribbons criss-crossed
while the Prince MacDermot held Meg; they strolled.
MacDermot the Prince was right chivalrous.
The Rune Inguz was read, they blessed all holds
and the grand green hills were bereft of frost
for spring was here and their vows were told.
MacDermot the Prince was right chivalrous.
Am I early?
Curly whirly Sue...
Created me and
The Redhead too.
Sunshine the line,
Her fingers typed,
EnterWine d eLight.
Return to fLight.
On the Right Time.
Founded.The Kind Time.
Love on.Time.
!Sound.
~Demeter~
".....Demeter is easily confused with Gaia or Rhea, and with Cybele. The goddess's
epithets reveal the span of her functions in Greek life. Demeter and Kore ("the maiden")
are usually invoked as to theO ('"The Two Goddesses"),..."
G.oodeeS GoodSea
a.s what it can be!
m.atter. only
e.ver changes....
[email protected]
W.hirly bird...
E.arly birdy...
L.ittle BaTMitten.Kitten?
C.atches the worm... but she never ate it.
O.phi, you see, said wait til Three.
M.erry, this Maiden...
e.nergized.... ;)
Like in a code of MorshMores...
~DeMeter is THREE.d;
Smart.Cookie...
CoCao.latte
Gratitude, the Attitude, for Healing our Waters. Inner, Earthly too.
Form:
" M " is for Emma
She came into my life
On a bright sunny day
Fluttered around my page
Just like a heavenly butterfly
She had a thing for the redheads
Maybe because she was one of them
Said I should join, I'd be welcome there
I said I really can't do that, I'm not a redhead
Though my sister and brother are true redheads
She liked the form of the female body, as I do
Had a sensual free flowing spirit about her
She was a delicate flower floating along on a
Golden leaf against a sunny blue sky above
In her secrets, she carried life within her storms
She filled the emptiness with love and life
In her words, she carried love to all she knew
Then God called her home on this day
Though we shall meet up again one day
My friend Emma passed 5/ 10 / 2012
She was born with a bad heart, she was 30 yrs old!
Alberta “Jean,” the different one was she
since her birth and among her family.
This redhead born of parents with dark hair
had felt herself an odd plain duck; in prayer
she’d kneel and on her father’s farm was awed
by nature. In the fields, she’d pray to God.
With fervent adoration for her God,
she searched for truth. A maverick was she.
She left her parents’ church, for she was awed
by teachings not those of her family.
The Gospel she discovered through deep prayer
dismayed her folks, as had her bright red hair!
Upon her birth, because of her red hair,
her folks had joked she wasn’t theirs, but God
would lead her to a new life. On a prayer,
she traveled west. A restless soul was she -
the one to leave her home and family
to find her niche; by her bold move I’m awed.
By all the things she did back then, I’m awed.
She joined the Navy. Jean, with bobbed red hair,
would meet my dad and start a family.
Great trials came to her. She called on God.
To go back home then was the answer she
was given after long and pleading prayer.
She had to leave my dad. I know through prayer
this answer came to her. Again I’m awed
because with us, her four small daughters, she
became a single mom. She wore long hair
up in a bun, worked hard, had faith in God,
and married someone else with family.
Eight children then were in our family.
My mother taught her stepkids about prayer,
affecting all our lives. Her trust in God
is never-ending, and we all are awed. . . .
She’s 80, widowed, and still has red hair
and goes out dancing!! Rare indeed is she!
With faith in God, Jean raised a family.
No need of fame has she, for she has prayer
and grandkids awed now by her still red hair!
* see about poem for more info on Jean
*I tried to make this one like a rhyming Sestina. Instead
of choosing just any six words to repeat at the end of
each line, I decided to use three pairs of words that
rhymed with each other. The position of the words
changes from stanza to stanza, but I think the rhyming
aspect still holds strong.
Written 2/13/12
Today her hair is salt and pepper and she just turned 89!
For the 'Mother -' Contest of Constance La France
Fantasy sold on a 50’s bottle cap;
a party-girl side-saddle sits
on a double-edged crescent moon
up high—a silver scythe in glamour-night-sky
corners of her cherry mouth tilted up
her left hand raises her glass a toast to the stars
frothy head of champagne-beer flirts
with lips spooning the rim
right hand holds the bottle instead of reality
look! no hands on a razor’s edge
precarious hilarious
a redhead with bouncy-curls and a flouncy-skirt
boot-heels over head when she laughs and Oops! falls
clouds catch her without friction and pillow her fiction head ~
but you—with wild escapade eyes—fell hard
far beyond Earth with not a soft cloud to cushion you
glam-allure just a sexy lore a filthy lure
but once you’ve been star-dusted and angel-dusted
it’s all the same…
vintage Miller bottle cap
a perfect circle like the fattened moon face
leering through broken windows
shards glitter the floor like fallen constellations
your black pearl eyes two muddy puddles
life drained through rows of tiny needle holes
slip-knot above your elbow just tight enough
your pulse beats its fist against the restraint
pounding—pounding—pounding
impatient to be bled and fed
you and this dragon’s den a dilapidated pair
abandoned and without family
you share the blank stare of broken windows
veins collapsed like crumbled staircases
empty inside of empathy and dreams—
a junkie’s spot where shooting stars crash
embers in your bloodstream turn to dust
you cook in a rusted bottle cap by candlelight
candle’s glow your Sun in a dirty universe
you pull back on the syringe with your teeth
this house unused by the living—a cold corpse
but in the warm rush of your skin’s flush
your gaunt gray body melts like hot wax
pale horsehair walls a slouchy silent witness
... your soul escapes as it scrapes across the floor
flurries blow in through broken windows
whirl of wind whistles on its rounds like a jailhouse guard
rattling beam-bones jangling ghost-bones—
user-litter scattered
like broken-wish bones
burnt fingertips and a "High Life" bottle cap
all that’s left
She was the prettiest doll in the whole world,
Elegant, stunning, waist-less, buxom,
Curves all over the place,
No straight lines.
Shocking for a child’s toy
Shocking for 1959.
Mattel was by far
Ahead of their time.
Marilyn Monroe and
Jane Mansfield were
Our pin-up girls.
This was way before
We demanded to be
Called women so we
Could feel equal to men.
We were still “girls” then,
But not for much longer
We lived in a fantasy world,
Our Barbies and we.
Barbie was blonde, brunette,
Redhead. Her hair was bobbed,
Ponytailed, straightened, and beaded.
She was the only doll we wanted,
And we all wanted her.
Barbie did not stand alone.
We had to have a trunk to
Put all of her clothes in.
Her tiny high heels were
Darling, plastic, a variety
Of colors.
Grandmas and Mamas all over
The world were sewing Barbie
Clothes as fast as they could.
The tiny waist was a problem
Velcro could have fixed,
But Velcro had not been
Invented yet.
I have twenty thousand
Pinterest pins that prove
That today, fifty-nine years
Later, Barbie is no doubt
the most popular doll
and always in
Style.
We have mermaid Barbies,
Cowgirl Barbies, Madame
President Barbies, Magician
Barbies, and Barbies from every
Nation, country and continent.
Yes, Mattel, you did well.
Very well indeed.
Freckles fall from Tatters downtrodden countenance.
They fell like snow onto his chest below. Only one
landed on his nose, Rudolph-proud. He shared
Bozo’s hair - orange and red - a frenetic flair. Face
is narrow, pale - with blue eyes - used to be
pie in the sky blueberry…now Tatters is just blue.
Lips, thin and pink; eyebrows like charcoal crows.
Tatters donned his clown suit when he was twenty-one,
after he downed his first whiskey at the circus. A drunken
clown - is there any other - aren’t they funnier? Audience
applauds when he attempts a unicycle and when he rides
pink elephants. Now twenty-five he longs to shed
his jaundice billow of ruffles chained about his neck.
He will! He did! But alas it is too late. He’s not nearly
as funny…his elephant’s gray, but…
he still falls off his seat -
the crowd applauds at his insane antics
when he tumbles from the unicycle.
Only the redhead teen, with freckles,
sees a tattered-tear splashdown in the big tent.
Her sensitive hands will speak
as she depicts his suffering in indelible ink.
The clown gains serious applause - after all
his life’s framed in the teen’s blueberry eyes.
1/5/2023
I arrived breath away, stepping out of a journey waiting not for fellow passengers with tedious conversations about Hemingway, Trump or AI
hot excitement dissolved into foreboding
pain, then shattered into peace ~ bliss on
cards, an endless journey had end after all
age equalled superfluous suffering
red ticks on calculus examination page
point of Excalibur deadly, yet where I
belonged as spiral, lived a hundred lives
or more of solitude, silence, secrecy
dandelions oracled sacred
yin and yang exploded into nothingness
white black entwined stillness containing
all sound, shadows, twenty four strands
when tabulating male and female
fire flashed into stardust figments
a millionth of a blinking second
whether charioteer voted redhead wily
in a country of dollars or mid-life crisis
cities were questions embedded in olive branches or fleas on poodles barking twirled with archaeologists, crooks, historians
status mattered not here
altars in faraway wonderlands where writers recreated Alice whilst filmmakers negotiated budgets ignorant that movies were magical moments bound in akashic records
here marigolds came before business
Brahman footprints treading Truth tabled
Singularity contained every loop into Void embracing once upon time a leather jacket
journey cracked its own codes crumbled fleshless, as eyes became saucer satellites
explorers, tourists, passengers, all here ~
revelry was lived or meditation mastered
centre point, brilliant or dull, crude or sharp equals zero-one sequences ~ music, sky, planets, charioteer or train passenger
all gifted with a choice … return to Earth
or bathe forever in Centred Bliss
Because of a jackknifed tractor-trailer up ahead,
vehicles on this highway has been stopped cold dead.
The radio traffic report came on a little late.
That is the reason for my ignominious fate.
I had to use the highway to get to the liquor store.
I ran out of beer, so I had to get some more.
Therefore, I will be stuck here for quite some time.
The way some people drive seems like a big crime.
Wait a minute! I see a female that is sublime.
She is in a little foreign job a few cars from me.
This attractive redhead appears as cute as can be.
Hello there carrot top! Yes, I am talking to you!
Why don’t you come over here and have yourself a brew?
I call myself a blonde,,,
Never a redhead, like my sister,
Oh, how funny she thinks that is.
Still, another one is the brunette like our mother.
My mother was an Irish and Norwegian girl.
I also have another younger sister who is blonde
Then it also turned brunette like my mother ~ I could
Never figured that out ~ I, of course, thought she dyed it.
Then, there are my three brothers,
Youngest was a sandy blonde, sort of.
The oldest one was also a sandy blonde.
Then there, "was", my brother Bill, who died.
He was also a redhead like my oldest sister.
We bumped heads a lot, too much I thought.
Then, there is my father, who brought the red hair.
He came from a family line of red-haired Scotch/ Irish.
Oh, yes, then there is my lost sister Shirley-Anne
Who died at six months, from what they called a blue baby.
Mom always said she was a sweet baby and a redhead.
I used to wonder if I was her, in a new body, slightly red.
Jan. 19, 2013, Saturday 4 pm
" inspiration from "Duke Beaufort's poem "color crazy" thank you.
As a little girl" I wondered if I was Shirley- Anne, because
I was the girl who came after her, she was born in 1953, and I in 1955,
mom never said too much about my thoughts, so maybe she felt the same.
Or maybe she thought "There goes my crazy little girl"