Hair Now Gone Tomorrow
It is neither here not there
But there was a time I had a lot of hair
As it passed, the time I mean
Everywhere my hair was seen
In the tub and in the sink
In the food and in the drink
Till all there was left my dears
Was a little bit above the ears
poem by Kishore Asthana
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My Little Doll
I once had a sweet little doll, dears,
The prettiest doll in the world;
Her cheeks were so red and so white, dears,
And her hair was so charmingly curled.
But I lost my poor little doll, dears,
As I played in the heath one day;
And I cried for more than a week, dears,
But I never could find where she lay.
I found my poor little doll, dears,
As I played in the heath one day:
Folks say she is terribly changed, dears,
For her paint is all washed away,
And her arms trodden off by the cows, dears
And her hair not the least bit curled:
Yet for old sakes' sake she is still, dears,
The prettiest doll in the world.
From The Water-Babies.
Eversley, 1862.
poem by Charles Kingsley
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Hair
Wide cheeks? Let the hair hide the ears.
Broad forehead? Let the hair spills in front.
Dwarf neck? Let the hair in knot be up.
Lanky figure? Let the hair falls on shoulders.
Hair being dense is an asset to woman
27.03.2006
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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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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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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Lament of a Wash-basin
LAMENT OF A WASH-BASIN
Very sorry my friends,
If by my lament,
Your tender hearts, I hurt,
When thus out I blurt.
But no other way have I,
To gain your sympathy o'er my cry,
Than in black and white to mention
And draw your kind attention.
All of you I beseech,
To yonder bin to reach
And, my dears-there to empty
Your tiffin-boxes, of left-overs sundry.
Of my gurgling throat, I'm sure,
It'll no more be wrote to cure,
For, I hope, you'll ne'er again so choke
And then, with a rod try to poke!
Thank you so much, my dears,
For so patiently lending your ears,
To the lament of a poor sink,
In this emanating stink!
poem by Chandra Thiagarajan
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Snares
Snares, sears, nears, are, era, ears, as, an, seas, ran, snare;
And like a threshing-sledge dragging the mire,
But the rattle of the spear is all that i do hear around me.
White hair, black hair and coloured hair!
The deep boils like a caldron;
But my ears heard of you and now,
My own eyes have seen you.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Y... Food for the soul
Food for the body
I know of men, who do not have enough,
Lacking food and drink, their life is rough
Day in, day out they struggle for food
There is no time for any other good
Food for the ego
I know of men who have enough food and drink
So they have time for something else to think
Their egos are hungry for money, power and fame
Getting more, being restless, an endless game
Food for the soul
I know of men who are contented with how they live
They focus on soul and never cease to give
To give love and support, perform acts randomly kind
They are the ones who have at any time peace of mind
poem by Aufie Zophy
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She loves her hair stretched
accustomed to curly hair
when we were yet children
living in the same house
I feel uneasy why she
wears stretched hair
And she takes pride
about her new found fashion
And taste for something straight.
Curly hairs and split ends
Never gave her luck
She got an ugly husband
Who does not understand her
Rich maybe, but slaps her
It is time she gains confidence
In herself to a newer face
A stretched hair, straight
And candid and ready to
Fight now, win or lose,
At whatever costs she must
Deny her old self, the one
With the curly hair, she is
Ready for the consequences.
Her right as a new woman
With stretched hair is now
Or never, she has no time left
Anymore for hiding and cowardice and tears.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Know I Am Not Getting Any Younger
i look at my face in the mirror
and take my comb and start to part
my thick black hair in the middle of
my forehead,
a black dye cannot hide anymore
the white at the bottom of my hair
all of them and i stare at myself
and begin to fear the
hands of the clock ticking
i know i am not getting any younger
and i am eating a lot of oysters
fresh from San Pedro
wanting to recover the lost drives
somewhere in San Isidro Labrador
how can i lose this hardness of my being?
my life has orbited on this belief
that i only live when i am useful
to each of you
i return my hair to its original style
looking so young again
i love this face and i tell myself
it must still sink a hundred ships
till i am gone
till i am forgotten by all of them
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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)
A Time To Write About Time
how do you write time? as simple as asking what time is it?
and then you look at your watch and say
without much thinking about how time passed swiftly and how
it affected you leaving you another lock of white hair
and sense of nostagia of
i am left out here and i have done nothing about the passing of time
it is 8: 17 in the morning, you hear some roosters still cocking out
their maleness to the hens laying their eggs in the warmth of their
quest for more of them
scrambled eggs and scratches on the grass for food
now finally i have found time to write about time
for eyes to look into my own eyes for hands to work on my own hands
time swiftly passes by
and i have noticed more wrinkles on my hands, more lines on my
forehead, eyebags, weakened knees, blisters on my feet, sagging cheeks, falling flesh on my arms,
my heart beats faster on the worry of
i have not done well enough and time passed by leaving me away
with this feeling of
there they are on happy faces with children and grandchildren
and birthdays and deaths and graduations and anniversaries
where are we my dear? we are in this house where there are only
two of us left
we are watching tv and this advertisement on milk for old age
and new born babies
how can we relate to the time that i am writing? i sit beside you,
i hug you again (for the nth time of this almost 30 years of being
together)
i turn off the tv, and let the silence be with us again
i hold your hand, and tell you the usual sweetest words
your name, i always say your name
and my name, you always call me by my name
i hold your hand, your head on my shoulder, we sit together
facing the sunset on the sea on the horizon where birds are flying towards their own nests
it is 5: 15 p.m., time is not freezing. it need not stop just like the
way we really want it
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Moon Fishing
When the moon was full they came to the water.
some with pitchforks, some with rakes,
some with sieves and ladles,
and one with a silver cup.
And they fished til a traveler passed them and said,
"Fools,
to catch the moon you must let your women
spread their hair on the water --
even the wily moon will leap to that bobbing
net of shimmering threads,
gasp and flop till its silver scales
lie black and still at your feet."
And they fished with the hair of their women
till a traveler passed them and said,
"Fools,
do you think the moon is caught lightly,
with glitter and silk threads?
You must cut out your hearts and bait your hooks
with those dark animals;
what matter you lose your hearts to reel in your dream?"
And they fished with their tight, hot hearts
till a traveler passed them and said,
"Fools,
what good is the moon to a heartless man?
Put back your hearts and get on your knees
and drink as you never have,
until your throats are coated with silver
and your voices ring like bells."
And they fished with their lips and tongues
until the water was gone
and the moon had slipped away
in the soft, bottomless mud.
poem by Lisel Mueller
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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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Bald, Pale, Short
30 years, then and now.
you lost all hair,
a compulsory version
of Yul Brynner
still short but this time
on paler skin
your eyes are still sharp
less the silence
on a drink you pour out
what life did to you
as always this drink
will still be my treat
oh man, time has not
changed
your poverty.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Mess Of A Man
Meet a man,
A man named Harry,
He's in need of a shave,
And it's quite scary,
He's got hair on his chest,
Hair on his back,
Hair on his ass,
And hair in his crack,
He leaves hair on the soap,
Hair on the floor,
Hair every place,
Including the store,
Harry, dear Harry,
Do something, please,
Your hair retains odor,
And you reek of cheese!
Look at your cat,
What will you do?
Your cat's hairballs,
They're the hairs from you!
No hope, it seems,
For your hairiness,
It'll just regrow,
So live in your mess.
poem by Maddy Jones
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Curl
You curl, you know how to curl,
Yes you know a curl in your hair
And you curl yourself like a
Hair, in your bed,
It is so cold and no one
Sleeps here
No one comes
There is no hello
As guest and no
Hi to pretend
You are coming
Well, you curl, you know how to curl,
Like your hair,
This time, curl forever,
Nothing straight till the end,
Eternal curl,
Still
Touch it
It bounces and rebounces,
touch it again,
and be silent
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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something_hells the Rock and Roll Mothercutters
I have a barber in Kingsley Course
Where Ageing Rockers Go
By Sweeny Tod he was trained
To cut hair as white as snow
He trims hair with a flick Knife
not scissors any more
And bills are always paid on time
Or ears end on the floor
Throats are just the thing to trim
if he dont like your discourse
So Mods and Punks you'll despair
If you enter Kingsley Course
For this is the place where Rock and Roll lives
And DA'S are a matter of Course
Where Egg and bacon, the food of spives
Is eaten with Chocolate sauce
p.s I hate chocolate sauce; of course
this place really exists why not google it or even better gothere yourself!
poem by James Roberts
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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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Smell of your hair
rolling over in bed this night
I found a little hidden delight
for on the pillow I smelled your hair
making me wish that you were still there
memories of our time spent together
and how your hair tickled my nose like a feather
made me long for your joyful presence
though you've been gone for a month since
flooding my mind with your laughter and smile
still makes me wish you'd not been gone this long while
will I ever get over you? now, only time will tell
having lived through our breakup, has been total hell
even though my heart continues to billow
each time I smell your hair on your pillow
poem by Jr James D Nall
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To Prepare for You
To prepare for you
I scrub the soles of my feet
and cut my toenails.
I wash and brush my hair
Flicking it out with my fingers
so each strand will dry fast and sweet
in the breeze of the ceiling fan.
I smooth oil on my elbows, thighs, and knees;
brushing oil from my palms
over my nipples
so they’ll stick to your fingers.
I wrap myself in a silky sarong
choose a cunning earring
which will jangle in your bed
when I shake my hair over you.
Will you notice that I’ve cut my hair?
One side is longer than the other
but I won’t neaten it.
I’ll wear the earring on the long side.
I streak perfume through my hair.
Bought near the Jain temple
in Udaipur
palest green scent distilled from a root
dissolved in oil of sandalwood
Last time I left you
I could smell you in my hair all day.
poem by Kaye Aldenhoven
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