Bald
I didn’t need shampoo to clean my scalp; instead a glass of tainted
water
could excellently do the job,
On the other hand you required tones of bubbly froth to cleanse your
hair;
evacuate the petulant granules of dandruff neatly entrapped between
your
follicles.
I didn’t need gleaming hair oil to smear on my head; all I had to do
was clap
it loudly with my bohemian palms,
On the other hand you required swanky ointments; antiseptic creams to
keep the
conglomerate of your hair well in place.
I didn’t need scintillating scissors to use on my scalp; it would
appear
wholesomely ludicrous even if I held one in close proximity with it,
On the other hand you required a plethora of sharp instruments; pairs
of
intricate razors; in order to occasionally trim the unruly tentacles of
your
hair.
I didn’t need a brush to part my scalp; as it nimbly obliged to my
scrubbing
it with a dust cloth,
On the other hand you required a luxuriously serrated comb; to
meticulously
entangle the incorrigible knots formed in your long hair.
I didn’t need to camouflage my scalp with a taut piece of cloth every
time I
ventured out; as there was no danger of the wind blowing it away,
On the other hand you required to embellish yourself with a
grandiloquent cap;
a host of flapping sunshades; in order to ensure that the thin wisps of
your
hair didn’t rip apart with the tenacious breeze,
I didn’t need to incessantly browse my hands through my scalp; while
attending
pompous parties,
On the other hand you required to sporadically run your fingers against
your
cuticles; making sure that they remained stringently aligned.
I didn’t need to wash my scalp after bathing in the saline ocean;
instead let
it to dry over a natural course of time,
On the other hand it was inevitable for you to stand beneath a steaming
shower; to annihilate all the poignant salt trapped in your greasy
hair.
I didn’t need to consume a battalion of salubrious vitamins to make my
scalp
glisten; simply standing under the blazing sun itself; granted it an
enchanting shine,
On the other hand you desperately required to procure every tonic
available in
the market; to impregnate an artificial luster in your lifeless hair.
I didn’t need to submerge my scalp into ravishing cologne to get
noticed;
people profoundly admired the openness of my head wherever I went,
On the other hand you used to apply the most enticing of gel on your
lackadaisical hair; and yet remained unnoticed.
I didn’t need to coat my scalp with black chemicals; intermittently
apply a
blend of paint and water to keep it in shape,
On the other hand you were exorbitantly conscious about the greyness in
your
hair; painting it with brilliant dye; remained busy all day trying to
pluck
the insipid strands of white.
Therefore it is my earnest prayer to you O! omnipresent creator; to
create me
without hair for the next 100 births; if I fortunately took birth on
this soil
as man,
For I considered myself infinite times luckier to remain 'BALD'; than
suffer
from the unrelenting tyranny of possessing clusters of bushy hair.
(c) (r) copyright-2004, by nikhil parekh. all rights reserved.
poem by Nikhil Parekh
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Related quotes
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
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I Am A Human Head
I'm a human head
And my best friend is also a head
I don't really need my best friend
Now my friend is gone
And I'm only a head by myself
I find I don't need my whole head
Now I'm just the top of a head
Just the scalp and the hair
I don't like the scalp just the hair
What do I really need?
Best friend also a head
Just the head
Just a scalp
Hair
Friend
No
Head
No
Scalp
No
Hair
I am only one human hair
With no scalp for a home
All I need's the top of a head
Now all I am is just a scalp
I don't have any head
I'd be glad if I had a head
Now I have a head
Look at me
I'm a fine floating head
Where is my friend the other head?
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A fallen hair has no merit.
You were no more required where you were,
Where you can be and where you must be,
When you go a fallen hair of the scalp,
With knowledge and skill lying to rust.
02.01.2003
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Whisky complexioned hair wig
I was born with a thick shock of curly hair,
Silky strands of light brown cascading down my scalp,
Broad outlines of eyebrow fringe,
They were my pride; cuddled on infinite occasions by my mother,
Glistening in sunshine like pure black shoe polish paint,
Caressing minute regions of my skull in breeze blowing with high velocity,
Mingling once in a while with the delicate periphery of my inverted eyelash,
Sighted as a puffed bunch of dark cushion by all in close proximity,
I always kept them shampooed and scrupulously clean,
Sobbed hysterically in private interiors of my room,
When a cluster of school mates harmlessly plucked a few,
I was obsessed with the concept of evergreen hair growth,
Slept all night with tight fitted shower cap clinging to my garden of hair.
Those whirlwind days of youth had now faded,
Unwanted vigils of old age had crept in at amazing speeds,
Bald patches of skin now sparkled in sunlight,
Resembled rich quality pure wax in pearly light of the moon,
The hair which once inhabited my scalp,
Now lay dumped; perhaps under stagnant waters of the city sewer,
Iterative attempts of washing, scrubbing, oiling, applying medicinal balm had proven futile,
I had finally succumbed to the tyranny of fate,
Nevertheless I still wore fluffy fibers of ant red hair,
Which neither budged nor moved an inch; in the most gustiest of breeze,
Projecting pompously from the artificial plastic of my whisky complexioned hair wig.
poem by Nikhil Parekh
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Hairstyles
When i molded long strands of my hair into slender
curls,
fastening them with strings of sticky elastic rubber,
with infinite fibers of black cascading down like a
fountain,
my manly exteriors transited to those of a daintily
adorned teenage girl.
when i submerged the wild mass of my hair in an exact
liter of coriander
oil,
they slept in tranquil contentment on glistening
regions of my scalp,
refraining to budge an inch in stormy sheets of
inclement weather,
dying a disdainful death without savoring the true
taste of life.
when i sheared bulky loads of my hair with a pair of
pocket jacknife,
rustic pathces of my scalp potrayed an alien look,
the humming bees sung merrily on the barren islands,
my head now resembled polished briquette's of
coal; sprawled with white
powder.
when i camouflaged my scalp with beads of pure silver,
adhering sedately to rudimentary bits of yellow gold,
it appeared as if possesed a dungeon of riches,
with parasitic individuals of the society pilfering
through my house of bare
brick.
when i tonsured my skull completely of hair,
gently plucking the last bits of floss with my knotted
fingers,
my scalp got scorched in acerbic rays of the sun,
sparkling a pure ivory white in resplendent beams of
the moon,
i was a grotesque sight to stare; as people offended me
with pools of ludicrous
laughter.
when i parted my hair in exact equal halves,
sprinkling the central rift with pinches of crimson
vermilon powder,
riveting braids of scented flower with scrupulous
proficiency,
i looked strikingly similar to the traditionally
living indian women.
and when i finally combed my hair with casual strokes
of the serrated brush,
splashing jagged stubs of my beard with revitalising
cologne,
kneading my hair vigorously with piquant extracts of
blue whale fish,
i could be sighted unanimously by one and all; as a
truly authentic volatile
man.
(c) (r) copyright-2004, by nikhil parekh. all rights reserved.
poem by Nikhil Parekh
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Haircut
I have wooly, wavy, woozy silvery hair
Cut just 20% you earn your fare
In bad trim down
Make sure I won't look like a clown.
With white cover she cuts away,
Her scissors, snip, snip night and day.
In mirror see my hair disappear
Trimmed nicely above each ear.
Finally touched my hair—few curls,
The more she accommodates I would adore.
Finish look seems more like 30% gone,
Hair wetted, scalped, I mirror no fun.
Next time another barber or good cutter
Better not scalp me" I sadly angry mutter
For well-kept hair on head?
I'd rather make more love in bed.
poem by Arthur Weil
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Intimate (Love Poem)
She makes him sit and unbuttons his shirt
Makes him lie back and wets his hair, then
Her hands massage shampoo into his scalp
She is irresistible, every moment etched on
His brain, her sensuous touch, an incredibly
Close feeling, as she washes his hair, this is
More beautiful than breath, more loving than
Sex, more electric than near, more perfect
Than curling up, more intimate than naked.
poem by Ian Beckett
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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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Baldly Stated
I use to wear it centre parted.
But now alas it has departed
When I was young I had thick hair
but now my head’s completely bare.
I wear a hat against the sun
a sunburnt scalp is not much fun.
The only plus that I can see
I need not pay a barbers fee
nor spend my money on shampoo
As hirsute men are forced to do.
A sign of masculinity
they say though I would rather be
Possessor of a well thatched head
than one from which all hair has fled.
1-Jun-08
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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They are still my kin
I didn’t go to him for any favour;
He remained my friend.
I didn’t do with him any business;
He remained my cousin.
I didn’t have with him any common roof;
He remained my brother.
I didn’t keep to her my eyes wide open;
She remained my wife.
I didn’t get from them any allowance;
They remained my children.
It is as good as they are none to me;
With the God’s grace I could keep them as mine.
19.09.2008
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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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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Going Grey
I woke up late this morning
And looked into the mirror
But the woman looking back at me
Had a grey streak in her hair
Where did this grey streak come from?
It wasn’t there last night
How did it get into my hair?
My god I looked a sight
I washed and I washed my hair 3 times
And washed my hair some more
But the grey it would not come out
And I was getting stressed for sure
I grabbed the phone to ring my friend
And said get your arse round here
I have a big problem that you need to fix
And bring all your hairdressing gear
Half an hour seemed like a life time
Before my friend was here
She said what’s all the fuss about
I sobbed and wept oh dear
I removed the towel from round my head
Well I didn’t want anyone to see
Look I’ve got greyness in my hair
And I’m only thirty three
She sat me down to have a look
And said don’t worry dear
We can soon cover all that up
With hair dye, so don’t fear
She put this dye upon my head
And then made me a brew
He had to wait for ages
Until the colour did come threw
So now I feel much better
And don’t need to get irate
I don’t have any grey streaks now
And my hair looks really great
poem by Lynn Cowman
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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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Shes Goin Bald
Silken hair, more silken hair
Fell on her face and no wind was blowin
(shes goin bald)
Silken hair, more silken hair
Lay near her pillbox down at her feet
(shed been on a trip)
I peeked in and when I saw shed
Lost her hair I thought I would keel
(shes goin bald)
When she saw her shining forehead
Didnt stop she swooned to the ground
(really flipped her wig)
Laughed so hard i
Blew my mind
I blew my cool
I blew myself over
Oh oh oh oh oh oh
Sha na na, sha na na na na na na na na
What a blow
Sha na na, sha na na na na na na na na
What a blow
Sha na na, sha na na na na na na na na
What a blow
Sha na na, sha na na na na na na na na
What a blow
Sha na na, sha na na
She drew her comb acrost her scalp
And brushed what she had left
I tried to salvage what I could
And threw it in a sack
She made a b-line to her room
And grabbed all kind o juice
She started pourin it on her head
And thought itd grow it back
Ah ha haaaaaa
Youre too late mama
Aint nothin upside your head
No more no more no more no more
Upside your head
Too late mama
Aint nothin upside your head
No more no more no more no more
Upside
Upside your head
Youre too late mama
Aint nothin upside your head
No more no more no more no more
(what about it, dude? )
song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Make It All Okay
You threw away the ballast and you rowed your boat ashore
Didn't you, now? Didn't you?
You made your ultimatum too big to ignore
Didn't you, now? Didn't you?
So you worked out your excuses,
turned away and shut the door.
The world's too vast for us now,
and you wanted to explore
It's a long, long long road
And I don't know which way to go
If you offered me your hand again I'd have to walk away.
When I saw you at the street fair, you called out my name
Didn't you, now? Didn't you?
You said we could start over, try and make it all okay.
Didn't you, now? Didn't you?
So our past has been rewritten
and you threw away the pen.
You'd said that I was useless,
but now you'll take me in again
Well Jesus loves me fine.
And your words fall flat this time.
Was it my imagination, or did I hear you say,
"We don't have a prayer between us."
Didn't you believe that I have finally turned away?
Didn't you, now? Didn't you?
Anything to hold onto to help me through my day.
Didn't you, now? Didn't you?
Jesus loves me fine.
But his words fall flat this time.
It's a long, long long road
And I don't know which way to go
If you offered me your world, did you think I'd really stay?
If you offered me the heavens, I would have to turn away.
Was it my imagination, or did I hear you say,
"We don't have a prayer between us."
Didn't you, now? Didn't you, now?
Didn't you?
song performed by by REM
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Make It All OK
You threw away the ballast and you rowed your boat ashore
Didn't you, now? Didn't you?
You made your ultimatum too big to ignore
Didn't you, now? Didn't you?
So you worked out your excuses,
turned away and shut the door.
The world's too vast for us now,
and you wanted to explore
It's a long, long long road
And I don't know which way to go
If you offered me your hand again I'd have to walk away.
When I saw you at the street fair, you called out my name
Didn't you, now? Didn't you?
You said we could start over, try and make it all okay.
Didn't you, now? Didn't you?
So our past has been rewritten
and you threw away the pen.
You'd said that I was useless,
but now you'll take me in again
Well Jesus loves me fine.
And your words fall flat this time.
Was it my imagination, or did I hear you say,
"We don't have a prayer between us."
Didn't you believe that I have finally turned away?
Didn't you, now? Didn't you?
Anything to hold onto to help me through my day.
Didn't you, now? Didn't you?
Jesus loves me fine.
But his words fall flat this time.
It's a long, long long road
And I don't know which way to go
If you offered me your world, did you think I'd really stay?
If you offered me the heavens, I would have to turn away.
Was it my imagination, or did I hear you say,
"We don't have a prayer between us."
Didn't you, now? Didn't you, now?
Didn't you?
song performed by by REM
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Wish
I wish i didn't care
Wish that i could go somewhere
Without i see, or feel you there.
One song that didn't squeeze my heart
One scene in which you played no part.
Not echoes where i hear your name
Cutting my soul with naked flame.
I wish i didn't care
And not shed a tear after one long year.
Hear you whispering in my ear
And those cards that will always appear
With wordy prose and kiss sincere
Now lie with dust within a drawer
Stolen dreams that i will view no more.
Yes, i wish i didn't care
To lay at dawn with lady fair
And forget how soft i felt your hair
Brush my face
Like our promises chased
Stolen by the breeze and never traced.
Oh, i wish that i didn't care
That our souls touched as we became one
Love's tapestry in heaven spun
In golden meadow we would run.
- Like our film, now in my head
As i stargaze lying in my bed
Your eyes still burn as bright somewhere
Oh God, i wish i didn't care.
poem by Kevin East
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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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What Others May Think.
Apart from the water tower
and the farm
and a few scattered cottages
there were no other buildings
for a mile or more
just you and Jane
and birds in the early morning sky
I like it at this time of day
she said
I like the fresh smell of nature
and the farm
and having few people about
you walked beside her down the lane
that led away from the farm
you noticed how her black hair
seemed freshly washed
and blew slightly in the mild wind
does you father mind
you being out with me?
you asked softly
he doesn't know
she replied
he thinks I came out alone
for a morning walk
why didn't you tell him?
you asked
he was busy writing his Sunday sermon
and it was easier to just go out
and not disturb him
she said looking around at you
her eyes studying you
as she walked on down the lane
would he mind you being with me?
you asked
I don't think he knows you as yet
seeing as you have only moved here
a few months and don't come
to the church
you stopped and took her hand in yours
it was warm and soft
and pulsed with life
she looked at your hand
holding hers and she rubbed
her thumb over the back
of your hand
you wanted to kiss her lips
or cheek just to feel
her flesh on yours
but you didn't you just looked at her
and waited to see
what she would do next
she let go of your hand
and looked around her
there might be people looking
from those cottages up there
she said suddenly pointing up
at the rising bank which went up
to two cottages high up
if they see us they may tell Father
and then it would be awkward
and he might suspect things
and then she went quiet
and looked at the running stream
by the lane
but we haven't done anything
we just walk out and talk
and hold hands now and then
it's not what we do
it's what others think we do
she said softly
and stood looking at you
waiting for you to speak
but you said nothing
just leaned in close to her
and kissed her cheek
and said
even Christ permitted kisses
even the one from Judas
and she smiled
and the early morning sun
pushed through trees
and shone on her hair
and there was the sound of birds
singing in the air.
poem by Terry Collett
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Hallelujah: A Sestina
A wind's word, the Hebrew Hallelujah.
I wonder they never gave it to a boy
(Hal for short) boy with wind-wild hair.
It means Praise God, as well it should since praise
Is what God's for. Why didn't they call my father
Hallelujah instead of Ebenezer?
Eben, of course, but christened Ebenezer,
Product of Nova Scotia (hallelujah).
Daniel, a country doctor, was his father
And my father his tenth and final boy.
A baby and last, he had a baby's praise:
Red petticoats, red cheeks, and crow-black hair.
A boy has little to say about his hair
And little about a name like Ebenezer
Except that you can shorten either. Praise
God for that, for that shout Hallelujah.
Shout Hallelujah for everything a boy
Can be that is not his father or grandfather.
But then, before you know it, he is a father
Too and passing on his brand of hair
To one more perfectly defenseless boy,
Dubbing him John or James or Ebenezer
But never, so far as I know, Hallelujah,
As if God didn't need quite that much praise.
But what I'm coming to - Could I ever praise
My father half enough for being a father
Who let me be myself? Sing Hallelujah.
Preacher he was with a prophet's head of hair
And what but a prophet's name was Ebenezer,
However little I guessed it as a boy?
Outlandish names of course are never a boy's
Choice. And it takes some time to learn to praise.
Stone of Help is the meaning of Ebenezer.
Stone of Help - what fitter name for my father?
Always the Stone of Help however his hair
Might graduate from black to Hallelujah.
Such is the old drama of boy and father.
Praise from a grayhead now with thinning hair.
Sing Ebenezer, Robert, sing Hallelujah!
poem by Robert Francis
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