Uncombed Poems | Examples

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I sit, legs crossed, typing away
Doing homework, my hair uncombed
Listening to songs I don’t love but don’t hate
And I stare out the window and wonder, 
Is there something more than this?

And my fingers type away
In a never-ending game
It’s raining. I feel nothing
Writing bad poems in the dark, and I wonder, 
Is there more to me than this?

Procrastination, adrenaline, headphones, 
Cell phones, whiteboards, deodorant, 
Romance, hardback books, college, drama,
Movies, concerts, lectures, hormones,
And I wonder, 
Is there more to youth than this?

My thoughts are scattered, my eyes unfocused
My brain stretched in five directions
And I don’t know who to be 
Because we’re pebbles in a muddy stream
And in a world of distractions, 8 billion voices ask, 
Is there more to life than this?

MY SCAPIGLIATA

a scapigiliata
      lady
   with disshevelled
 hair
natural

  uncombed
tousled


eyes
  half-closed

mouth
  slightly shaped
in
an ambiguous
       smile
lingers
    for while
indelible
her eternal
  gaze
     imprints
memory
   forever

Pepe's Coffee Lounge

I was one of the cool set,
navy blue duffle coat, scarf around
my neck, seated at a table
in Pepe's Coffee Lounge
discussing Baudelaire 
and T.S. Eliot and the demise 
of the political elites.
The conscription ballot hung 
over our heads helmeted
in a flowering of uncombed hair
in the winter of 1966.

We thought the world was about
to tip, that the old regime 
was coughing its last 
on Craven A and Camel cigarettes.
Booze was cheap and jobs
chased us down the street. 
In a hundred buried silos,
annihilation was just a push 
of a button away.
We partied hard beneath
the threat of that mushroom cloud.

We're old now, sit under the cloud 
of our own thoughts, replaying
scratchy, worn out tracks 
retrieved from the sleeves 
of our neural LP's. 
What we tore down back then
has been replaced with more
sinister demons that eat away
at the collective soul.
In the end, everything
is just reabsorbed.
Some of us still frequent 
coffee shops and discuss
Baudelaire and T.S. Eliot, 
still write poetry,
shed a tear 
at the melancholic beauty 
of a setting sun.

She Will Rise

Those sleepless nights,
those black spots under her eyes.
Those uncombed hairs
those inner fights!
She is building on her own,
and trust me, removing each black cloud 
she will rise.

She will rise 
and they will stay stagnant by their filthy thoughts
that they tried to pour upon her
but she never cared.
Trust me, they will crave and she will not be melted by the lies.
They will crave for her
but like the Sun she will rise.

Down the Staircase

Up the Staircase
?

Your feet reluctantly begin
to climb the broken, filthy stairs,
in this hell-hole of outcast ones,
without someone who even cares.

Stairs stink of urine and feces.
They reek of cooking cheap fast food.
You know when you get to the top,
you won’t find one thing that is good.

Women who sell themselves for food,
or a bottle; a hit of dope.
Uncombed hair, dirty nails lined black,
no pride or the least bit of hope.

Here live the cowboys who let men
ride them so they can pay the rent.
Some sweaty man who stinks of filth,
that a pimp on a corner sent.

A saggy mattress with roaches
and mouse-holes, a yellow pillow
stiff with things you do not want to
know, sheets as rough as old Brillo.

Here they live and here they all die,
unremembered, unrepentant.
Potter’s field is the next stop, but it
at least has no outrageous rent.

What's Wrong With Me

My breath is rank,
My teeth jaundiced,
My hair uncombed.
My face sullen,
Voice like a crow
If I had a hall of mirrors
I could have a murder,
Thousands of raven black wings
My beak, our beaks
Thrashing.
My ugliness will define
The only trophy I will ever shine 
As I sit on the power lines,
Croaking out harsh messages
To the passerby.

Above

There are women,
beautiful and flawless
like hourglass.
With smooth, shiny skin.

There are women
who look and move like goddesses.
Strong and stunning,
with sharp minds
and hypnotizing eyes.

I stand between them
in the shadow of
my wild, uncombed hair
and stare bashfully.

Bare

''Bare''
Dead whilst alive,
Forgotten yet solidly visible,
Underestimated but still the best there is.............
The sound of disappointment!
I am searching for a boy long forgotten,
Left for the bushes, never returned,
Still finding himself among st devours of life and thorns of deception,
Running for the hills,
In search of his purpose.
My peers Doctors,Soldiers and Focused!
I lay awake with my hair uncombed, blowing trees day dreaming of what
would be.....
The stains within the heart visible enough to bring tears into my
mama's eyes "Where is my boy?"
So lam running and running,
Never stopping, my blood pumping,
My spirit diluted with doubt and impatience,
My mental troubled with anxiety, panic attacks .....screaming and
bleeding ,
I hold on! I bow my head! I leave it all in the hands of Christ! I
still fight.......
I am looking for myself.

Insanity

Insanity

That insane
In the dark corner
of the narrow lane
helpless and hesitant
because she’s dumb

That insane 
laughing on her voice
scratching her body,
and  innocent face
blackened of
taints of madness.
A little lady in 
tattered clothes
alone in crowd
searching someone
of her own.

People laugh at her
and she laughs back
with dazzled eyes
in sparkling
lights of motor cars.

Does she really 
know-fast moving vehicles ?
Is she aware of her
empty stomach ?
Is she aware of her 
nakedness ?
Does she feel-
strokes of sun and rain ?


Quiet in the corner
with dusty body,
sleeping on newspaper
with uncombed hair.
Scary children call
her devil but she 
was scared of 
own loneliness.

Wondering how her
people left alone !
Wondering at Almighty 
for giving no identity !

That insane 
may die some
day, free from
insane world
in same dark corner
in same lane.

 ------------------------

Tattered Fashion Inspiration

I saw him sitting on the street, 
With open arms and folded feet,
A beggar with a bowl,
He had on him a tattered jeans,
And matted locks that proved his means,
A poor and hungry soul;

I saw him coming out his car,
A rockstar with a new guitar,
The hero of the crowd,
A tattered jeans he had on him,
Uncombed long hair, unshaved face grim,
A rich brat spoilt and proud;

The beggar sat with hair not shorn,
Coz of no dough, his dress was torn,
I could understand that,
But that rich guy in clothes tattered,
Inspired by a beggar battered,
I think fashion fell flat.


08.23.17



Contest: Form T
Sponsor: Broken Wings 

Theme: Tattered 
Form: Tail-Rhyme

Plight

Move around here and there
So unkempt
Muddy countenance
Tufts of hair hanging
Around  their faces uncombed
As if since birth
Move around  cars 
At the traffic signals
Trailing  behind us in markets
Around houses
With a small  dish in hands
For alms
Runny noses
Clothes are tattered
Muddy unwashed
As if ever since they wore
Live day in and day out
In tattered,weather worn tents
Or pipes near the places
They choose to beg

The men come home drunk
There's hardly any grub to eat
They try to snatch
What wives and children have
Build nothing
Buy nothing
Aimlessly live about
In utter filth
Carry on living like this
They multiply each year
Thinking the more the merrier

Do they never tire of this!
Do they not want to ape
The  cleanliness  around
Do they not want to improve?
Maybe  not
They don't seem depressed  & dejected
As we turn
Looking at them
They seem content like this
But leave us sad,morose & touched
Seeing their plight.

May Eased My World

When I was a boy, May eased into my wretched world opening her heavy golden doors,
Warm days eased my life and sweetened harsh bitterness erased by her mighty beauty,
A springtime landscape of magnificence with wonderful scenes repainted, re-gilded,
Drawing open her veil, she led me into her majestic gardens to play and be happy.
Meadows of strong green grass bend with late March winds but they are very strong,
Uncombed hair whipped around my ears, flicked my eyelashes and blinded my view,
Nature playing games with a sad, lonely, lost little soul, giving me her garden,
Seasons understand everything, they see, hear, they have been here for all time.

Billy's Emotional Feat

Going home Billy got stung by a bee, " It hurts too much! "
His mom checked out his little hand full of sticky sugar, 
but she didn't see anything on his skin soft and fair, 
" You are okay! " She consoled him with a touch.

Getting close to home he saw a moaning man in his thirty; 
he had uncombed hair, a long beard and thick red eyebrows,
" Mom, look the hungry rabbi is asking for money! "
He pointed out to that man with a grime-smeared face.
" No, Billy he's a poor guy with a dog to keep his safe! " 

" Mom, he's wearing a dirty coat and hat! He's too ugly! "
And breaking away from her, he ran into the school cop;
" Where are you going, pal? Where's your mom, Billy? "
He pulled him to the curb, sipping from his coffee cup.

" The rabbi's clothes stink, he needs to take a bath! " He cried out.
" I see no rabbi sitting on the side walk, he's a beggar, kid! "
 Thank God, he is! Can I give him some money to buy bread? "
The tall policeman nodded and Billy ran to give his money and heart.

Distraction In the Classroom

Some boys forget their mom's words,
they leave for school in a mad rush
with uncombed hair looking like nerds;
in the classroom they have a crush.
Liz, their teacher, wears tight jeans,
they can't concentrate on the test;
she's happy for attracting the teens,
their girlfriends notice their unrest.
They hate their beautiful teacher, 
but her vulgarity makes them sneer: 
her character isn't worthy of cheer.
When paper planes start a warfare,
Liz's hair seems a style so rare;
all the boys laugh: it is a snare.

Thou Art Face Book

Thou Art Face Book

Face Book thou art mean to me
will you be my undoing?
From my public bursts of anger
to my public boo hoo hooing.

Opinions that I once confessed
like I like dogs, not cats.
Or how I hate republicans
and I hate democrats.

Sometimes getting full of me
in my boxer underwear.
As I sit here in judgment
not shaved with uncombed hair.

Sitting here behind my screen
not believing what I see!
Reading posts from some unknown.
Did they mean that for me?

How dare they think they know me
as a lump forms in my throat.
After all! The things they know
are only what I wrote!

Woe is me cruel face book
it seems I cannot win.
I get set free from drama
and then I'm right back in.

Betty tossed her salad
Bobby told some lies.
Jerry needs a bath real bad
before he starts drawing flies.

Emma left her lover
Tom found somebody new.
I saw a home made movie.
It looked a lot like you!.

Edwin C Hofert

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