En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Like Alice Does.

Alice sits brushing her hair,
stroke following stroke,

her husband sitting
on the edge of the bed

watching, studying her
hand and brush going

downward and out and
downward and out, and

as he watches he suddenly
remembers his mother

doing likewise and he
standing by the doorframe

of her bedroom, sees her
hand pull the brush through

her tight black hair, and
hears her sobbing voice

over the old white radio
playing some country song,

and senses an uneasiness
fill him like a wetting of pants,

and his mother gazing at him
in the mirror before her with

her red rimmed eyes and he
knowing as she lifts the brush

threateningly, that that way
pain comes and danger lies.

poem by Terry Collett
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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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Manami

I am Sorry. I am sorry those are the only words I can put to effort I am sorry I was not there to tell you good night, I am sorry that I wasn't there for your recitals. I am sorry I was not there to brush your hair, or get you ready for prom, I am sorry that I was not at you graduation that balmy June day. I am sorry that I was not at your wedding, to your dark haired handsome husband now that I look back and wish I could brush your blonde hair or to see your smiling face but, only in my dreams no more will I see the face of my young. I am sorry that I am your mother and for not being there when you need me the most so forgive me my sweet brown eyed blonde hair and with light tanned skin. Manami. I am Sorry.

poem by Raine Uchiha
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The Chinese use two brush strokes to write the word 'crisis.' One brush stroke stands for danger the other for opportunity. In a crisis, be aware of the danger - but recognize the opportunity.

quote by Richard M. Nixon
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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Old Woman (Standing At The Sink)

old woman,
standing at the sink,
flannel shirt and panties....

washing dishes with knowing hands,
sunlight through the window dancing
on the strands of grey in her hair....

an old cat rubbing against her ankles....
bombs exploding, new world's emerging...
even the nails in the walls

whisper the coming change!
blackbirds carry the message of snow,
the old woodstove crackles and smokes....

somewhere they're painting banners
and buildings with freedom's song....
he sits motionless, brush in hand,

watching an old woman...
...standing at the sink!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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You Can't Brush Me Off

Why don't you just give in?
Just like a Siamese twin
I mean to stick to you
Until you do
I won't take it on the chin
You'll never leave me flat
I'm not a "last year's hat"
That you can cast aside
I've got my pride
And I won't stand for that
You can't brush me off
As you would a speck of powder, you may try
But you can't brush me off
You can't shout me down
You can yell but I'll yell louder, you can try
But you can't brush me off
You can say you're out but I'll keep phoning
You can tell me goodbye
You can tell me but I
Won't go
No
You can't leave me cold
As you would a plate of chowder, you may try
But you can't brush me off
[2]
What is this all about?
You've got me wrong, no doubt
I give you all my time
Believe me, I'm
Not looking for some way out
I want you for my wife
Sharing my care and strife
And that may not be fun
For when it's done
You're stuck with me for life
You can't brush me off
As you would a fresh mosquito, you may try
But you can't brush me off
You can't rub me out
Like a spot on my tuxedo, you may try
But you can't brush me off
You can cut me dead but I won't mind it
You may injure my pride
Still I'll never decide
To go
No
You can't drop me fast
As you would a live torpedo, you may try
But you can't brush me off
[3]
You can't brush me off
Like a colored pullman porter, you may try
But you can't brush me off
You can't lock me out
Like a frightened farmer's daughter, you may try
But you can't brush me off
You can drop a hint but I won't take it
You can tell me bad news
I intend to refuse
To go
No
You can't give me back
As you would a leaded quarter, you may try
But you can't brush me off

song performed by by Irving Berlin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Let me brush your tangled Hair

My sweet baby gets up after dark
A runs fast through the quiet green park
Returning looks tiered as she flops in the armchair
I say relax sweety let me brush your tangled hair

Darling looks fantastic as she sets off for work
Running phoning faxing and training the new clerk
Baby does a great job she’s an angel she really does care
When she gets home I say relax let me brush your tangled hair

After dinner and all the dishes are done
I dim the lights pop the cork now starts the fun
We roll scream and shout its the best ever I swear
Then she says to me let me brush your tangled hair

poem by David Darbyshire
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The Player Piano

I ate pancakes one night in a Pancake House
Run by a lady my age. She was gay.
When I told her that I came from Pasadena
She laughed and said, "I lived in Pasadena
When Fatty Arbuckle drove the El Molino bus."

I felt that I had met someone from home.
No, not Pasadena, Fatty Arbuckle.
Who's that? Oh, something that we had in common
Like -- like -- the false armistice. Piano rolls.
She told me her house was the first Pancake House

East of the Mississippi, and I showed her
A picture of my grandson. Going home --
Home to the hotel -- I began to hum,
"Smile a while, I bid you sad adieu,
When the clouds roll back I'll come to you."

Let's brush our hair before we go to bed,
I say to the old friend who lives in my mirror.
I remember how I'd brush my mother's hair
Before she bobbed it. How long has it been
Since I hit my funnybone? had a scab on my knee?

Here are Mother and Father in a photograph,
Father's holding me.... They both look so young.
I'm so much older than they are. Look at them,
Two babies with their baby. I don't blame you,
You weren't old enough to know any better;

If I could I'd go back, sit down by you both,
And sign our true armistice: you weren't to blame.
I shut my eyes and there's our living room.
The piano's playing something by Chopin,
And Mother and Father and their little girl

Listen. Look, the keys go down by themselves!
I go over, hold my hands out, play I play --
If only, somehow, I had learned to live!
The three of us sit watching, as my waltz
Plays itself out a half-inch from my fingers.

poem by Randall Jarrell
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Canvas

Before my eyes brilliant colour, perfection
Dancing gracefully in every direction,
The world of trees, the art of nature
Are simple reasons for a painter.

The power mother nature can release
Could make a painting, a masterpiece
A gallery of natures finest hues,
Enough to stir the most reluctant muse.

Should mother nature tutor me in art
My tree would show a living beating heart,
And should I save one single living tree
My canvas would inspire the world to see.

Red, orange, yellow, green and brown
Colours of beauty my brush would put down
Bright and vibrant Maple Red and Golden Oak
Living, breathing felt with every brush stroke..

©2011

poem by Hazel Connelly
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Love Doesn't End With Death

Love doesn’t end with death, Mother
Said. A few days had gone since Father’s
Demise and you stood in their room
While she sat on her bed and did her hair.
She stopped in mid brush and cried.
I wish it was me, you said, at least then
You’d still have him to love. She looked
Round at you and said, then I’d be grieving
For you. It’s still grief no matter who
Goes or stays, she said. She wiped her
Eyes and brushed her hair once more
Looking at herself in the mirror. We never
Appreciate the time we have with people
Until they’ve gone, she muttered, half to
Herself and half to you. Ordinary days are
Best because they’re more plentiful,
She continued, looking at you through
The mirror’s view. You noticed the first grey
Hairs appearing where she’d brushed last,
Sitting there amongst hairs brunette.
Now she sits unaware of days gone by
Or grief; dementia’s done its work so well
That all is wiped clean from brain and head.
She’s unaware of being alive herself let
Alone Father not being there or being dead.

poem by Terry Collett
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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
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Brush The Dust Away

In the most desolate corner
A bad case of the urban blues
Another brick in the living shadow
All inhale the downward spiral
Hey, get in line for tragic
Let us dance to the pistol magic
Just aim and end another
But think, as I rape your mother
Another player joins the table
Who I can or cannot trust
When do we get assigned?
Pure and precious with bad intensions
Hey, come and join the show
All the cameras are ready to go
Just aim and end another
But think, as I rape your mother
A single step - a garbled life
Where's the profit?
Your rage - the pain
Will it all be worth it?
Genetic, it seems to be....
Abandon, the mass ideal
We think we're in control then we become the things we hate
Lets re-unite and brush the dust away
Obtain a prosperous future
and the admiration of all
Act in "the sensations" media hour
All inhale the downward spiral

song performed by by In Flames
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Snow White Transparent

“Mirror… Mirror…”

Snow White stops
Looks down at
Her hand
Perfectly pale
Unblemished
Young and
Innocent
But damned
So damned
The wicked
Woman knew
Smiled and knew

“This is what you want”

Hands her the
Apple, poisoned
And red
No one knew
That Snow White
Knew, knew
The Truth
No one
Suspects her
Not Snow White
Pure, perfect
Snow White

“Mirror… Mirror…”

A brush bristles
Through her hair
Snow White looks
At her reflection
In the Mirror
Her mirror
The Wicked
Woman’s mirror
Snow White’s
Image smiles
Sadly at her
No hope left

“On the wall…”

He comes in
Princely in
His ways
Snow White does
Not look at
Him, not at him
Oh no
She cannot
She resents him
It is not apples
That are poisoned
But lips

“Snow…? ”

Without words
She undresses
Revealing glorious
Pale body
His to touch
Snow White
Watches his hands
Lower and closes
Her eyes
This is not love
Love is not—
Love is

“Seven little men…”

She falls into the
Dark corners of
Her mind
Where poison
Still chokes her
And there is
Nothing but
Death and silence
Oh, for the silence
Snow White turns
To look at The Mirror
And asks:

“Who is fairest of them all? ”

poem by Elizabeth Rebel
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When Will Life Begin

Seven A.M., the usual morning line-up
Start on the chores, and sweep 'til the
floor's are
clean
Polish and wax, do laundry and mop and
shine up
Sweep again
And by then
It's, like, seven fifteen
And so I'll read a book
Or maybe 2 or 3 Ill add a few new
paintings
To my gallery
I'll play guitar and knit and cook
And basically
Just wonder, when will my life begin?
Then, after lunch, it's puzzles, and
darts, and
baking...
Paper-mache, a bit of ballet, and
chess....
Pottery and ventriloquy, candle-
making...
Then I'll stretch
Maybe sketch
Take a climb
Sew a dress
And I'll re-read the books
If I have time to spare
I'll paint the wall some more
I'm sure there's room somewhere
And then I'll brush, and brush
And brush, and brush my hair
Stuck in the same place I've always been
And I'll keep wondrin'
And wonderin'
And wonderin'
And wonderin'
When will my life begin?
Tomorrow night...
The lights will appear...
Just like they do on my birthday each
year...What is it like...
Out there where they glow...
Now that I'm older...
Mother might just let me go......

poem by Pawan Kumar 'Meonlafesta'
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Sunday afternoon rest

The Kenwood plays
soft soothing instrumental music
and three dogs,
lies stretched out in front of the fireplace.

Tongs of fire lick hungry orange
on pieces of yellow and brown firewood,
while at the bottom
the coals are glowing red.

You paint a white Greek marble statue
of Aphrodite
and I see your painter’s pencil,
giving brush stroke upon brush stroke
of magic.

The afternoon drags on nicely
and red Barberton daisies,
on long green stems
hang out of a glass vase above the fireplace.

The dark painting
of the holy girl with the red garment
against the wall,
watch me amused
and the golden spaniel
sleeps with her head
on my lap.

I will forever
be able to enjoy
the pleasure,
of being with you.

a Hot cup of tea
steals me a kiss or two
and a DVD with the antics of Monk,
makes us laugh at dusk.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Unmatched Beauty

With no pencil, paper or brush in hand
The Lord has painted a picture for every man
Everything upon the earth
Came alive with every stroke
Of His mighty hand
For no one on earth can copy His work
For He is the master, the author of the book

poem by David Kush
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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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Kiss and make love

Touching lips like a butterfly
Gentle caress, gentle embrace
An endearment lifetime long
Brush the breast like a butterfly
Cuddle so softly with embrace
Endearment felt with a hug
Kiss and snuggle slowly done
Stroke to caress to embrace
Bear hug and brushing lips
Feel and fondle, rub hips
Graze and handle with care
Massage neck and nuzzle
Play around, squeeze, stroke
Hug and kiss, make love
Caress, curl up and enfold
Fondle, huddle and hug
Kiss with love and nestle
Nuzzle snug and soft to touch
Stroking, tasting, touching
Shy away for a moment
Feeling, caressing, fondling
Come together and massage
Brush and caress, collision
Cuddling with a loving touch

poem by Char Pattrick
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Sullied

She plunges into the hot water
and begins to scrub. Brush and
soap on skin. She wants him off
and out of her. Undo him from her.

Unkiss his kisses, untouch his touches.
She breathes in. She reeks, stinks
of him. He seems to have penetrated
every orifice on her body. She pushes

herself under the water, holds herself
there, opens her eyes even the sting
brings no purification. She sits up and
holds the sides of the bath. Calm down

she tells her shaking hands and legs
but they disobey and carry on like
disobedient children in play. She tries
to think of other things. Think of

somewhere nice, some time once
enjoyed, some pleasure once had,
sipping of the best wine, greedy
eating of caviar or grape. But no.

Everything is focused on him and
the rape. She rubs and scrubs until
she's red and raw. Stop stop her
inner voice screams. Nothing is

what it seems. He pushes his way
even into her every thought now.
He seeps into every pore. The water
fails to clean. She sits there naked,

undone, brush in hand, hair in a mess.
This is not real she says, but knows
it is, she in the bath, wet, raw, sore
and sullied. Yes that's a word mother

would have used: sullied. Tainted,
tarnished, degraded or as Mother
would have said: dishonoured. She
focuses on each aspect of her flesh

as if seen for the first time. What
you focus on is your reality. Who said
that? Does it matter now? Dostoevsky?
The Idiot, that book. Who cares who

said what. The water is no longer hot.
He is still on skin and in orifice in spite
of the rubs and scrubs and tears and curses.
No longer the innocent, no more the

sipping of wine or eating of grape.
Just him and memory of the rape.

poem by Terry Collett
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Mi Hermosa Fay

There is a girl for who I care
With deep brown eyes 
And long blonde hair
A natural beauty to behold
The love she has can not be told

Oh how I wish that I was there 
To see those eyes
And Stroke that hair
To keep her safe and free from pain
Something she'll never feel again 

One day my Fay this will be true
And I will give my love to you
I'll see those eyes 
And stroke that hair 
And prove to you how much I care

poem by Alex Dixon
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