Comb Your Hair
Girl comb your hair
It can't be that bad
I had it worse
Don't look so sad No money in the bank
No car to drive
I had to walk
But I survived You'll see some laugh
You'll see some smile
Your day will come
Just wait a while No suit in the closet
No shoes on the rack
One dress on the hanger
But you'll be back Comb your hair
And wash your face
Dry your tears
Thank God for grace
poem by MBA Carrie May Bennett
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Washing And Dressing
AH! why will my dear little girl be so cross,
And cry, and look sulky, and pout?
To lose her sweet smile is a terrible loss,
I can't even kiss her without.
You say you don't like to be wash'd and be dress'd,
But would you not wish to be clean?
Come, drive that long sob from your dear little breast,
This face is not fit to be seen.
If the water is cold, and the brush hurts your head,
And the soap has got into your eye,
Will the water grow warmer for all that you've said?
And what good will it do you to cry?
It is not to tease you and hurt you, my sweet,
But only for kindness and care,
That I wash you, and dress you, and make you look neat,
And comb out your tanglesome hair.
I don't mind the trouble, if you would not cry,
But pay me for all with a kiss;
That's right–take the towel and wipe your wet eye,
I thought you'd be good after this.
poem by Ann Taylor
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The Washing and Dressing
Ah! why will my dear little girl be so cross,
And cry, and look sulky, and pout?
To lose her sweet smile is a terrible loss,
I can't even kiss her without.
You say you don't like to be wash'd and be dress'd,
But would you not wish to be clean?
Come, drive that long sob from your dear little breast,
This face is not fit to be seen.
If the water is cold, and the brush hurts your head,
And the soap has got into your eye,
Will the water grow warmer for all that you've said?
And what good will it do you to cry?
It is not to tease you and hurt you, my sweet,
But only for kindness and care,
That I wash you, and dress you, and make you look neat,
And comb out your tanglesome hair.
I don't mind the trouble, if you would not cry,
But pay me for all with a kiss;
That's right -- take the towel and wipe your wet eye,
I thought you'd be good after this.
poem by Ann Taylor
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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 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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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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Some Questions For You This Morning
do you smile?
or have you forgotten how to smile to people
do you know that they too
are lonely and scared?
do you know what a hug means?
do you hug
the homeless ones?
you use things
no argument about that
you use people?
that can be a good question for you today
do you love yourself?
yes yourself too?
not just them in co-dependency
wash your face
with the gentleness of water in your hands
dove soap it
wipe your face and look at yourself in the mirror
comb your hair
spray perfume in your hair
the smell of lemon grass
you don't like it?
pick your choice
you have choices
you make decisions
please yourself
be free
and come to me
thus says the Lord your friend for a lifetime
beside you
as always
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Face Smiles Back Easily - Hundred Mile High City B-side
Its not the way that you look
Or the way that you comb your hair
I know well always be there
By the look, by the book
And your troops and your devil may care
I know well always be there
I know well always be there
And by the way your eyes are shining through
Theres nothing to do but wake up in light
And like the way your eyes they shine with the sun
And lighten everyone who wakes up in time to see
The face smiled back easily
I know well always be there
By the look, by the book
And your troops as your devil may care
I know well always be there
I know well always be there
Its not the way that you look
Or the way that you comb your hair
I know well always be there (x3)
song performed by by Ocean Colour Scene
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You Bet On Another Day
yes, you must live for another day
bet this day bet on another day
until you find this love that love
that must make your days whole
your nights still so exciting
you may fail again
on this sad day
on this despair of being alone
and still murmuring about the pain
in your soul
about the night that rains
so cold and becoming so unbearable
you want to sleep you cannot
the lizards keep bugging your thoughts
another failure
another fruitless turmoil
you get attuned to these feelings of
being low and meaningless
this day that day that coming day
you bet again for another day
you wake up, wash your face, go to the toilet,
clean your bed, dress yourself, and look at the mirror
to comb your hair and say
i'm ok, and this day will be ok
and they will all be ok,
you keep on entertaining promises
you maintain a number
a certain faith
who knows? you may hit the jackpot
it is near
wipe your tears, wash your face
prepare for another sleepless night
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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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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Lend Me Your Comb
Lend me your comb,
It's time to go home.
I got to go past,
My hair is a mess
Your mammie will scold,
Your pappie will shout.
Unless we come in
The way we went out.
Kissing you was fun honey
But thanks for the date.
But i must come to run honey,
But you know baby it's getting late.
Just wait till i say:
My darling,
Lend me your comb.
We got to go home.
Kissing you was fun honey
But thanks for the date.
But i must come to run, honey.
But sugar, it's getting late.
Just wait till i
Say: my darling,
Lend me your comb.
We got to go home.
song performed by by Beatles
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Combing My Hair
Now people always come around
But they don't always stick around
I run a comb across my head
I wish my hair would settle down
The clock I see is running slow
The batteries are running low
I run a comb across my head
And it feels the same like it did before
You're just another first footer across my door
And little less care (hair?) than I had last year
But it doesn't worry me because I
I have no fear
Here
The car I see is painted black
I'm steering (staring) at the driver's back
He runs a comb across his head
And it feels the same like it did before
You're just another fresh fare across his door
And little less care than he had last year
But it doesn't worry him because he
He has no fear
Here, here
Now people always come around
But they don't always stick around
They run a comb across your head
I wish my hair would settle down
The clock I see is running slow
We've only got three years to go
We run our combs across our heads
And it feels the same like it did before
You're just another first footer across the door
And little less care than we took last year
But it doesn't worry us because we
We have no fear
Here
Have we
We have no fear
Have we
We have no fear
song performed by by Travis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Gamblers All
sometimes you climb out of bed in the morning and you think,
I'm not going to make it, but you laugh inside
remembering all the times you've felt that way, and
you walk to the bathroom, do your toilet, see that face
in the mirror, oh my oh my oh my, but you comb your hair anyway,
get into your street clothes, feed the cats, fetch the
newspaper of horror, place it on the coffee table, kiss your
wife goodbye, and then you are backing the car out into life itself,
like millions of others you enter the arena once more.
you are on the freeway threading through traffic now,
moving both towards something and towards nothing at all as you punch
the radio on and get Mozart, which is something, and you will somehow
get through the slow days and the busy days and the dull
days and the hateful days and the rare days, all both so delightful
and so disappointing because
we are all so alike and so different.
you find the turn-off, drive through the most dangerous
part of town, feel momentarily wonderful as Mozart works
his way into your brain and slides down along your bones and
out through your shoes.
it's been a tough fight worth fighting
as we all drive along
betting on another day.
poem by Charles Bukowski
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Poor Boy's Easter Day
I don't have flowers of sun
The destiny took them away and gone
Even i don't have colored eggs
At this blissful Easter days
I don't have golden combs
To comb this dirty hair of mine
And my shoes are jugged and old
And it's already Easter day to hold
My little brother's hand
And go to our old church
but how I'll go?
People will make fun of me i know
And i can hear them when they say
'Oh how a dirty grimy his hair is'
'Oh God look to his old nasty shoes'
'What is doing this poor boy here'
'Oh Tom my son don't go near
then you become infected if you go near
that beggar boy so stay here'
And at the end ill return home
To tear at my bed alone
poem by Sossi Khachadourian
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Mr. Big Toe Meets Razel’s One Thumb
Mr. Big Toe one day was at lunch
when he noticed Razel’s one thumb.
Yes, Razel only eats with thumb and pinky,
she tries not to make food look stinky.
Mr. Big Toe bumps into her chair,
Razel says, “Hey, you messed up my hair! ”
Mr. Big Toe offers her a ice blue comb,
he says “Sorry Razel, here’s one comb to take home.”
Razel replies with a gleam in her eye,
“I here you will dress as a clown in disguise”
Mr. Big Toe then looks dazed and confused,
He knows Razel does spells to be amused.
Mr. Big Toe thought and then cried,
“I don’t dress up as a clown because
I would be hit with a pie! ”
Razel then felt dumb founded
and then she rebounded.
“Don’t worry my precious Mr. Big Toe,
I would never give my pie a throw! ”
Written By Suzae Chevalier on February 1,2012
www.suechevalier.com www.christinasunrise.com
poem by Christina Sunrise
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Wide Eyed Girl
She was a wide eyed girl
In a purple dress
She could have been good
She could have been the best
Shy little girl
When it came to the test
Wow oh...
She was a cut above the rest.
She was a wide eyed girl
With teased up hair
She could have had money
But she didn't care
She was looking for you daddy
...Never there
Looking for you daddy oh yea yea
Wide eyed girl
She was a wide eyed girl
Of a tender age.
Just moving out of her sensitive phase.
She said
"I love you baby it's for always
And I don't care what the teacher says."
When she walked out
Through the streets of Rome.
All of the Italians wanna take her home
All the brown little babies
With the slicked back hair
Sayin' "Prima amore... wow!"
SPOKEN:
"I'm sayin' something
Are ya listening to me?"
"Don't you walk away when I'm
Communicating with you!"
"She's goin' clickin' clackin'
Down the road in them high heeled shoes"!
"Mona Lisa!!!"
song performed by by Eurythmics from Revenge
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The way your little finger moved
AH, God, the way your little finger moved
As you thrust a bare arm backward
And made play with your hair
And a comb a silly gilt comb
Ah, God--that I should suffer
Because of the way a little finger moved.
poem by Stephen Crane
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Mr. Big Toe Meets Razel’s One Thumb
Mr. Big Toe Meets Razel’s One Thumb
Mr. Big Toe one day was at lunch
when he noticed Razel’s one thumb.
Yes, Razel only eats with thumb and pinky,
she tries not to make food look stinky.
Mr. Big Toe bumps into her chair,
Razel says, “Hey, you messed up my hair! ”
Mr. Big Toe offers her a ice blue comb,
he says “Sorry Razel, here’s one comb to take home.”
Razel replies with a gleam in her eye,
“I here you will dress as a clown in disguise”
Mr. Big Toe then looks dazed and confused,
He knows Razel does spells to be amused.
Mr. Big Toe thought and then cried,
“I don’t dress up as a clown because
I would be hit with a pie! ”
Razel then felt dumb founded
and then she rebounded.
“Don’t worry my precious Mr. Big Toe,
I would never give a pie a throw! ”
Written By Suzae Chevalier on February 1,2012
poem by Suzae Chevalier
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Grandma
Knots and tangles in my hair,
grandma sitting on her chair,
me in front on a stool so low,
brushes and combs all in a row.
Grandma would wash it every day,
Saying 'We do this first, then you play.'
Waiting for the feel of every pull,
this became our ritual.
I anticipated every tug.
When we finished we would hug.
But before I'd leave she'd make a bow,
all different colors she'd use to show
that my hair was something she loved to see.
It was long and shiny black, like ebony.
I treasure her looks and the moments spent,
the combs, the brushes and her looks of content.
My grandma made me feel like a queen,
like the prettiest thing she'd ever seen.
Now as my hair is turning gray
I remember the words she used to say,
'Sit down dolly and I'll comb your hair.'
poem by Edwina Reizer
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You Are Old Now....
...because others had it
you want it too,
you work to have it, work so hard,
connect, have a network
you push
you pull strings,
even at noon,
when the heat is
painful,
(deep within you you do not need it
you can live without it, you are different from all these
ambitious
selfish, power takers)
then, you finally get it
but then, when you prepare to go
dress yourself well, comb your hair,
put some smile in your face,
you finally face the truth that this thing is giving you harm
and never good
this arrogance, and
conceit,
and then, you surrender,
throw away
that which you have worked so hard for
you are old now,
and there is no more time left for you to be
real.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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