Short White Haired Poems
Short White Haired Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about White Haired by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about White Haired by length and keyword.
Little Dogs in Fall’s Cold
Little dogs are Fall cold
And huddle next
To walls where children wait
Where white-haired power-mad men
Congratulate dead souls.
Little dogs wander tonight
Wander cold and long,
Long for a scrap of meat
On a lullaby bone,
Sweet dreams.
EARLY MASS IN ORDINARY TIME
Gray helmet hair, carefully
Curled, dangling earrings,
Designer suit, ear of salamander,
Eye of newt. White haired
Soulmate, shoulders strong,
More is More, importance seen
In every pore: Respectability
highly prized, but my Sunday
Plea to The Powers That Be:
Deliver Me from Respectable,
so unacceptable.
stung by the bitter cold winds
freezing sleet
flesh from the bone
warmth
consumed by the black of night
gazing
upon a white-haired man
dead
frozen
I whimper
who is this white-haired man?
never to know if he were loved, or missed
gazing into his frozen, open eyes
black with a Ravens gaze
to whom do I see?
to whom I ask who am I?
gazing into my own frozen, open eyes
March Madness
fluffed snow tickles the nose
freckles dot the tawny grass
crazed puppies circle a white haired tree
a cat examines its shaking paw
children laugh at March’s lion
frosted windows smile
invisible birds stand silent vigil
tires spin, shovels scrape
a passing dog adds a dash of yellow
Spring peeks from behind the Ground Hog
John G. Lawless
©3/2/2019
My teeth have gotten crooked.
My eyes sport puffy bags.
My lashes lost their lushness
And my neck, once taut, now sags.
My wrinkles now have cousins
Come to line my washed-out skin,
But it isn’t any mirror that
Reveals the shape I’m in.
For that white-haired older lady,
Peering back across the room,
Is the way the whole world sees me
When I’m on the screen on Zoom.
Pure possibility plays
Among the shorter shelves.
Here can be quickly glanced,
Quite easily, per chance:
Glittering, spinning castles,
With multi-colored shrubs;
Space-suited clowns,
Juggling throwing stars;
A grinning seahorse bobbing
Weightless in thin air;
Alleys winding dark and light,
With neon-green monsters;
Kindly white-haired grandpas,
Speaking distant dialects.
A dime of orbed light
Hangs in water from a limb
Winter cries for spring
She has grown white haired
And soft, melting in the sun
Love uproots our fear.
The wind chisels flesh
My canvas shivers with light
Stars have twinkling eyes.
Change is a new bud
Carousing on a warm sprig
Tongues panting to paint
The sky cloudless, soft
As flakes in the arms of leaves
Brown on barren ground.
White-haired witch of winter whipping
icy blades cutting paths into the face.
A million flakes glaze a blue iced brain
the heart writhes about as if on fire.
Where does the glow of youth reside
beneath a ton of blue rippled sun.
but this is no time to quilt- to grow stiff
it is a time to water flowers of the mind.
Build a crown of bloom around the soul
to melt these endless-hellish snows.
In
his old
rocking chair
the white-haired man
sits rocking - rocking.
Memories of his life
behind his eyes are floating -
the face of his departed wife
and others gone before. . . Then his heart
stops - along with the rocking of his chair.
April 27, 2019
Contest: the 'Writing Challenge 2- April 2019- Its All About 10 -' Poetry Contest
(theme #4 chosen, which is the poem's title)
Sponsor: Dear Heart
Darest Vicar –
Tell your kins: the monks
White-haired under a false piety
Their sermons under-nourished
Many of the young inmates
Of the huge monasteries!
Darest Vicar –
Where are those gentle levant monks?
Tell your bothers: the monks
Especially that notorious monk
Wearing a huge globe over blind eyes
Wearing a tower-hat on a bald head
The prodigal partition of our nurture
Remains the perdition of the forest!
Form:
Snow-prints
White haired tree tops
along the road with bird’s tip toes
and paw prints slightly froze.
White dust across the face,
flakes in spiral looking like doily lace.
Wind song notes
and feather puffed coats.
Timberland walls from sidewalks
to wool socks
sheltering the warmth
of the blistering scene just miles in width.
A chill above and not to far from below.
A picture frozen during our time walking in the snow!
Form:
Freud’s mirror
I am looking at myself in Freud’s mirror
The reflection is not of a white haired bearded sage
But of a falling face of middle age
My face in his mirror
When he saw himself there – did he see the id?
Or was it the repressive super-ego?
A stained old mirror-
Did he shave there?
Or did he just mark time?
Who needs a clock or a calendar to denote its passing-
When all you need do is go to the Bergstrasse
And see yourself in Freud’s mirror?
Listen to poem:
Hunter Retired
David J Walker
For me it was the geese
Returning from Canada
Honking in a grand parade
A promenade from the
Playa lakes to
The nearby grain fields
A sudden reminder that
He would no longer
Be here to feed them
as he had done for
nearly 60 years
Would they look for the
White-haired man living
Behind the lake with
daily scoops of corn
The retired hunter sparing
No expense to feed his prey
Last year
He flew away
And joined them