Scalps Poems | Examples

IF THERE WERE NO POETS

The world would drown in chaos
men devouring the scalps of men
where vices crown themselves as kings
and virtue fades into dust.

If there were no poets
faith would be stripped of breath
a story told by scholars only
no Bible, no Torah, no Quran.

It is the poet who shapes the world
not with laws of gravity or motion
but with tender reins on human hearts
keeping our wildness from ruin.

If there were no poets
no sacred texts would make a sound 
no verses to stir the soul
no words to humble evil.

Pride in Their Hair

 Be dark or fair, folk have pride in their hair 
Although often hair leads one to despair 
Finding it's tousled and tied up in knots 
After sleeping upon one's precious locks. 

Or when hair has been lovingly blow-dried 
Getting caught in the rain and tears are cried 
For you and me hair’s our crowning glory
Without hair on head tops, what would life be.

Hair enhances one’s looks, protects one’s fun
Stops scalps from burning when out in the sun
It keeps heads warm when the weather is cold
Hair's certainly worth its value in gold.

Through the years my hair has turned shades of grey
It can't be helped, it's simply natures way
I don't mind the grey, I treasure the gift
That brightens the day, giving one a lift.

My humble blessings may have you appalled
Because of them who happen to be bald
To me being bald is beauteous too
What's in the heart, not on the head, makes you.

ODE TO A SCRUNCHIE

Oh circular scrunchie
How are you ?
You have been tangled up in women’s hair
For far too long
Scratching the long curly beads
Of millions of youngish females worldwide 
For decades now
Connecting brunettes blondes and redheads alike
Protecting the very fabric of femininity
Women’s scalps
Oh bless you oh scrunchie
You are a true survivor
A true victor
Worthy of many accolades 
A symbol of strong women everywhere
No more need for Bobby pins
Ponytails are a thing of the past
Long live the scrunchie!
Hair today and here tomorrow!

maybe a snake

snakes on a wall
rattlers all three
no pictures or any
pretty things
just demon scalps
no
they're not evil
I ate the big one
he was old and rough
three days from pay day
half a tank
two shotgun shells
no mourning doves
and there he was
yuck
they're better young
taste like chicken
and not so tough
won't shoot 'em anymore
just shoe 'em off the porch
little bullsnake last night
on the patio under a box
picked him up before the dog
got his scent
tossed him gently
over the fence
I see 'em crossing the road
and stop to help them 
wherever I roam
not to get crushed
maybe a snake is 
what I was
or maybe a snake is 
what I become

Tarahumara

Hunted for their scalps
they had to run long distances
forever retreating
into to the heated lung
of copper canyon
(the last outpost of heaven).

Today they mind their own
sowing charred fields
milking parched goats.
Cartels are close by
growing illicit things
hiding from greasy sins
wearing bones of the desperate
like cheap costume jewelry.... 
Saiting the darkness of our indifference-

Peace In Retreat

callously the world had split
two hemispheres disconnected
scalps and war chests decorated
glamorous uniforms 
heaving with medals
speechless arithmetic 
spacious troops on the map

her mind severed in pain
corporeal numbness leaking
from a crashed skull bone
squirting brain matter
and lost hope

displaced she roamed the ruins
her only salvation that
shrapnel had formed
a lacuna of blood
where semblance of
left right and wrong
now withered in vain

Man Isle

Man Isle
From Russia with love ten thousand missiles
All for NATO the US Europe and Ukraine
Forged in battle ordered fired by Putin
New way to do things poor cold soldiers
Sent to battle warm them up!
Peace sells nobody’s interested
Unless it's cut-price Vipers or stealth jets
Locked and loaded get you some blood
Neo Soviet Ivan style a few new scalps
Doesn't matter we weren't enemies
Pretending is fine as Putin does it
As he plays top dog woofing along
His ongoing Ukraine war after Syria 
Where will be next the Isle of Man?

Bully of Baldhead

He picked up the cloak that had fallen from Elijah
and went back and stood on the bank of the Jordan.

2 Kings 2:13

A gang of youths jeered at Elisha,
Elijah’s protégé…

“Go on up, you baldhead! Go on up, you baldhead!”

(From 2 Kings 2:23-25)

BULLY OF BALDHEAD

how serious is it to mock the prophet?
before Elisha ventures forth
to Mount Carmel, he calls down a curse

two bears lumber out of the woods
hungry as all git out—
the crunch of youths

forty two wise…
the remaining ran away
by the skin of their scalps

would the bullies change their ways
or change directions—
find satisfying morsels

they tell their parents—
“What did you do son?”
their parents git them too

or does the fool pride
fall from the tree—
father to son

“The Father” looked down
Son nailed to cursèd tree—
all are invited

to leave their sin
at Jesus’ feet—
the cost of salvation 

snarled skin, blood, tears,
death— hearts broken
until three days later

who was worried
after dayrise—
two angel bears atop the tomb’s rock

2/1/2022

Sinister Nightmares

Fantastical monsters. Real or imagined? No difference.
Gangster style, their grim gargoyle faces head straight toward me.
Served with a bit of terror, they surround me.
Devils? Demons? Anti-Christs? Does it matter?

Wicked and evil, they crawl up my body. 
I feel them on my back, ripping into my spinal column.
She screams, but no one cares.
The hairs on the back of my neck are saluting,
Waiting for them.

Preconceived notions be damned.
Life as I knew it is over.
They are slicing away at my hardware.
My software is shrieking in abject fear.
They do not stop.

Sinister? 
Are furies from the bowels of hell sinister?
They begin to devour my gray matter.
My heart howls like a wolf.
One of them scalps me.
Rips off the top of my skull.

Which one?
How the hell do I know?
Does it flipping matter?

Autumns Paradox

Autumns leaves fall from a tree
Swiftly drifting further from me
Autumn feels of home
Out of pace breathing under bone
Lay here hurting itching bleeding
Just a life distracted releasing
Although i wonder in disbilief 
Just wanna carry weight for grief
Blood soaked hands of late
Running reverse collapse of fate
Lies distorted of formalities 
Corpses pain my moralities
Suit up and stand still
The devils breath a chill
Dancing with men who scorns
Scalps worn on above their horns
Forgotten as a faulty dream
Ruptured vein saturated scream
Believe in hate anomaly
Repeat the void constantly...

What To Teach Your Children

WHAT TO TEACH YOUR CHILDREN

Do not lament to your ward about
The dark cloud that blocks your sky,
Let them see it as a peg that draws you
Closer to the topmost of your victory. Never

Should you tell the tales of your tears
and angush to your child, for he is going
To see every shadows as an escape to death.

Do not show the scar of joy behind your hand
To your kid. He is going to build a wrong
Sense of every barking black dogs. Shall
He take them for monsters from the hell.

Sing your children the songs of humanity
Not the dirges of hatred that
erupt every single screeching of
the moon from mind.

Read the story of beautiful life to their ears
Let them feel the reliance breezes of the Eden
While they are alive.

Preach affection manuscript to their hearts,
and with wits of it, their hearts become more tender.

Show them the world where a sun
Radiate the lands than the one that
Burns your scalps and shrink you for sweats.

Teach them love and smile. 
Teach them to have both in their lives.

D.O Ismail

A Kind of Truth

How terrible and perfect
the shark and the spider.
How forever unknown, 
much more than we 
who try to explain them are.

Weigh the salt, weigh the water,
weigh the dust.  Put it in a bucket
with a hank of hair,
add a soupcon of moonlit fantasy
pour it over new mown hay.

Beings are beginning to sprout
under our scalps.
Mindful beings
who do not pluck bones out of the air
and call it truth.

Stop denying the obvious.
We are not alien Gods, we are
sharks and spiders.

Mr Middle- Grounded

We're sashaying around in bubbles
trying to keep that fragile equilibrium
keep the soul at 98.6 degrees.

Sooner or later, they'll come with pins
dipped in poison called a different opinion
bubbles will pop and out pours the venom.

Black hoods, brown hoods and white hoods
slinging bull horns, bats and banter
from Chicago to Boston to Portland 
it's all the same.. 
sloppy slander.  

You're tilting left - I'm tilting right.. 
where's Mr. middle ground
that sweet cream of democracy rapidly shrinking
only bloody scalps-maelstroms of dead dreaming.

Cue balls and eight balls trapped in green sockets
madmen and rich men, aiming cold eyeless rockets
God trapped in the corner pocket 
shaking a finger at his wayward creations.

Shy Female Runner

Starting line she stands 
arms around her self
frail, shy, reserved 
personage -misplaced soul 
appearing unsure 
surrounded uniformly by
uniformed male jocks 
parading runners physique 
matched shorts to tank tops 
exclaiming deeds of glory past 
prancing, pensive
solders psyching for battle 

starting gun 
a contest 
transformation 
shy lady's personage evolving 
metamorphic, graceful in flight 
emerging determined
 single mind set 
running machine 
male scalps bloody on trail 
competition incarnate 

Finish line 
emerging shy 
effeminate 
Ann 
Elaina 
Vicky 
male eyes nervous 
admiration 
mixed feelings 
new reality. 


 Eskil Anderson

Diary of Sisyphus

I scale a mountain high
Sandals on feet propel me toward the sky.
Breathing thin air through thin nostrils I sweat and try
To minimize being battered by the razor winged fly
That scalps my beard and the lashes of each eye.
Honestly, with each heavenly step I try
But stumble, and am humbled to cry…
Not for lack of joy or for lack of sadness, but for my
hollow motive: deception is a lie.
And yet I persist to wonder why
This task is a punishment and a crime. I
Yearn to know, but through weariness, sigh.

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