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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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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Oh Pretty Ballerina
Oh pretty ballerina with a bow in your hair
How i envy your movements so graceful and beautiful
How i long for your lean figure and fragile frame
Oh pretty ballerina with a bow in your hair
How i envy the way the world spins around you
Yet you don't fall like the rest
How i long for your balance
That keeps you so poised
Oh pretty ballerina with a bow in your hair
How i envy your slippers
That gleam in the lights
How i long for the dresses
That shimmer with every glide you do
Oh pretty ballerina with a bow in your hair
How i envy your perfection
How i long for your adoration
poem by Korey Buffo
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The monk with long pretty hair
I love this life,
Sworn to serve the poor,
My body honed to perfection,
With the life style,
The material skill,
The difficult chores,
And the blessing our the lord Buddha,
I will always honor him,
For he gave me the greatest gift of all,
My long pretty hair.
The others start to object,
Claiming my head needs shaving,
There just jealous,
I wear the orange robe,
What more do they want?
I’m always on time,
The best in my class,
I bet that’s why they hate me,
Because who could hate,
My long pretty hair.
Everyday I realise,
My hair is all I care for,
I made my excuses,
I need to be clean,
Because cleanliness is holiness,
Suddenly there’s not enough hours in the day,
I cut the training,
And fall behind on my chores,
To stare at perfection in the mirror,
My long pretty hair.
The Masters are angry at me preaching,
That my hair sets me apart,
As indeed it does,
I see the jealousy in every eye,
They hate me because I'm perfect,
Why should I shave my head?
Am I not the universe’s chosen?
Above all the others,
So what if I’m the better with,
My long pretty hair.
I’m banished from my home,
But that’s ok,
They left me a mirror,
Which I stare into all day,
I found my true love,
Better than my old life,
Helping and healing and fighting,
I rebel against my order,
Despite all I lose I still have,
My long pretty hair.
On the execution block I stand,
In all my glory,
They took my mirror away,
And dared to touch my hair,
Who can blame me for hurting them?
They deserved it,
And now I stand,
Proud and tall,
With my hair flowing free,
Caressed by the breeze
My long pretty hair.
And I now hang by the gate,
By my long pretty hair,
Final glory for everyone to see.
My long pretty hair.
poem by David Whittingham
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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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The Mermaid
I
Who would be
A mermaid fair,
Singing alone,
Combing her hair
Under the sea,
In a golden curl
With a comb of pearl,
On a throne?
II
I would be a mermaid fair;
I would sing to myself the whole of the day;
With a comb of pearl I would comb my hair;
And still as I comb'd I would sing and say,
'Who is it loves me? who loves not me?'
I would comb my hair till my ringlets would fall
Low adown, low adown,
From under my starry sea-bud crown
Low adown and around,
And I should look like a fountain of gold
Springing alone
With a shrill inner sound
Over the throne
In the midst of the hall;
Till that great sea-snake under the sea
From his coiled sleeps in the central deeps
Would slowly trail himself sevenfold
Round the hall where I sate, and look in at the gate
With his large calm eyes for the love of me.
And all the mermen under the sea
Would feel their immortality
Die in their hearts for the love of me.
III
But at night I would wander away, away,
I would fling on each side my low-flowing locks,
And lightly vault from the throne and play
With the mermen in and out of the rocks;
We would run to and fro, and hide and seek,
On the broad sea-wolds in the crimson shells,
Whose silvery spikes are nighest the sea.
But if any came near I would call and shriek,
And adown the steep like a wave I would leap
From the diamond-ledges that jut from the dells;
For I would not be kiss'd by all who would list
Of the bold merry mermen under the sea.
They would sue me, and woo me, and flatter me,
In the purple twilights under the sea;
But the king of them all would carry me,
Woo me, and win me, and marry me,
In the branching jaspers under the sea.
Then all the dry-pied things that be
In the hueless mosses under the sea
Would curl round my silver feet silently,
All looking up for the love of me.
And if I should carol aloud, from aloft
All things that are forked, and horned, and soft
Would lean out from the hollow sphere of the sea,
All looking down for the love of me.
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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A Boy's Trials
When I was but a little lad
One thing I could not bear,
It was to stand at mother's knee
And have her comb my hair.
They didn't keep boys' hair as short
As it's kept now-a-days,
And mine was always tangled up
In twenty different ways.
I'd twist my mouth and grit my teeth,
And say it wasn't fair-
It was a trial, and no mistake,
When mother combed my hair.
She'd brush and brush each stubborn curl
That grew upon my pate,
And with her scissors nip and clip
To make the edges straight.
Then smooth it down until it shone,
While I would grin and bear,
And feel a martyr through and through,
When mother combed my hair.
She'd take my round chin in her hand
And hold it there the while
She made the parting carefully,
Then tell me with a smile:
'Don't push your cap down on your curls
And spoil my work and care;
He is a pretty little lad
When mother combs his hair.'
I'd hurry out and rumple up
That mop of hair so thick-
A vandal, I, for she had worked
So hard to make it slick-
And wish I were a grown-up man
So nobody would dare
To put a washrag in my ears,
Or comb my tangled hair.
Heigho! now that I'm bald and gray,
Methinks I would be glad
To have her smooth my brow and cheeks,
And whisper, 'Mother's lad!'
A longing for the care-free days
Doth take me unaware;
To stand, a boy, at mother's knee
And have her comb my hair.
poem by Jean Blewett
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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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The barbar down the lane
Most time as much a scissor talk
Call for long legs and hair walk
A thing that happens all the time
To every pocket that has least a dim
The man change a hair one
With smile and happiness morning in line
A hair enters and 'voom' disappears
The man inside with hair on repairs
Our barbar down the lane
Is a man with no shame
My hair I dedicate to him
And mine is down with all vim
The everday I wish to enter
And embrass the comb in my hair
This then I know it him
The barbar down the lane
poem by Henry Nii Ayi Cobblah
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Pretty Girls
Here she comes just a-walk just just a-walkin down the street
Singin down do be do do wop a do do wop
Singin down do be do do wop a do do wop
See the pretty pretty pretty girls in the street
Down do be do do wop a do do wop a do do wop
See them walkin with their pretty shoes on their feet
Down do be do do wop a do do wop a do do wop
Down do be do do wop a do do wop a do do wop
I took a walk round the market down town
Taking it easy just to see what I could find
I found the girls there, long legs and blond hair
All getting set to make a mess out of my mind
Hey! eyes left!
See the pretty pretty pretty girls in the street
Down do be do do wop a do do wop a do do wop
See them walkin with their pretty shoes on their feet
Down do be do do wop a do do wop a do do wop
Down do be do do wop a do do wop a do do wop
I got my heart burnt, you know where I hurt
They say the miniskirt is coming back in style
I say its not fair but what do they care
When youve got power then you use it for a while
Hey! eyes right!
See the pretty pretty pretty girls in the street
Down do be do do wop a do do wop a do do wop
See them walkin with their pretty shoes on their feet
Down do be do do wop a do do wop a do do wop
Down do be do do wop a do do wop a do do wop
God, if youre up there, listen to my prayer
In future man should have a different design
Give him a switch so he can turn off his libido now
Give him a tranquilizer built into his mind
Hey! eyes right!
See the pretty pretty pretty girls in the street
Down do be do do wop a do do wop a do do wop
See them walkin with their pretty shoes on their feet
Down do be do do wop a do do wop a do do wop
Down do be do do wop a do do wop a do do wop
Dont talk to me about womens liberation
They already got their right just where it hurts
Now here she comes just a-walk just a-walkin down the street
Singin down do be do do wop a do do wop
Singin down do be do do wop a do do wop
See the pretty pretty pretty girls in the street
Down do be do do wop a do do wop a do do wop
See them walkin with their pretty shoes on their feet
Down do be do do wop a do do wop a do do wop
Down do be do do wop a do do wop a do do wop
song performed by by Joe Jackson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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Pretty Lil' Princess
A pretty little princess danced before my eyes
Soon we shared these loving longing sighs
Skin so fair i feared it would shatter
If my hand were to touch it with just a soft patter
Long silky black hair bright rosy cheeks
I drempt of her each night for weeks and weeks
Skin so fair, such ebony hair
I longed to see her pose so i could sit and stare
Rosy red rosy cheeks
I hear a symphony when she speaks
Golden smile of pearly white teeth
A blossoming bloom just out of reach
My heart to hold my soul to teach
A blossoming bloom is not out of reach
At last I have held her and she did not melt
At last she knows what passion i've felt
So many days her radiant beauty shined
So many days on thoughts of her i've dined
A radiant beauty with ebony hair
I long to pose her and sit and stare
I long to kiss her skin so fair
This radiant beauty with ebony hair
Pretty little princess stands on her tiptoes
kissed my face and kissed my nose
Pretty little princess alights up off the ground
I know for a while i must have you around
poem by Beau Golden
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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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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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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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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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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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The house is burning and Grandma is combing her hair.
Hair Styles I Remember
There are hairstyles I remember wearing
oh so long ago.
My father had a fit with most of them
told me, 'go comb that mess out before you go! '
I'd rat it up with the small toothed end of comb
so the base would hold it up.
Then took a brush to smooth it some
and then I sprayed it so it stuck!
The wind could blow its hardest
but my hair withstood its gail!
When anyone would touch my do
they said it felt as hard as nails!
There was one do called the, Bee Hive
It was hallowed out in the center.
Some gilrs would hide their smokes in there
and have a puff or two after schools dinner.
Then there was the bouffant flip
it was the smallest flip you'd ever seen.
Your head looked like this big balloon
with a small hat rim of hair flipping up, was keen!
Then the Pixie and the Bob
boxed off hair cut for cool guys
long hair for the slobs!
Then the Beatles made their hair debut
my father hated them.
Everyone wore the Nauru jackets
and their pant legs tight and slim!
Then Farra Faucet, that's a funny name
but her hairstyle look, was in the hair book hall of fame!
Not too many new looks I see now a days
just long or short, no curls, no waves.
No teasing of hair, no spray or thick gels
But highlights for sure, all look swell.
I'm glad those days are over with
took forever for you to get ready.
Now it's just blow and go, and sprits or two
and your off on a date with your steady!
poem by Linda Winchell
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