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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Related quotes
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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There is no point in combing where there is no hair.
The house is burning and Grandma is combing her hair.
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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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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I have so much residue crap in my hair from years and years of not washing it and not having any sense of personal hygiene whatsoever. Even today, I go into these things where I'm supposed to be this sexy guy or whatever, and I'm literally asking, 'If I get plumes of dandruff on me, can you just brush it off?'
quote by Robert Pattinson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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 Sea Is Very Calm This Morning
the sea is very calm this morning
the talisay leaves are not disturbed by the breeze
my mama is sitting on a bench
combing her long hair
saying nothing
under a tree
beside our little nipa hut
facing the horizon
on the other side is a big house
whose iron gate is painted red
a big man comes out
rushing as though
he is chasing someone
holding a stick on his hand
shouting at the child
playing with my small brother
inside the yard
of our house
the child of that man is frightened
and runs as fast as he can
back to their house
his father catches him
beating his legs
with the stick on his
right hand
i can still hear the cry of that frightened child
from the very beating of his own papa
what a mess!
i could have told you once again about the peace
and the calm and the quiet of the sea on a morning like this
but it is not true anymore
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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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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Confession is good for the soul only in the sense that a tweed coat is good for dandruff - it is a palliative rather than a remedy.
quote by Peter De Vries
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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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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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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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 Sweping Sound Early Morning
early morning the sound of sweeping the street
catches your attention,
you have just taken a bath, undergoing the
require cleansing of the body, combing the hair,
checking the nails for dirt, trimming your mustache,
wiping the wet portions of your body,
perfuming the side of the ears and the hands,
it is a ritual, it is like cleaning the body to give
the impression that you have also cleaned your soul
praying, talking to yourself, grasping for any message
from your dream last night, listening to the voice of God,
your conscience whispering what to do for the day
you take the last button, look at yourself in the mirror,
you take the deep breath, open the window, and then
face a new day. It is still you, along with you, talking to yourself.
You are brave, and now ready to face the demands of the brand new day.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Ride My Horse II
Sunlight...
I feel the sun
Warm on my skin
Shining on me
As I ride my horse
Wind…
I feel the wind
Combing my hair
Flowing past me
As I ride my horse
Sky…
I see the sky
Open above me
Calling to me
As I ride my horse
Grass…
I see the grass
All around me
Surrounding me
As I ride my horse
poem by Horse Poet
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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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