Long Split ends Poems
Long Split ends Poems. Below are the most popular long Split ends by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Split ends poems by poem length and keyword.
What shimmers yonder blowing in the wind
What smooth and glowing curls unfurl out there
Take wing in Spring like yellow gods spaghetti
Glowing with the morning sunbeams just beginning
Pretty girls are a dime a dozen
Like street cars they pass by
But ugly Betty is on my mind
Her gentle smile is quite delicious
Dainty, even vaguely crooked from a distance
Yet serenely she walks down the street oblivious
Not knowing exactly what is on my mind, she blinks
It's not what's in her head that peeks my interest
That excites my curiosity
I'm certain there's lots of air in there to spare
But what's on top, planted on that bulbous skull
Lovely women ask for money that is not mine
I have none to give at this or any other time
What causes intrigue is something other
One curl, one lock of hair from my ugly lover
Is all I desire in this cruel and balding world
Is that too much to ask for in these desperate hours
Love has no split ends without desires spent
What I would not give for one slice of it left to lament
My blade comes out of sheath
It doth not or does not speak
It craves something as much as I
Takes on a life of its own to slice
Enough! Must we brake all laws of nature
Is theft of hair not criminal
Doth or does grammar have no say in such matters
Tragic, epic, done or simply uttered, thought or thunk
To see me through longer days or shorter hair cuts
Her hair and no other shampooed and showered
One strand of it so shimmering, so shiny, undone
I pray for a peaceful day or night but neither commeth
One lock of gold hair so smooth would do
So shiny it actually shimmers as it glows
But no longer grows
Under the veil of twilight, in the whispering pines,
Where the sweet rain drifts through the western air,
I find myself lost in the labyrinth of my own thoughts.
Hypocrite women, how seldom we express our doubts,
While, with doubt, we care for the man in his uncertainty,
High up, among the trees in the mountains, in the thick air of poetry,
A white sweating bull of a poet declares our s are ugly,
Why didn't we admit that we’ve thought the same?
And what shame? They are not for the eye!
No, they are dark, wrinkled, hairy,
Caves of the Moon...
And when a dark humming fills us,
A coldness towards life,
We are too much women to admit to such unwomanliness.
With wantonness, we play and plead with the psychopomp,
And say nothing of it later,
Our dreams, with what frivolity we have pared them,
Like cut nails, like split ends of hair.
In moments of silence, when the world is quiet,
I wonder at the duality of our existence,
How we care and negate, love and loathe,
Lost in the labyrinth of our own creation,
Unable to speak the truths we hide so deeply.
In the shadows, under the mystical veil of night,
We are more than the sum of our parts,
More than the whispers of our doubts,
Yet bound by the silence we impose upon ourselves.
Here, in this sacred space of introspection,
Let us unearth the truths buried beneath layers of pretense,
Let us own our darkness, our coldness towards life,
For in admitting, we find the strength to transcend,
The courage to embrace our true selves,
Under the veil of twilight, in the whispering pines.
The distinct decade
Preceding my birth
Ecstasy and aids
Consumed this earth
They begged for pleasure
Pleaded for peace
Floated high as a feather
Then along came grease
A musical comedy
Featuring John
About a he and a she
Who’s fling was gone
A romantic summer
Had ended too soon
Though they found it, a bummer
They achieved fine tune
The smell of pot
Was an expected aroma
Not just in one spot
Everyone’s a stoner
Bell bottomed hippies
Wide eyed with split ends
The decade of groupies
And beginning Again
The world was flat
Or, so, many said
But where Was I at?
Before mom and dad met
Did I exist within him
Was I always his girl
Meant to be kin
When I entered this world
It’s a fun scenario
But, flawed to the brim
Because anywhere he would go
I wouldn’t have been
I was somewhere with her
It has to be true
I’ve always preferred
The things she would do
Perhaps, in a van
Headed to Cali
To take a stand
Join a rally
Or in grandma’s garage
On the green couch, with flowers
With mom’s entourage
Laughing for hours
Or maybe I’m wrong
And I ceased to exist
The shot was long
But I couldn’t resist
Time's whirlpool remembers different, than we do. It narrows down to good memories,
as time goes by. Bad moments circle until the rough edges disappear.
Only the polished stories, remain in the clear. Yesterday swirls with
splinters in split ends. Memory keeps churning through its
cycles and spins. Regrets settle out, where the
sunlight can't follow. As softer fragments slowly
rise to the surface. The swirl of memory carries
away the bad and bitter. It treasures pearls
in shells found on calmer days. Each spin
softens another stubborn sorrow. Every
turn leaves more grace than grief. We
mistake smooth memories for
perfect lives. For memory edits
itself without our permission.
Facts get filtered while
truths learn to swim. Even
pain returns, worn
smooth by the current.
Perhaps, wisdom is
surviving through
enough
revolutions.
Perhaps, love
remembers like
water, not
like stone. As
the whirlpool
smooths, the
lives we once
lived, Until
only what
really matters,
reaches the
shore.
.
Her hair, blonde, is twisted in the wind.
The whipping strands are the colors
of the shinning cropland
by which she is standing. She is alone
by this golden feed that is bounteous; wholesome as breast milk, as youth.
Her young face is turned away,
though her face is radiant like the Sun,
her tresses the flames..
(Perhaps her locks are more like the hue
of the gold sought by the pioneers of the 1800's Gold Rush. Then again, no..)
Her face has freckles that are sorrel-dusky
sun-spots as the star roasts the "spires"
of the semolina(wheat).
The schoolgirl is poised,
the saffron spelt(wheat) is erect
under the royalty of the thermic Summer
empyrean(sky)-wherein a solitary cloud
is a blossom, full of grace,
yet a cloud is never delicate like the flower-
and the girl's tale is morbid..
as is the cancer caused by the sunshine.
The future Harvest is burned as the Sun
kills the land..the young lady
reaps an unquenchable lust 'til the cessation
of zoetic puissance.
Yet the flowerly nebula
becomes a cloudburst..
the sunlight shimmers;
her cilium(hair)
metamorphoses into gilt lavaliere(jewelry)-
a gleaming tiara.
And the ignited pedicle(stalks)
bend as the rain-drops sparkle. And yet
a maiden crown of light-
her fair-haired halo-travails a genesis,
within which the roots of the Earth
glaciate,
within which her strameneous mane
becomes like straw, easily snapped;
and is now shivery split ends.
'
My first love - when we ended,
They told me to pray to God,
And that he would make time,
My new best friend.
And with the love I had for you,
The despair I would fall out of.
My second love - when we ended,
They did not tell me anything,
For what really could they say?
I sit and watch the hands of grace,
Embalming memories of emotion.
Love forbidden to ever die but,
Peace in how under time it hides.
So I still know,
In spirits and parallels,
I am still with you both,
And this was never written.
#2
From a brunette final encore,
they told me to pray to God,
and that he would make time
my new best friend.
And with the love I had for you,
the despair I would fall out of, but
when blond strands reached split ends,
they did not tell me anything,
for what really could they say?
I sat and watched the hands of grace,
embalming memories of emotion.
Love forbidden to ever die, but
peace in how under time it hides.
So I still know,
in spirits and parallels,
I am still with you both,
and this was never written.
Both time
&
Life is fleeting
Birth most certainly
Similataniously
Also leads and ends in death
Like the winter climate in South Africa
Johannesburg specifically during Winter
As coming in the end of Autumnal May
When the Summer rains have gone and is over
Everything and all around has turned
Brittle dry and a hue colored brow
What then becomes a familiar sight
Is seeing desolate scrubs of wasteland set alight
All burnt down until sand and black charred remains
Are all that is left to be seen
However fortunately when spring eventually arrives
Bringing with it fort it's quenching thirsting rain
That same barren ravaged landscape
Renews and brings forth with it fresh life again
Simararilay like when we go and get a haircut
In order to remove and cut off split ends
Which makes it once more grow and thrive again
But as a caveat I am also willing to admit
There is most always an exception to the rule
And if I may please use myself as an example
To prove this point if you are willing to indulge me
In regards to me using a haircut as a metaphor
That is until one day you are like me
Find yourself not having to cut your hair anymore
As you haven't got anymore no longer to cut
You are now Bald and it unfortunately
Ain't coming or you aren't able to grow back
And it is only after that and at that point
You will eventually finally come to understand
And finally eventually realize and begin to appreciate
That which you seemingly took for granted
The difference between linear thinking
Life and Deaths
Day one out of the womb – had a full crop of hair,
black like my daddy’s (it later went more fair).
Early childhood – Mom kept my brown hair short
because I’d twist it into knots. What a silly sport.
Peanut butter and some gum in my hair might stick.
Never a long hair style could I ever pick.
Pre-teen years – at last I saw my dark hair grow.
Pony tails and pig tails were ways my hair might show.
Junior High, late 60’s, hair piled high like a hive.
A wonder that no bumble bees were seen in there alive.
My hair was also parted always on one side.
I’d wear curlers in a store. Did I have no pride?
High school days – hair longer. In boring math at school,
I sat there pulling off split ends. Must have looked a fool!
College days – used a cheap product from the store.
“Sun-In” gave me reddish-blonde. I used it four times more.
The 80’s – got a perm. The curls were tight. Had oodles.
Now I can have sympathy for cockapoos and poodles.
90’s – used extensions. A lot of folks I fooled.
Strawberry blonde seemed to be the color then that ruled.
New century. New color. My hair was very blonde.
There were two guys in a tram in Rio that I conned.
My friend who looked American knew every word they stated.
About my natural color those guys in Portugese debated.
They finally decided my blonde was natural.
I got a kick out of those young fellows’ folderol.
Later on, my hair got over-bleached. I showered, and
lots of strands of it crumbled right into my hand.
After that, while growing out dark roots about two years,
I wore a wig until uncolored hair went past my ears.
A co-worker , not knowing I wore a wig at school,
told me that my hair had never looked so cool!
By 2010, my hair was in a rut.
Only one side of it grew, so I’d always get it cut.
Turned 60 and got cancer. Ate better to be stronger.
Miraculously my hair AND nails grew a whole lot longer.
Since then till now, my daughter’s been my dear beautician.
She keeps the gray away and my hair in good condition.
Were my hair not dyed, salt and pepper it would be.
I love my gold-like hair, thick, and long and wavy.
Some people think a woman of my age should wear a shorter “do.”
Decades it took to get this look, so NO (and I’ll keep my cute bangs too!)
January 24th, 2023 Hair washing heralds huge happening
Hark….the herald angels sing, and twitter
for mass communication
mediums stop the presses
when I, a regular schlemiel
take shampoo to mine matted mass mop
(no less than once a week)
of straggly follicles, and commence
to dispense with the heady eco system
viz rare crop of flora and fauna
(some rank as endangered species)
rub and band together
to scratch envy of
flaky key neigh bring ponytails
and create quite an niche,
and where also can be found
lousy knit wit vendors ready to scalp
and give shaft to razor sharp purveyors,
who mane lee scout out available
head and shoulder room to nap
without a stir, tub bed down
(praying Holy Scott no wash out
nor Harris mint occurs),
or burrow vis a vis,
where subcutaneous porous droplet size
watership down pieces
of prime residence found
counting one mister comb lee
bald bold faced realtor
amidst competing rival
bulb buss Edward scissorhands
(with knot to heavy a price toupee)
affianced to rapunzel,
whom he sheared split ends
as her barber of civil,
one dapper dander ruff dude to offer
lice cent shuss insects a tonsured
cut above other stylish habitués
preferring to fraternize,
glad-hand, and hobnob
amidst a cluster of big wigs
housed by yours truly - Samson
in gleaming puffy pompadour
pads tightly secured
with the best dreadlocks,
which harum-scarum
green barrettes serve
as first line of rinse able defense
IdentityGuard (with franchisee
Bob O Link averse to split hairs, but fierce
as a Mohawk and ring leader
to protect any curl of mine)
waving away intruders,
who if insist tubby persistent
and tangle with fate
cannot expect camaraderie
from buzz cutting crew i.e. the fuzz
to give expletive filled lathering,
severe shame poo wing subjugation
plus an up braiding experience),
and teach stragglers
they will suffer
a real perm in hint bang up job
if they brazenly brush
against brylcreem of the crop
rooted as rightful heirs
(hairs) of tousled doo mane,
thus concludes my tail.
Postscript: Yours truly
an aging long haired
seventh generation pencil neck geek
finds ultra joy when
volunteering for kitchen duty,
hence imagine the hypothetical picture
portraying Geico caveman
mimicking pseudo dawn of humanity.