Mohawk Poems | Examples

I Donate My Hair

My hair grows much faster than most
You can ask my friends, teachers or ghost
If it is in a mohawk by breakfast it is at my shoulders at noon
I can usually stand on my locks in the mid-afternoon

My hair does not normally or usually grow exactly the same
God has blessed me with an unfathomable growing-hair mane
Sometimes it is ginger, curly with a wink of chestnut
Cutting it off at the roots and you will hear them “tut-tut”.

They are in charge of what my hair next will be.
Sometimes it is thin other times as thick as a fat chickadee
One time it grew straight and coarse like a horse’s tail
It was so long I stepped on it going out to get the mail

My locks are all woven into mats for the cat orphanage
I hear that when they get scroungy, they feed them to their pig
His name is Wilbur and he gets excited when he sees me arrive.
He has scarfed down mats made of my hair, I think ninety-five.

the shadow self wants to dance

i’m here, nor there, sometimes everywhere
a storm brewing

inside i’m darker
i’ve sailed these seas before

repetition becomes habit 
take me back to simpler times

an early childhood memory
just one day when i didn’t allow myself to be consumed

by ruminating
i collect my thoughts

after time i realize the tea is hot, and it makes me anxious
and that i’m really just a hoarder

a collector knows what she likes to collect
to hold onto what’s fallen behind you can kill you 

i don’t want to be stuck, but how does one move forward?
some days i wonder why i envy the pretty sunflowers

to be authentic is a destination
the shadow self wants to dance

the land though the wardrobe
i’d like to see it one day

I’ve stopped caring if the world likes me
with age comes a ‘no ****'s given’ attitude 

red mohawk
punk rocker girl i don’t think about you too much

try hard, or don’t try at all
either way, the end is coming

Christmas cold moon

Christmas cold nocturne
	brightness lights the noiseless night ~
		restless reindeer rise

(December Cold Moon – Mohawk)

Markita and Her Head Ware

Markita wore the most stunning head wear to church
No one could see from behind her, unless they sat on a perch.
Pretty soon others were wearing competing oversized hats.
They were puffy and sticky, none of them was ever flat.

The minister had to finally make a plea to his congregation.
They all looked at Markita because of her known reputation.
Markita decided to shave her head and forgo the hats that day.
Other women followed suit, even a mohawk,  for she led the way.

Hey Your Hair Is Sticking Up

Hey! Your hair is sticking up!
This news flash is from a seven-year-old.
I know, I tell him. It’s Dad hair.
I can’t do anything with it.
I have two cowlicks.
Sometimes they both stick up
looking like horns, which goes well with my personality.

You could comb it, my husband says.
He has bought me combs.
No idea where they are.
I have no interest in my hair or the hair of others.
So of course God made me the mother of three daughrers.
Two of them do their hair.
The other one is like me, we don't even like to wash it.

Tonight a male beautician asked me what I wanted.
I said “do whatever you want. I hate hair.”
“Great!” he said. “You will be the funkiest grandma in town.”
“I am already the funkiest grandma in town,” I informed him.
“Do a Mohawk. I don’t care.”
When he finished he said “I forgot to do the Mohawk.”
“That’s okay,” I told him. “My boss is conservative.”
But I did leave him a big tip
for not taking my advice.

cold moon

nature languishes
	life exhales a solemn sigh ~
		tomorrow will come 

(December Full Moon – Mohawk)

National Hair Day

It’s National Hair Day - raise a comb!
Shake your tresses - write a poem!
Whether blonde, brunette or red,
Let’s celebrate what’s on your head.

Curly, wavy, frizzy, straight,
Pigtails or a single plait,
Buzz cut, Mohawk, updo, ‘fro,
Messy or arranged just so.

How we look, what gives us flair 
Depends, in part, upon our hair.
No matter what your style is called 
It’s yours to flaunt - unless you’re bald!

Hey a Sand Mohawk

Hey! I gave the sand pile a mohawk!
I smile at age four

Out On the Fringes

Time is of the essence, when I get my hair cut, 
Impatiently waiting in turn, gives me dandruff,
Barber’s damn slow, chatting, making small talk
Oh hurry up man, I’m in need of a new Mohawk 

Three more ahead of me, staring at the walls, 
At least two of them, already suspiciously bald 
But the other one, he has me seriously scared 
Wears a big long coat, his hairy feet laid bare

At last it’s my turn, barber asks what’ll it be
A fantastic punk style, nice and spiky suits me
So off he goes, razors and scissors a blazing 
Going cold on top, I’m sure I feel him shaving 

Ok we’re all done, that’ll be twenty five bucks 
I look in the mirror, to see a scalped Friar Tuck
What the hell I yell, that’s nothing like a punk 
Oh dear thought you said, a monastic monk

I’m a holy show now, of that you can be sure 
All I require is a robe, go with my new tonsure 

By
David Kavanagh

I Miss America

I miss America 

And I’ve never been there 

It may seem impossible 

Nothing but an affair 

 

I miss America 

And that colorful flag 

The girl from Pennsylvania 

Past full of sweat and blood 

 

I miss America 

White and black skin, 

Dominant race or just a sin 

But still loving the dream it means 

 

I miss America 

Young, wild, magnificent New World 

A stolen country from those who saw it born 

Mohawk or Cherokee, savages 

For the ones who don’t understand 

 

I miss America 

At least the idea of it 

Like Sinatra I’ll do it in my way 

The day we can finally meet

A Mohawk Moment

In India, Trump had a scare
The Coronavirus was there!
Not one to tempt fate
Trump cancelled a date
He had to look after his hair!

Beam Rider

High above gray Manhattan’s marge,
‘Midst toothsome towers in the sky, 
A construction crane there looms large,
Dwarfing the crowds of passersby.

A new building grows, rising high,
Clouding another patch of sky.
A tower for trade will arrive
Where businesses may fail or thrive.

An unsung Mohawk warrior,
And an iron-ribbed Spartan crane,
Raising stanchions; bolting girders,
Work in harmony on the frame.

Clutching the cables of the crane,
Beam rider goes where most aren’t fain;
Riding angled steel slabs, held tight,
High aloft, nearly out of sight.

In their union, we may marvel:
From out of an architect’s dreams,
Row by row; level by level,
They unfold a right-angled frame.

And when the beam rider has gone,
Who will recall his days bygone?
For those who make real others’ dreams,
That is the way it goes, it seems.

The Mighty Mohawk

It carves its way through the hills and cliffsides,
too far from the oceans to feel a tide,
by Rome it is narrow, but here it is wide,
great locks of the Erie let barges rise
past sand bars and rocks shoals that undermine;
the only way west back in olden times.
From ruined aqueducts, kids they will dive,
along scenic 5S tourists will drive,
look above and sometimes bald eagles fly
scanning for bass that in the current thrive,
while deer come to shore looking to imbibe.
Rambles until the Hudson is in sight,
the mighty Mohawk is ever alive.

Heavenly Cats

HEAVENLY CATS

cats sizzle with top hats and canes.
ties spinning.

the feline’s tail held extra high.
whiskers whisked clean
with scrub-brush tongue.

black cats outlined in the astrological sky.
white cats often need to be laundered.
calico’s careen from seat to seat.
Persian’s not too sweet.

a precious find in a tree —
taking home the whole
cat and caboodle.

marvelous kitten’s meow,
lighting up a toddler’s eyes.
Mohawk is his name.

a downsize caused Mohawk to roam
but the heart remembers
and searches for his descendants.

curled up on a rug-size lap,
somewhere out there.

8/7/2018

3rd place/multiple placements
Cats poetry contest (Tania Kitchin)

Mom Has the Last Word

Rainbow hair is in the teens say,
A Mohawk please, I told Miss Bee.
That would truly make my day
My mother heard these words you see.
Conservative cut is staying,
A smart choice, as she is paying.

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