Musing
Its December. Another year is just about over.
Standing in front of a mirror in a bathroom
Is a man. He gazes into the face looking back at him,
Combs his white hair with his fingers and then begins to muse:
My hair it seems is always whiter during
The winter months. It really isn’t
But seeing hair already gray, aging
Becomes a prime concern. My life, a glint
In darkness; insignificant footprints in time
Is always struggling forward, nearing some
Unreachable ideal, lacking rhyme
Or reason. Now I ponder life's outcome
This cold December, standing here alone
In front of glass. The image looking back
Is old! My God! Is youth that fleeting? Prone
Toward dependency, asthma attacks
And wooden canes? He winks and shakes his head
And smiles, then says, ” I’d sooner be old than dead.”
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Related quotes
Too December.......
I'm so glad you made time to see me
How's life? Tell me, how's your family?
I haven't seen them in a while
You've been good, busier than ever
We small talk, work and the weather
Your guard is up, and I know why
Because the last time you saw me
Is still burned in the back of your mind
You gave me roses, and I left them there to
die
So this is me swallowing my pride
Standing in front of you, saying I'm sorry
for that night
And I go back to December all the time
It turns out freedom ain't nothing but
missing you
Wishing I'd realized what I had when you
were mine
I go back to December, turn around and
make it alright
I go back to December all the time
These days, I haven't been sleeping
Staying up, playing back myself leaving
When your birthday passed, and I didn't
call
Then I think about summer, all the
beautiful times
I watched you laughing from the passenger
side
And realized I loved you in the fall
And then the cold came, the dark days
When fear crept into my mind
You gave me all your love, and all I gave
you was goodbye
So this is me swallowing my pride
Standing in front of you, saying I'm sorry
for that night
And I go back to December all the time
It turns out freedom ain't nothing but
missing you
Wishing I'd realized what I had when you
were mine
I go back to December, turn around and
change my own mind
I go back to December all the time
I miss your tan skin, your sweet smile
So good to me, so right
And how you held me in your arms that
September night
The first time you ever saw me cry
Maybe this is wishful thinking
Probably mindless dreaming
But if we loved again, I swear I'd love you
right
I'd go back in time and change it, but I
can't
So if the chain is on your door, I
understand
This is me swallowing my pride
Standing in front of you, saying I'm sorry
for that night
And I go back to December
It turns out freedom ain't nothing but
missing you
Wishing I'd realized what I had when you
were mine
I go back to December, turn around and
make it alright
I go back to December, turn around and
change my own mind
I go back to December all the time, all the
time
poem by Pawan Kumar 'Meonlafesta'
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Front Line
I am a veteran of the war
I up and joined the army back in 1964
At sixteen I just had to be a man at any cost
I volunteered for Vietnam where I got my leg shot off
I recall a quote from a movie that said "who's more a man
Than a man with a reason that's worth dyin' for"
They had me standing on the front line
They had me standing on the front line
They had me standing on the front line
But now I stand at the back of the line when it comes to gettin' ahead
They gave me a uniform and a tiny salty pill
To stop the big urge I might have for the wrong kind of thrill
They put a gun in my hand and said, "shoot until he's dead"
But it's hard to kill when 'please your friend' echoes through your head
Brought up in church taught no man should take another's life
But then put in a jungle where life has no price
They had me standing on the front line
They had me standing on the front line
They had me standing on the front line
But now I stand at the back of the line when it comes to gettin' ahead
Back in the world the paper reads today
Another war is in the brewing
But what about the lives of yesterday
And the many happy families that have been ruined
My niece is a hooker and my nephew's a junkie too
But they say I have no right to tell them how they should do
They laugh and say "quit bragging" 'bout the war you should never have been in
But my mind is so brain-washed I'd prob'bly go back and do it again
I walk the neighborhood parading my purple heart
With a fear of agent orange that no one will stop
They had me standing on the front line
They had me standing on the front line
They had me standing on the front line
But now I stand at the back of the line when it comes to gettin' ahead
[Repeat 2 times...fade out]
song performed by by Stevie Wonder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Will You Love Me In December As You Do In May
Now, in the summer of life, sweetheart
You say you love but me
Gladly I give all my heart to you
Throbbing with ecstasy
But last night I saw, while a-dreaming
, the future old and gray,
And I wondered if youll love me then, dear
Just as you do today?
Will you love me in december as you do in may?
Will you love me in the good old-fashioned way?
When my hair has all turned gray,
Will you kiss me then and say,
That you love me in december as you do in may?
You say the glow on my cheek, sweetheart
Is like the rose so sweet
But when the bloom of fair youth has flown
Then will our lips still meet?
When lifes setting sun fades away, dear,
And all is said and done,
Will you arms still entwine and caress me?
Will our hearts beat as one?
Will you love me in december as you do in may?
Will you love me in the good old-fashioned way?
When my hair has all turned gray,
Will you kiss me then and say,
That you love me in december as you do in may?
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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While Hair Brushing
Juliette drags the brush
through her hair you have
to brush it at least one
hundred times her mother
had said years ago and say
a prayer each time you get
it through and maybe God
will bless you and as she sits
and brushes her hair she
remembers her mother standing
over her when she was a child
and the hair was as long then
as it is now and oh God she
says how I hated it the knots
and tangles and the number of
times I used to cry each time
she pauses in front of the mirror
the brush held mid air sometimes
when she brushes her hair and
stares in the mirror she sees him
there looking at her as he did back
then watching her every move
his dark eyes greedily drinking
her in and once he placed his
hands around her waist and kissed
her neck how she cringed his spittle
still there her uncle his breath his
hands touching always when she
was alone and once when undressing
he came in and stared and said he
thought she was becoming a beautiful
young girl now she brushes her hair
again the brush stiff and heavy gripped
in her hand and as she stares into the
mirror heavy with times and care she
thinks she sees him still staring still there.
poem by Terry Collett
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Grandma
Knots and tangles in my hair,
grandma sitting on her chair,
me in front on a stool so low,
brushes and combs all in a row.
Grandma would wash it every day,
Saying 'We do this first, then you play.'
Waiting for the feel of every pull,
this became our ritual.
I anticipated every tug.
When we finished we would hug.
But before I'd leave she'd make a bow,
all different colors she'd use to show
that my hair was something she loved to see.
It was long and shiny black, like ebony.
I treasure her looks and the moments spent,
the combs, the brushes and her looks of content.
My grandma made me feel like a queen,
like the prettiest thing she'd ever seen.
Now as my hair is turning gray
I remember the words she used to say,
'Sit down dolly and I'll comb your hair.'
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Entangled in Her Hair
Her hair
covers my face
she
kisses my mouth
kisses my kisses.
She chuckles.
I stroke her hair.
She sways &
...moves.
Her hair
covers my chest.
She
titillates a nipple
...it tickles.
I run my fingers
through her hair.
She sashays &
...moves.
Her hair
covers my navel
& there...&
there...abouts!
I…almost beside myself
neither...here...nor... there...
Lost in the anywhere
of an everywhere.
I clutch
her hair.
She shimmies &
...moves.
Her hair
covers my crotch.
She
licks it
into shape.
She
goes to say
something
it’s on
the tip of
her tongue.
But, she says nothing
only: “Mmmmm...! ”
& smiles
...smiles.
I close
my eyes.
My hands
entangled in
her hair.
*******
TREAD SOFTLY
We rest on the bed
your head rests against my head
sharing the same dream.
poem by Dónall Dempsey
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The Best Way to Comb the Blonde Hair
Years is the worst unforgivable hairstylist
He cuts my hair short;
shorter than our short story..
He cuts my hair off;
off the last relationship..
Now it's 4 sharp in the afternoon,
i, wooden, seize the comb, wooden.
Mirror does not tell lies
age can only climb high.
the comb runs through my hair
my hair flows through somewhere
more strands of hair are gone..
more worries are born
I forget how I combed hair
back in those years..
A young blonde is coming..
and i gonna ask her this question.
poem by Garland Jodie Jeen
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Bathroom Barber
I'm not a bathroom barber I've learned
gave myself a hair cut with my own two hands.
When all of a sudden I heard a loud noise
which took my mind off what hair to cut I had.
Then SNIP, it went off my head!
a large patch bald of hair is missing.
The dog looked at me puzzled and barked
and the cat raised her back and was hissing!
I must admit I looked a fright
with that large patch of missing hair.
When I got up nerve to look in the mirror
I even gave myself a scare!
I was only trying to save a buck
and give myself what looked to be so easy.
But with this patch of hair now missing
my head feels a bit more breezy.
I guess I'll have to spend the money
go to someone, where to them it isn't harder.
And never again will I pretend, to be a Bathroom Barber!
poem by Linda Winchell
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Standing on The Beach
Standing On The Beach
We are standing on the beach
Watching the sunset slowly go down
With this slow blowing breeze
and waves rolling across our feet
With you standing so ever close
You in front and me just behind
With our hands so ever inter twined
With your hair blowing in my face
It smelling so ever saccharine
I loosen one hand reach up
And pull your hair aside
Then I lean my head so ever slightly
Towards your sweet smell neck
Then I begin to lightly kiss it
from top to bottom
I can notice the chill bumps
Across your exposed skin
You moan so ever slightly
As to give your approval
You softly curse my head
As to want me to continue
This so ever lightly kissing of the neck
poem by Scott Austin
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Screaming Through December
What a crew we made up there was faustus
Burnt out from playing too many bars, on a jersey shore
And sammy, almost bald from ironing her hair too much
Back in 64
And me and phazon out of phase, of least my temporary
Name for the day
Oh, blown away and screaming
All blown away and screaming
All blown away and screaming thru december
We crossed state lines we were burning
Although the cold could freeze your hand, to the steel
Of the wheel
Miami, just a cold hearted word
From a warm smiling man on a sign in a field
We laughed just o take up some time my (hmmm) job
Was staring to dry, and we went screaming thru december
Quasar, quasar, where the first words I heard from faustas
All day
And giggling he apologized and then returned to flicking
His blade
I sighed bleary-eyed, and tried to remember the way, as we
Went screaming
A year does go by what a difference, twelve months can make when youre living a
Hundred years in one
And sammy, she went home and now shes living in a room with
A gun
Faustas ate glass for an appetizer, and bled all over his synthesizer
As he went screaming
As he went screaming
As he went screaming thru december
song performed by by Hall & Oates
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mother
`
Brawl-
writing on the brick wall;
no one left standing...
a lack of pulse.
Where is the beat
of those that listen?
Shut-
slams the front door,
not to open again;
no mop of hair,
no laid back gait.
Where is sleep tonight?
Life-
worth little in strife;
no tears, no smiles:
each day will torture.
What remains
when night falls once more?
`
poem by Frederick Kesner
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I'm As Young As I Was
I stand
In front of the mirror daily
I ask myself
What has changed in me?
Between yesterday and today
I do not get an answer
I feel I am as young as I was
This goes on for years
I see white hairs
Wrinkles on the face
One day
Have I become old?
I ask myself
I do not get an answer
I feel I am as young as I was
Life goes on and on
One day
I find it difficult to stand
My image in the mirror
Looks blurred
Hands tremble
When combing the hair
Have I become old?
I ask myself
I do not get an answer
I feel I am as young as I was
One day I am in bed
I am told,
I am sick and old
No, I say
I may be old in age
But not at heart
In the mind
I am as young as I was
I got well
I still stand
In front of the mirror daily
poem by Nirantar Dr.Rajendra Tela
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Braiding
1.
We two sit on our bed, you
between my legs, your back to me, your head
slightly bowed, that I may brush and braid
your hair. My father
did this for my mother,
just as I do for you. One hand
holds the hem of you hair, the other
works the brush. Both hands climb
as the strokes grow
longer, until I use not only my wrists,
but my arms, then my shoulders, my whole body
rocking in a rower's rhythm, a lover's
even time, as the tangles are undone,
and brush and bare hand run the thick,
fluent length of your hair, whose wintry scent
comes, a faint, human musk.
2.
Last night the room was so cold
I dreamed we were in Pittsburgh again, where winter
persisted and we fell asleep in the last seat
of the 71 Negley, dark mornings going to work.
How I wish we didn't hate those years
while we lived them.
Those were days of books,
days of silences stacked high
as the ceiling of that great, dim hall
where we studied. I remember
the thick, oak tabletops, how cool
they felt against my face
when I lay my head down and slept.
3.
How long your hair has grown.
Gradually, December.
4.
There will come a day
one of us will have to imagine this: you,
after your bath, crosslegged on the bed, sleepy, patient,
while I braid your hair.
5.
Here, what's made, these braids, unmakes
itself in time, and must be made
again, within and against
time. So I braid
your hair each day.
My fingers gather, measure hair,
hook, pull and twist hair and hair.
Deft, quick, they plait,
weave, articulate lock and lock, to make
and make these braids, which point
the direction of my going, of all our continuous going.
And though what's made does not abide,
my making is steadfast, and, besides, there is a making
of which this making-in-time is just a part,
a making which abides
beyond the hands which rise in the combing,
the hands which fall in the braiding,
trailing hair in each stage of its unbraiding.
6.
Love, how the hours accumulate. Uncountable.
The trees grow tall, some people walk away
and diminish forever.
The damp pewter days slip around without warning
and we cross over one year and one year.
poem by Li-Young Lee
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Wind bride
Without you my days are empty,
as if blown by the wind,
as if everything is swept away
like pieces of sand
into another place,
into another sombre world
where clouds knot through the air
melting into each other
and even some of the flowers
have the colours of your eyes
the winter grass
looks almost like your hair (only the colour differs)
and when you suddenly knock on the front door
standing there with rain and wind
stringing your hair
your arms shoot round my neck.
When I draw you in through the front door
your hair is swept against me,
while I am lost in your eyes,
and you are like Kokoschka’s wind bride.
[References: After the painting of Oskar Kokoschka. Windsbruid (Windy-bride) by H. J. Pieterse.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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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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Hello, Old man...
Hello, Old man, you’re hair is turning to gray,
Though it ought not cause me no surprise,
For there’s many a sun that you’ve seen rise and go down
Since your step was light and your hair was brown,
And storms and snows have had their way–
Hello, Old man, you’re hair is turning to gray,
And the youthful pranks that you used to play,
Are dreams of long ago lie in a heart where the fires burn low–
That has lost the flame though it kept the glow,
And spite of driving snow and storm,
Beats bravely on forever warm. December holds the place of May–
Hello, Old man, you’re hair is turning to gray,
Who cares what the carping’ youngsters say?
For, after all, when the tale is told,
Love proves if a man is young or old!
Old age can’t make the heart grow cold
When it does the will of an honest mind;
When it beats with love for all mankind;
Then the night but leads to a fairer day–
poem by Rey Sanidad
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Trapped Within My Reflection
Standing here stairing into this mirror
My reflection stairing back at me
A tear dropp falls down its cheek
Wiping my face but nothing there
The mirror begins to cloud
My reflection starts to shiver
Placing my hand on this now cold surface
My reflection slowly places his hand against mine
My reflection breathes onto the mirror
As writting appears 'HELP ME'
My mind telling me its not real
But my eyes never fail
My heart beats faster
My soul trapped within this mirror
All along, here in front of me
Stairing me in the face
My reflection banging for freedom
Seems so real as the mirror shakes
Suddenly overcome with this strange feeling
I throw my fist to the mirror
Cracks begin to form
As my reflection stands still and smiles
Shattering into a million pieces
A sensation feeling travels through my body
Looking down i see my reflection
Tainted red as blood falls
A shard of mirror stuck in my hand
A message appears
'You Freed Me - You Freed Your Soul'
So I Have Become The Middle Man
So I have become the middle man
In this world
And I have so much gray hair on my head
That I don't like at all
I love blond hair
And I find it to be so attractive in men
But the truth is that I have that ugly gray hair
That God gave me
For a reason
poem by Aldo Kraas
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Azra
(A heartiest tribute of Sarwar Sultan to his deceased wife who a year after also passed away; the poem has been translated by Muhammad Shanazar)
It was December, she and I,
December has come again,
Who knows how many December
Will come and depart,
She can not come back
And I can not die yet.
It was December when I took her
On the fog-wrapped rocks,
It was December when I took her
On the bank of a blue lake,
It was December when I took her
On the high mountains
Amid the tall palm trees,
And it was December when I took her
On the bank of a rushing river.
Whatever the season is,
She always accompanies me,
I know not where to fragrance
Of her soared,
All of sudden on one day,
She went to where she had hailed from,
She can not come back,
And I can not die yet,
Now December becomes a wound
And spring imparts to it a tormenting pain.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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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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