The Hairdresser
I think his name was Carlo, or was it maybe Marlow,
He was as handsome, as he could possibly be,
I offered him my 'head' and mentally my 'bed',
I imagined perhaps he'd really fancy me.
His fingers, long and slender, caressed my hair with tender
Manipulation, as he curled each strand,
His work was so artistic, my nerves were going ballistic,
My thoughts of 'frenzied passion' were being fanned.
His body was too near, and I hoped he couldn't hear
These thoughts that now, were whirling through my mind,
His hands were making quivers go down my spine, and shivers
Were finding places of another kind.
He asked if I was elated, by the 'hair do' he had created,
And hoped I would come back again real soon,
I stood up in a trance, and without a second glance,
Turned from him, feeling like a proper 'goon'.
He must have been only twenty, and me with years a plenty,
How could I let my hormones overflow,
I'd come in for a 'hair do' and not a big 'affair do',
I'll have to quickly leave this status quo.
poem by Ernestine Northover
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Frenzied Fingers Run Amuck
When I get you into my arms
I can't control the things that I do.
Fingers grab the hair on your head.
Fingers caress the small of your back.
Fingers travel down your spine
and back up again.
Fingers reach to all corners of your being,
quietly unnoticed at first,
but more frenzied with passing time.
Wild fingers travel your soul
with frenzied action that is hard to stop.
Uncontrollable fingers run wild
until you beg them to stop.
But even then, there's no counting on it.
These fingers like to run wild.
Whenever I place my fingers on you,
frenzied fingers run amuck.
Ten Grey hairs and a silver one
I discovered my first grey hair
when I was Seventeen years old
It had to do with broken up my first relationship
I discovered my second grey hair
when I was Twenty years old
It had to do with the quarrels at home
I discovered my third grey hair
when I was Twenty-one years old
It had to do with searching for work
I discovered my fourth grey hair
when I was Twenty-three years old
It had to do with loosing my job
I discovered my fifth grey hair
when I was Twenty-five years old
It had to do with giving up my unborn child
I discovered my sixth grey hair
When I was Twenty-eight years old
It had to do with opening my pub
I discovered my seventh grey hair
When I was thirty years old
It had to do with giving birth to my daughter
I discovered my eight grey hair
When I was thirty –two years old
It had to do with the first day at the kinder garden school
I discovered my ninth grey hair
When I was thirty-four years old
It had to do with to find out that some thing was missing
I discovered my tenth grey hair
When I was thirty-five years old
It had to do with the fights between my sisters and mum
My one Silver hair I discovered lately
Has to do with you
Because I miss you so hard …
poem by Pascale Ost
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
MO CAILIN ALAINN RUA(My Beautiful Red Haired Girl) /RED RIVER/WEARING HER HAIR - Sequence
MO CAILIN ALAINN RUA
(My Beautiful Red Haired Girl)
Your hair
taken by the wind
blown
into flame
a fiery red
Medussa
standing on
the edge
of this
mountain
a world
turned to stone
as if your gaze
froze this landscape
into place.
I too
still as stone
your hair
flaring up into the air
fiery snakes
like thoughts
bursting out of your mind
fighting the sunset
that only
a small box camera
captures
& contains
this photo
cutting off your head
from the rest of you
mythical
untouchable
mo cailin alainn rua
mo cailin alainn rua.
***
RED RIVER
Your hair
trickles down your back
in curls...curls
curl after curl
rivers of ringlets
cascading down your spine.
I want to drown
in the waters of your hair.
You wear a waterfall
over each shoulder
The fiery flames
of your tresses
crashing over thigh & hip & buttock!
My hands
like fishes
swimming all over
your body
splashed with the beauty
of your hair
touching & touching
the sheer
nakedness
of
you.
***** **
WEARING HER HAIR
You stand
before me
dressed only
in the dress
that your hair
weaves about you
naked
yet
not
you wear
your hair
as a magical
garment
from a half remembered half forgotten fairytale.
You undress
throwing your hair over each shoulder
I come to you as if a spell
commanded me to & you
wrap me
in your hair.
Both our
nakedness
wearing your hair
sheltered here
lost amongst
kisses.
***
A fellow poet(well, it wasn't a fella) divulged that she too was red of the hair(this had been unknown to me) and so this homage to redheads came into being just on this wisp of information...the memories and images flood back into being.
poem by Dónall Dempsey
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Love hair
I got down onto the bed and started kissing you but my long hair got in the way and I felt like I kissed myself.
Long straight hair which fell onto your head was the wall between me and you and I feared if I said: I love you, I would be saying it to myself.
I tried to move myself away from you but couldn't and soon my hair was all over your body, protecting it from my love.
I really felt like I loved myself when I kissed my hair that was against you.
And it started feeling weird after a long time doing it.
poem by Maria Junnonen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Crystal (Part Three of a True Experience)
This crystal has
haunted my mind
sending it into a
realm of evil
each time i sleep
i fear the crystal
especially its
significance
and what it has
instore for me
yet the yearning for
adventures of
the third kind
set my spirit ablazed
last night was
this sketchy dream
akin to what you would
witness on a faulty television
you knew you had
the dream
but immediately forgot
most of it the moment
you opened your eyes
One horrendous image
however, remained
to send the shivers
down my spine -
i had turned
light green
like a devil and
my head was round
like a pomelo
there were those
little sparing bunches
of hair over the head
in a surprisingly
uniform manner
each strand of hair
was like, can you imagine,
a flat green noodle?
the phobia that
i would go beserk
nearly overpowered me
but i kept very still
and steady fighting
whatever weakness
that came on
i remained very strong
for the first time,
i took off the crystal
from my neck and hang
it by my bed
but this afternoon
as i set off to work,
i wore it again
i have got to be
the bravest person
on earth!
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Your Hair Dreams
Your hair
(fine as a baby’s fine)
so soft
softly
your hair
falls asleep
before the rest
of you.
Your hair
dreams of being
stroked
caressed.
The rest of you
follows suit
& soon
all of you
is sleeping.
Your hair
dreaming of my hands.
Your body
dreaming of my hands.
Dream & Reality
merging.
poem by Dónall Dempsey
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Aging Gracefully
You asked if I'd still love you if you lost all of your hair
Your baldness seems a tragedy: you want more fullness there.
It's strange the way we always wish for what we seem to lack
And anything that goes away is what we'd welcome back.
But hair-well that might be a different story all together
We grow it long or cut it short depening on the weather.
In time, it seems to him there's no such thing as too much hair
She spends her evenings waxing and goes shopping for more Nair.
It really is amusing as we old folks go to bed
She has too much; he has too little hair upon his head.
Perhaps a doctor may invent a way we all can win
By building him a grand toupee with hair plucked from her chin.
poem by Suzanne McNamee
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
In The Swimming Pool In The Park
Your sister called her
the girl in the red beret
and there she was
in the outdoor
swimming pool
in the park
her gran sitting
in the stands knitting
and Janice saw you
and said
Fancy seeing you here
can you swim?
You stood
in the shallow end
of the pool
in your blue trunks
looking at her wet fair hair
clinging to her body
and her eyes bright
in the sun's afternoon light
No not so far
you replied
I can
she said shaking water
from her hair and head
I can swim the length
and back almost
you looked over
at Jimmy in the pool
talking to friends
she touched your hand
and said
I can show you
how to swim
and she smiled
and you felt her hand
on yours and hoped
Jimmy wasn't looking
seeing her touch you
Maybe another time
you said
pulling your hand away
and plunging it
into the water
I've got to go
you said
my friends
are waiting for me
and she looked at you
her eyes now sad
and she said softly
No stay with me
I like it
when you are near me
and she stood there
in her pink swimsuit
her hair sticking
to her face
her eyes watery and blue
and gazing hopefully
(the noise and laughter
from the pool
momentarily shut off)
at seven year old you.
poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Hairbrush
how i wish my fingers were the bristles
or my breath were the wind when it whistles
thru your hair, thru your hair
i wish you'd hold me in your hands
and let me skate thru all the strands
of your hair, of your hair
i could style it anyway you like it
i could brush it straight or even spike it
au contraire! au contraire!
or i would wait patiently in my box
until next i would comb the locks
of your hair, of your hair
i would braid it tight, tousle, and tease!
or pull it back in a ponytail, if you please;
if you dare, if you dare
how often is it a man confesses
that he wish to run barefoot thru the tresses
of your hair, of your hair?
you may think me a little touch'd
but can i tell you just how much
i hate your hairbrush?
this obsession may be zealous
but can i tell you just how jealous
i am of your hairbrush? !
poem by Rev. Dr. A. Jacob Hassler
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Skin Hair
Skin Hair…
Where else does the earth rise?
settle down with a fall,
cover with strand...
after other strand,
of hair curl,
loom adversely,
along the length,
along the breadth....
of a man, woman
where it is delicate, where it is private...
pronounced an' concealed.
on the face above the eyes,
like a brush of feathers,
above the lip,
a moustache…
eloquently trim,
tweezed eye browses,
hair flock grace the neck,
onto the back.
Along the shin,
Along the skin,
Smooth touch rendered,
Chill rising the hair follicles,
Desire burn,
In the shower wet with soap,
Silk fiber strand,
Run through fingers of a lover,
Relishing the sensations erect,
Tiny hair, almost as fur…
Souring along the back,
Trough upon the skin,
Collect scent of a love scene.
The skin here dark,
Chocolate born,
Wind caress these, both hair an' skin
Creature so supreme,
Conquer all but this, delicate
Feather brush of skin against skin,
Hair rise here thin,
Space of a love gaze seen,
Hair on skin….
poem by Merlin Mwaura
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Skin Hair…
Skin Hair…
Where else does the earth rise?
settle down with a fall,
cover with strand...
after other strand,
of hair curl,
loom adversely,
along the length,
along the breadth....
of a man, woman
where it is delicate, where it is private...
pronounced an' concealed.
on the face above the eyes,
like a brush of feathers,
above the lip,
a moustache…
eloquently trim,
tweezed eye browses,
hair flock grace the neck,
onto the back.
Along the shin,
Along the skin,
Smooth touch rendered,
Chill rising the hair follicles,
Desire burn,
In the shower wet with soap,
Silk fiber strand,
Run through fingers of a lover,
Relishing the sensations erect,
Tiny hair, almost as fur…
Souring along the back,
Trough upon the skin,
Collect scent of a love scene.
The skin here dark,
Chocolate born,
Wind caress these, both hair an' skin
Creature so supreme,
Conquer all but this, delicate
Feather brush of skin against skin,
Hair rise here thin,
Space of a love gaze seen,
Hair on skin….
poem by Merlin Mwaura
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Singapore Border Blues
I came by bus in a swirl of dust in the summer of seventy two.
I was young, I was poor, I hoped to score but I really hadn't a clue.
The seats were hard; I was on my guard when we bolted from the bus.
The border was there, but I had long hair so they readied to hassle us.
They were men in blue, a few women too, taking our arrival card.
They saw my face, they knew their place, they were going to make it hard.
"You have an air; you have long hair so you must observe our laws"
So Kate my friend did a bend and pulled out her best scissors.
She got to work, without a jerk and as quick as a Christmas sale,
She snip here, she snip there until my scalp was bare and pale.
His face turned sour, this was not my hour and he gave me back my case,
"You littered the floor, there's the door, you're not welcomed at this place."
So I left my hair and without much care, I turned and went on with our trip.
My head was bald but I wasn't cold and we eventually caught a ship.
It's been many a year, and Kate's gone from here since that incident.
I have a wife, I have a life and I have been quite content.
I travelled wide, gone with the tide and corners of the world I saw.
I made it a rule, it was even cool, to make sure to avoid Singapore.
Until one day, it would be fair to say, that the city needed my skills,
Return this way, there's plenty of pay, enough to cover my bills.
The flight was easy, I was never queasy, so I walked into the arrival hall:
Airport was clean, like a big machine, but the impression: good overall.
The men were in blue, a woman there too, who took the pass from my hand,
She gave a smile to greet, offered a sweet and welcomed me to this land.
For a small fee, I took the M.R.T., and the ad. there made me stare
Phone Beijing 101*, to have this done: Singapore will re-grow my hair.
In memory of
Kate Langley
1953 - 2006
*Beijing 101 have hair restoration clinics in Singapore
Grand-stranding
With little success at hair retention
I've one strand left of small dimension
Scalped this way, I'm not enthralled
One-stranded now, I'm follicle-y bald
It's hair raising to feel alone and bereft
Deserted by all it's brothers who left
This ordeal has the hair standing there pining
Atop my bald scalp, so hairless-ly shining
The lonesome strand just keeps on grieving
Missing its mates, since their mass leaving
So soulful and sad, it can't seem to find
On the scalp of this lad, a hair-piece of mind
My dome once covered with hair-filled density
Has no foreseeable future-tense-ity
For so loyally standing hair-ly at hand
I'll always be grateful to that one last grand strand
poem by Stanley Cooper
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Gracious Lord, when at night I lie awake
Gracious Lord, when at night I lie awake
my body tingles all over, all nerves are erect,
I long to her in each and every breath I take,
her image, her face, her hair, her neck
stays with me while my whole being aches
and I wonder what kind of sin these thoughts makes.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I Thought I Am Complete
i thought i am complete
seeing my fingers
all intact in my hands
seeing my toes
in proper places of
my feet and my eyes
between the bridge
of my nose
and my hair lushing
on my head and my
ears too sensitive
for voices and sounds
and then something
runs in my spine
like a worm
at first then
more like a snake
and i suddenly
shudder
and then it was
that time that i
realize that i am
incomplete
and the thought comes
like a sudden flash of
light
i need you
i may not have learned to love you yet
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
That Summer That Love
The summer sun
warmed you and Jane
as you made your way
up the dried up
muddy track
towards the Downs
the sunlight
pouring through
the branches of trees
overhead
you thinking
of your work
on the farm below
the day before
the weighing of the milk
the clearing out
of cowsheds
and the cowman saying
what do you want to do
when you leave school?
to be a cowman
you replied
you want to get yourself
a proper job
you don't want to do this
for a living
and Jane said
breaking you
from your thoughts
I want to show you
where I used to sit on the Downs
and where I used to collect
bones and skeletons of rabbits
and moles and birds
and you turned
and looked at her
as she walked beside you
her hands swinging
as she walked
her black hair tied
in a small bun
at the back
and her yellowy flowered dress
capturing your eyes
my father works in the woods
further along
you said
he works in the ditches
and hedgerows too
she bent down
and plucked a flower
that's Squinancywort
she said
showing you the flower
as she twirled it
between fingers
she offered it to you to smell
lovely isn't it?
you nodded
and carried the scent
with you as you both
moved on up the track
she turned to you and said
your dad does well
at his work for a townie
and you smiled
and so did she
and you captured
her lips parting
and her bright white teeth
and her eyes
moving over you
like a soft caress
and she whispered
turning her head away
do you love me?
and you whispered
yes.
poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!