Some Choose to Dye Quickly
It gets a little bit harder,
To expand upon one's tolerance...
As the hair begins to gray.
Growing older,
Sometimes isn't done with patience.
And the thrill of each day,
Comes when staying as far away...
From the sounds of nonsense.
Arriving at this stage of one's life,
Needs no definition...
Of what peace is like.
It gets a little bit harder,
To expand upon one's tolerance...
As the hair begins to gray.
Some choose to dye quickly,
Every sign of getting older.
With a permanence wished to sustain.
Hair, eyebrows, moustaches and beards.
Expecting Mother Nature from them to disappear.
As if no one recognizes...
Every movement done they do is slower.
And a once proud vision...
Is not as clear.
'Hey Pops!
Hold up your head.
Don't dropp that toupee.'
~Is that suppose to be funny?
Well,
It isn't.
You, you, you...
Whatever! ~
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Related quotes
Gone but not forgotten.
My father's bald and wears a wig
My older brother shaves his head
I wonder is it infra dig
Agreeing with what mother said.
About masculine vanity.
Women prefer a man with hair
Though they accept that it might be.
Only temporarily there.
The hair you run your fingers through
By middle age may disappear
The only thing that you can do.
Is stroke his ego not his hair.
He's still the man you chose to wed.
Although his hair has departed.
Wednesday,18 April 2012
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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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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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)
Jealousy
She wore braids in her hair
every single day.
Not because she wanted to.
It was her mother's way.
She braided them so tightly.
She thought her head would break.
Sometimes just the thought of them
would make her poor head ache.
'Why can't I have my hair
flowing down my back?
Her mother's frown would let her know
to try some other tact..
'Mother can we cut it
just above my shoulder? '
the answer that was given was
'Not until you're older.'
And so she wore her hair like this.
She never wore it down.
When at night she unbraided it
she looked just like a clown.
She knew she would cut it
the very next day
right in front of her mother
to see what she would say.
Her mother watched and sat down
and had a cup of tea.
Her mother simply said
'Now you're more beautiful than me.'
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Her Wet Hair Feels Cool on My Skin
Her wet hair feels cool on my skin
As she came fresh from the shower.
She lies near me and rest begins.
Her whispers soft, a quiet wind
Caress my senses for an hour.
Her wet hair feels cool on my skin.
I’m at peace more than ever when
I lay down with her in her bower,
She lies near me and rest begins.
Now love’s sensations lie within
A subtle simple touch of power-
Her wet hair feels cool on my skin.
She holds my heart fast with a grin
Delicately, like a flower.
She lies near me and rest begins.
I say that now if this be sin
I don’t in fear of death cower.
Her wet hair feels cool on my skin:
She lies near me and rest begins.
2009
poem by William Mcgehee
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Erotic Hair
when my hair
gets long enough
after a month
uncut by
my gay barber
they become
so curly
like my pubic
hair
and women
and even gays
love all the curls
of my hair
erotic hair
and i am wearing it
as a crown
understand
i am coping up
with mid-crisis
and i like to
say
i got hair
and they are too curly
like my
(messy) sex life
listen, my life
begins at 69.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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
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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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I Am Mollie
I am mollie with frizzy hair and princess eyes
I wonder who I'll love when I'm older
I hear school bells and locker doors slamming
I see my sibling growing up
I want to do well in life
I am mollie with frizzy hair and princess eyes
I pretend I am a vampire warrior princess
I feel misunderstood by everyone around me
I touch my little sister's soft hair
I worry about relationships with the people I love
I cry when I think of leaving my family
I am mollie with frizzy hair and princess eyes
I understand that I'll have to grow up sometime
I say that I will eventually, but not now
I dream of becoming a wife, and a mother
I try to be a good daughter
I hope that all dogs go to heaven
I am mollie with frizzy hair and princess eyes
poem by Mollie Myers
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Mother's Hair Has Turned To Silver
Mother's hair has turned to silver
Her skin is all wrinkled and cold
But i'd never trade my mother
For the world and all its gold. Yes her hair has turned to silver
Her face is all covered with lines
But there'll never be another
Like this gray haired mother of mine. I think of all the hardships
I have caused her to bare
Then I can see the reasons
For the silver in her hair. Mother's hair has turned to silver
And her hard working days are done
But there's still a smile on her face
And a love for everyone.
poem by Kenneth Rickard
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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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Harder To Breathe
How dare you say that my behavior is unacceptable
So condescending unnecessarily critical
I have the tendency of getting very physical
So watch your step cause if I do youll need a miracle
You drain me dry and make me wonder why Im even here
This double vision I was seeing is finally clear
You want to stay but you know very well I want you gone
Not fit to funkin tread the ground Im walking on
When it gets cold outside and you got nobody to love
Youll understand what I mean when I say
Theres no way were gonna give up
And like a little girl cries in the face of a monster that lives in her dreams
Is there anyone out there cause its getting harder and harder to breathe
Is there anyone out there cause its getting harder and harder to breathe
What you are doing is screwing things up inside my head
You should know better you never listened to a word I said
Clutching your pillow and writhing in a naked sweat
Hoping somebody someday will do you like I did
When it gets cold outside and you got nobody to love
Youll understand what I mean when I say
Theres no way were gonna give up
And like a little girl cries in the face of a monster that lives in her dreams
Is there anyone out there cause its getting harder and harder to breathe
Is there anyone out there cause its getting harder and harder to breathe
Does it kill
Does it burn
Is it painful to learn
That its me that has all the control
Does it thrill
Does it sting
When you feel what I bring
And you wish that you had me to hold
song performed by by Maroon 5
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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Please, Teach Me
Teach me well the child did say
As to its parent they did speak
As I want to grow up to be the best I can,
So please to me, wont you teach.
I want to learn and I want to be taught
To be the best that I really can,
And when I get older and I am on my own
I will thank you, for creating who I am.
I don't want to lie and I don't want to cheat
And I want everyone to me proud of me
An honest and loyal person I wanna be known
And I want to be as smart as I can be.
I want to be truthful and I want to be trusted
To all my family and my friends
I want devotion to be my middle name
And I want to know nothing of evil and or sin.
You are the one that will affect my life
The child said to its parent as they spoke
Whatever I become, it will be because of you
Whether I swear, or drink, or even smoke.
And when I get older will I be like you
And will I ever have a family of my own
Will I be the roll model for my children then
Or will I leave them when they are all alone.
And when you get older and your hair is gray
The child said to its parent that it loved
Will I turn out the way I wish I didn't
And will you pray for help from GOD above.
The child said its prayer as it went to bed
And then closed its eyes as it went to sleep
Please be the model from which I will learn, they said
And please for me, wont you teach.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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I saw a very old man
I saw a very old man very old indeed
older than any man
older than the hills and the seas
older than the planet earth to be sure
and who knows
it was he per haps
who witnessd the big bang
The sun and moon are his eyes
one is aburning in a huff
another is mellowed with mercy and kindness
and the, mans matted hair is hardly visible
T he astronomers may have seen it inthe vision of
the G reat Attractor
Everyone can find the old man
particularly when a cloudladen sky isrocked by an angry storm
poem by Dr. Ramesh Chandra Mukhopadhyaya
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Dont Grow Yet, Baby
walk a little slower baby
it is getting harder and harder
to walk into your steps
you are growing up too fast
your steps are getting bigger
and bigger
mine are getting slower
and slower
and it is hard to keep up
soon you will be all grown up
so please slow down a little
just a little...
so I can enjoy a little more
of you... being my little girl
Daddy
poem by Viorel Vintila
Submitted by Viorel Vintila
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Dont Grow Yet, Baby
walk a little slower baby
it is getting harder and harder
to walk into your steps
you are growing up too fast
your steps are getting bigger
and bigger
mine are getting slower
and slower
and it is hard to keep up
soon you will be all grown up
so please slow down a little
just a little...
so I can enjoy a little more
of you...being my little girl
Daddy
poem by Viorel Vintila
Submitted by Dan C
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As you get older, you sometimes feel that it's harder and harder to get something new and wonderful to come into your life.
quote by Robert Caro
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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