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A Snow Scene
When I walked out this morning
There was dandruff everywhere,
Dandruff on the pathways,
Dandruff falling through the air,
Somebody huge was high up there
Combing and combing his shaggy hair! !
'Why don't you use some shampoo? ! ' I shouted.
No answer.
Then there was a roll of thunder
And I ran back indoors.
I didn't know why I was frightened
But I thought it was rather sinister:
SOMEBODY was definitely up there,
Combing and combing his shaggy hair! !
Later a chap with a yellow face came along
And tidied away the dandruff:
He was a warm and jovial person
And soon the snowdrops and daffodils were blooming.
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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Silently She's Combing
Silently she's combing,
Combing her long hair
Silently and graciously,
With many a pretty air.
The sun is in the willow leaves
And on the dappled grass,
And still she's combing her long hair
Before the looking-glass.
I pray you, cease to comb out,
Comb out your long hair,
For I have heard of witchery
Under a pretty air,
That makes as one thing to the lover
Staying and going hence,
All fair, with many a pretty air
And many a negligence.
poem by James Joyce
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Bad Hair Days (A Fun Poem)
Everyday is always a bad hair day for me
Mine is very curly, they told me it's kinky
I have a hard time combing my hair, you see
Have to visit my hairdresser to fix it for me
It was very shiny, as straight as can be
It was always like these since I was a little lady
Now, I am used to see this everyday
Ummm, I don't see what happened to me
Getting up early in the morning is not that easy
I have to have a ribbon to hold it, the neighbors might see
Never mind If they laugh at me and call me crazy
I have a God who loves me and take care of me.
Hey! I am elated this way, God created me like that,
And no bad hair day will ever make me give it back,
Yes! Truly blessed to have hair as pleasing as can be,
Think what you want, I absolutely adore it. He he he!
Hmmm..not a bad hair day at all...I love it..! ! ! He he he
poem by Meggie Gultiano
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There is no point in combing where there is no hair.
As Bald As My Boot (Fun Poem 79)
I woke up one morning
my hair all over the pillow
where my head should be.
I looked in the mirror
and was shocked at what confronted me.
My head was as bald as my boot.
My wife screamed, “We’ll have none of that! ”
She then started combing like mad
our poor old cat.
“I’m going to make you a toupee.”
Now whenever my hair gets wet
I start smelling like something
that popped out of a smelly old dustbin.
She never did say which end the hair came from,
the front or the rear.
I’ll leave you to guess that little bit of fun.
23 May 2008
poem by David Harris
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The house is burning and Grandma is combing her hair.
This Morning At The Barbershop
This morning at the barbershop,
a barber is busy with the hair
of a much older grey haired man
that he is trimming neatly
and a young man
sits in one of the barber’s chairs.
When I sit down to wait
the young man rises
turning to me
and asks if he can cut my hair.
I was happy to get attention immediately
while the other barber was finishing
with the older man,
as he looks to finely tuned to me.
My hair was smartly cut
with a pair of scissors
and the young barber
held his fingers
to determine the length
and I wanted it shorter
than just cutting off the ends
while the other barber
first took a hair blower
from a drawer,
sprayed something over his own hair
before he started to blow it in the mirror
and he then said
that he cannot go
to the bank to wait in line
with a head looking like Tut’s ass
and I saw my locks
falling dark brown
with dots of grey around me
and saw the other barber
combing his long hair
and smiled at myself
about the vanity of humanity
while I looked at myself
and were starting to look much better.
poem by Gert Strydom
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My Mothers Hair
One of your hairs fell out last night:
A piece of your life was gone without a sound.
I know a difficult day is coming,
My heart, pierced, utters a quiet cry.
Let my childhood smile again in the sun
And turn me into an innocent little head louse
So I can crawl through the jungle of your hair
And sing a song of darkness in its fragrance.
Under your fingernail-roof Ill sleep in my house;
In my black dream Ill water your black trees.
Ill pick black fruits, and hair-jungle bees
Will bring me black poems to be opened.
How will I live, without your hair?
How will I breathe, without its fragrance?
How will I survive, when I am discovered
By ghosts of wooden combs combing your hair?
Let me wear shows made of dawn-flowers
And crawl without a sound into your sleep.
Ill take the place of the hair that's gone
And sing of hair-clouds flying from night to day.
poem by Ovwigho Joseph Ovedje
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Krishna Questions His Hair Braid Not Growing
Mother, when will my hair-braid grow?
milk you said will make it grow,
but still it remains so short.
Mother when will my hair-braid grow
you said like Bal it would be strong,
his braid has grown fat and long,
combing , braiding, bathing, drying,
to the ground like a serpent writhing.
for me you say milk is better.
never delicious bread and butter,
Sur, long live the two brothers,
the twosome of hari and haldhar.
poem by Sant Surdas
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Mermaid
Yet, there it as-
An image composed of droplets mustering into focus
Reversible. Itself of itself the watery isomer.
Idea given substance, however tenuous and fading-
Tail, head, tail, tail, head.
An ancient enigma, certainly not pretty
But in sum, bewitching.
Had it power over flesh, could it see me?
Only indirectly, I recalled, as in the water's mirror,
And I must desire it first.
'Choose', said the hologram, sternly, from its higher station.
It was as if a hand had suddenly cupped my head.
But what part of the mermaid was I?
The muscular tail that could knock a man clear
Across a quarterdeck, against the rail?
A treacherous tail with a fornix?
Dumbly pummeling the floorboards, waterborne no more,
Spectral hues revived with a bucket of sea-water
Sparkled like a Roman grotto?
Judgement recoiled from the notion.
No, I would not!
The sickening barnacles, sea worts, the loathesome remoras,
Flukes, raggedy, gummed with oily beads
Always needing combing, combing, combing-
I touched my...
poem by Morgan Michaels
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You're Fired!
The Duckster...
Born choking with cash,
even sent to military school,
like some damned fool,
he breathes nothing but hot air
into a buzzard's environment,
a whimpering Presbyterian ('Oh, so nice! ')
A face like a Roman spear,
clothes made in China,
ashes to ashes,
I can see him as a swaddling cloth in the mirror,
his hair combing itself back.
Be careful, he might even
steal your ego.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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Want More Hair?
I'd love
I think
more hair
more hair
like a big
old grizzly bear
more hair makes
you manly
more hair
makes you tough
more hair feels
like carpet
more hair keeps
you rough
more hair
for pretty ladies
to rub their faces on
more hair for
guys to jealous of
and more locks that can
be flung
I think more hair would be awesome
but I wouldn't wanna overdo it
because too much hair would make
me like a little furry blanket
and I couldn't cover both of us
just you and that ain't fair
more hair!
poem by John W. McEwers
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Why Do You Cry, Mirror at Narita?
Is it that you cannot bear to
hear the heartbeats of Elena so young,
so pretty, so dear, waiting for the yakuza,
that you cry?
Or is it that you cannot bear to see ravaged Mom
combing her lifeless hair waiting for the ride home,
that you cry?
I cannot understand,
for what is there in crying
when home is a terrifying dream,
when home is want so mind-boggling,
when home is an endless scream?
poem by Elmer Sayre
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A Hot Summer Afternoon
the sound ofthe summoning to prayer..ezan...the workmen destructing the building to soil....men are openin g there hands to sky...to cry....a bit...the carrying what to their nests...to their barns...for winter...a beauty combing her long hair in the mirror...my mother crying again...remembering my dead father...complaining from us....the birds are migrating to other lands..a wind blows her hot breath.....on our faces...in a flower pot....a flower suicides...
poem by Metin Sahin
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To make them live/Da bi zivjele
The bird stuck in my heart side breast
It’s trying to fly
On a magic key
Flirting with a wisdom snake
Wound within it own spiral
There’s the sky around us
The earth around us
The breath within us
U sudden turmoil
Calling the shades
Back to their body colours
There’s the sky around us
The earth around us
The breath within us
An epiphany of breathing
Calling the light
Each particle each wave
Back to the hair split in hands
Combing words dead
Combing words white
To make them live
Ptica zaglavljena u grudima tamo gdje je srce
Pokušava da leti na magicnom kljucu
Flertuje sa zmijom mudrošcu
Uvijenom oko sopstvene spirale
Oko nas je nebo
Oko nas je zemlja
I u nama dah
Iznenadni nemir
Što zove sjenke
Nazad bojama njihovog tijela
Oko nas je nebo
Oko nas je zemlja
I u nama dah
Epifanija disanja što zove svjetlo
Svaku cesticu svaki talas
Nazad u kosu ispucalu u rukama
Što cešljaju rijeci mrtve
Što cešljaju rijeci bijele
Da bi živjele
©Miroslava Odalovic
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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A Poem By Merlie Alunan
Fallen in battle in the mountains of Santa Catalina, Negros Oriental,1987 A.D., a hill warrior talks to his daughter, three years old, from the trail where his bones lie unburied
Sure I had them in my backpack,
the piyaya, just as i had promised,
and the baye-baye from 'Nay Asyon.
She was asking about
the grandchild she'd never seen.
Also a comb for your mother.
The road from Siaton blew up.
Crossing the valley to our hut
to see you for the last time,
I left no footprints anyone could find.
So many things I couldn't
bring with me- my gun, my boots,
left behind forever in the hidden trail.
Unseen, I watched your mother
waiting while you slept,
combing her hair by the gaslight
with slow patient fingers.
If they ever come
and cut your mother's hair
and bind her to bed,
run and hide.
Whatever you see, do not cry.
You will grow up, little one,
bearer of this vicious bond-
anger of your daughters,
revenge of your sons.
posted by merlie alunan @ 2: 05 AM
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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To Much Hair
There is thin hair,
heavy hair,
There is gray hair,
and red hair,
then there is no hair,
I will be hair
for you forever,
every hair you go,
I will go hair to.
(4-11-07)
It...
IT IS everyday
like everything that you do: waking up
washing the face
brushing the teeth
combing the hair
defecating on the
throne
in the comfort room
taking breakfast
reading the news
watching tv
waiting and going
and coming back
on the table
searching for words
to mark your day
above all those
rantings
take the cure: write, write,
write
they follow you and
read and say something
about you
perhaps it will matter
that your existence
is being confirmed
by all
you too stalk as they
stalk you
it is fair then.
They are your ITs
And you are their
It too.
but actually it would have been
a better world
if we did not write at all.
simply because
we have chosen the
right course:
talking.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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My World
this is my world
walks in the morning
making me think
steps on the rocks
and mud and under the rain
shiver and quiver
and sighs and then
sunshine on my face
soft hands
on my chest
noontime is harsh
inside this cell
of the musts and oughts
and this and that
piles of papers
more readings to make
confusions and even
delusions
breathe and death
on installments
in the office and
this world of work
then sunset
orange and fading colors
remembering my youth
and combing my white hair
and touching her hand
reminiscing some promises and vows
we sit on a background of darkness
on a chair just the two of us
on a table our old hands rest
recalling the poems
we once wrote
then you turn off
the light
your head rests on my chest
my hand carressing your hair
we are so close
that when i sleep
i hear you hum
a lovesong
as you too close your eyes
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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