Men Looks Much Better With Grey Hair
Men looks
Much better
With grey hair
Because
Grey hair
Makes the men looks
Handsome
poem by Aldo Kraas
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Ten Grey hairs and a silver one
I discovered my first grey hair
when I was Seventeen years old
It had to do with broken up my first relationship
I discovered my second grey hair
when I was Twenty years old
It had to do with the quarrels at home
I discovered my third grey hair
when I was Twenty-one years old
It had to do with searching for work
I discovered my fourth grey hair
when I was Twenty-three years old
It had to do with loosing my job
I discovered my fifth grey hair
when I was Twenty-five years old
It had to do with giving up my unborn child
I discovered my sixth grey hair
When I was Twenty-eight years old
It had to do with opening my pub
I discovered my seventh grey hair
When I was thirty years old
It had to do with giving birth to my daughter
I discovered my eight grey hair
When I was thirty –two years old
It had to do with the first day at the kinder garden school
I discovered my ninth grey hair
When I was thirty-four years old
It had to do with to find out that some thing was missing
I discovered my tenth grey hair
When I was thirty-five years old
It had to do with the fights between my sisters and mum
My one Silver hair I discovered lately
Has to do with you
Because I miss you so hard …
poem by Pascale Ost
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Wrinkles and Grey Hair (Children)
Mommy's getting wrinkles.
Daddy has grey hair.
It wasn't very long ago
when those things weren't there.
Wish I could smooth the wrinkles out
and darken Daddy's hair
to stop the changes going on.
It makes me feel so scared.
Grampa, does it mean they'll die?
They have wrinkles and grey hair!
I never used to worry
before those things were there.
Grampa said to look at him.
There were lots of wrinkles there,
and on his head, a snowstorm
was the color of his hair.
'Wrinkles only come to point
where smiles were, here and there.
It's your mommy's turn to get some
for the happy times you've shared.'
His white, and Daddy's grey hair
well, it was there to show
who had lived the longest time
so everyone could know!
Grampa said it's part of life.
We love, we learn, we live.
We earn grey hair and wrinkles,
they're prizes only God can give.
Embracing Age
Strainds of grey hair they dye
Behind youth they try to hide
In a bed of denial they lie
they look at age with false pride
It's hard to think that nowadays grey hair is rare
Let me tell you something I wish to share
From old age I won't hide
I will embrace it and show of my grey hair with pride
poem by Rayana King
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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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My vanity
When you see the grey in my hair
will you remember the black that was there?
Or will you forget and just see grey
that forms at the roots on everyday?
I used to wear it long and flowing
and preen about how it was growing.
I used a hair brush and counted the strokes,
but that's a waste of time for older folks.
Vanity's been replaced by common sense
although I say in my defense
that if I could I'd still like to see
that shiny lustre of ebony.
Beauty is burdensome anyway
and eventually I'll accept being grey.
But not just yet, maybe next year.
Alas by then more grey will appear.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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The Grey World
Grey nights in the wind,
And the grey-faced dead.
Grey hairs in my head,
And grey eyes in my mind.
Grey mists in the morn,
And grey waves that rave,
Grey mould on my grave,
And grey eyes forlorn.
Grey clouds in the sky,
And the grey world asleep,
Grey ghosts that sigh,
And grey eyes that weep.
poem by Leon Gellert
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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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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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Grey, Grey Sky
Someday I will ride the great bird
Into the sky, into the grey
And will take a bright secret of mine
Into the grey, grey sky.
And the light will come, piercing my eyes
Out of the sky, out of the grey
Come blinding and searing these eyes
Out of the grey, grey sky.
And I will find comfort in this
In the wide sky, in the wide grey
In the painful dark brightness of light
Light of the grey, grey sky.
My secret will fly away home
Into the sky, into the grey
And the great bird will follow it there
Into the grey, grey sky.
And I will be riding that bird
Bird of the sky, bird of the grey
And I will come home once again
Home to the grey, grey sky.
But for now I am weighted, earthbound
One of the mud, one of the ground
And I write this sad song to sad sound
Girl of the pavement sighs.
poem by Grace Hutton
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The Return
They turned him loose; he bowed his head,
A felon, bent and grey.
His face was even as the Dead,
He had no word to say.
He sought the home of his old love,
To look on her once more;
And where her roses breathed above,
He cowered beside the door.
She sat there in the shining room;
Her hair was silver grey.
He stared and stared from out the gloom;
He turned to go away.
Her roses rustled overhead.
She saw, with sudden start.
"I knew that you would come," she said,
And held him to her heart.
Her face was rapt and angel-sweet;
She touched his hair of grey;
. . . . .
But he, sob-shaken, at her feet,
Could only pray and pray.
poem by Robert William Service
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Head South
A surf rock man from the land of plenty
Surf rock mess with no surf but pine trees
Struck by being ashamed of your old space
Just wanting that meaning
You bleached your hair
And you pawned your skis
And then you sold out for the
Shade of the palm tree scene
And said, of what a drag!
Oh what a backwards scheme,
Cuz here things go from grey
To grey and back to grey again
And they get green and go to grey
And back to grey again
So he said, head south! [x12]
Struck by being ashamed of your old space
Just wanting that (meat? )
You bleached your hair
And you pawned your skis
And then you sold out for the
Shape of the palm tree scene
Surrounded, cut off jeans
And cut off jeans and cut off
Jeans are what you mean
When you say, head south! [x12]
song performed by by Modest Mouse
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Silver
There are clouds that hang
silver-grey in the air,
before the winter sun
gives its first rays
of a drawling day.
Silver-grey the Monday starts
and while the day’s hours
pass much to slowly,
I am summoned to the old chief
with his silver-grey hair.
One of the women clerks
who wants to be boss,
wants to push a silver knife
into a colleges back.
I leave them alone to count their silver pounds
and wash my hands in the bathroom,
with a silver ray of water that squirts out of the tap.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Haircut.
The Barber came to cut my hair,
I told him that it wasn't fair.
My hair had done him no harm,
Without it I would loose my charm.
The Barber he grinned a silly grin,
Said to cut my hair would be no sin.
That I should face it like a man,
But I'm a coward and away I ran.
Do you like sitting in a Barbers chair,
With him chopping away your lovely hair.
Once my head was full of curls,
Covering my face with twisty twirls.
But then the Barber came my way,
I was a child, I had no say.
Off came my curls one by one,
The Barber seemed to have great fun.
Now I'm old and very grey,
I'm nearly bald, my hairs gone away.
But when I see a Barbers chair,
I feel the loss of my curly hair.
You know I truly rue the day,
When that first Barber came my way.
poem by Bernard Shaw
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Ballad of Autumn
DOWN harvest headlands the fairy host
Of the poppy banners have flashed and fled,
The lilies have faded like ghost and ghost,
The ripe rose rots in the garden bed.
The grain is garnered, the blooms are shed,
Convolvulus springs on the snowdrop’s bier,
In her stranded gold is the silver thread
Of the first grey hair i’ the head o’ the year.
Like an arrant knave from a bootless boast,
The fire-wind back to his North has sped
To harry the manes of a haunted coast
On a far sea-rim where the stars are dead.
Wistful the welkin with wordless dread,
Mournful the uplands, all ashen sere—
Sad for the snow on a beauteous head—
For the first grey hair i’ the head o’ the year.
Time trysts with Death at the finger-post,
Where the broken issues of life are wed—
Intone no dirges, fill up the toast
To the troops that trip it with silent tread,
Merry we’ll make it tho’ skies be lead,
And March-wind’s moan be a minstrel drear—
A truce to trouble!—we’ll drink instead
To the first grey hair i’ the head o’ the year.
South Esk sings on where the furze-fires spread,
But we’ll mourn no more as of old, my dear,
When gorse flames golden and briars flush red
With the first grey hair i’ the head o’ the year.
poem by Marie E J Pitt
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Unread
'And only now when his head was grey
he had fallen properly,
really in love -
for the first time in his life'
- from Anton Chechov's The Lady With The Dog
i look at my hair now
and they are grey
and then i ask myself if i really love her
i like to be true now
i have always been distant
from every human being
even from her
from the very first time
when my heart was broken
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Increase in pay
I hear him humming
A song of increase in pay
The same tune he keeps on drumming
Day after day after day
'Increase in pay, ’ he says
'Increase in play, ' he says
Today his hair is whiter than grey
Thirteen increments of pay
But he still keeps on humming
The same tune he keeps on drumming
'Increase in pay, ’ he says
'Fewer hours, more power, ' he says
No more do they listen
Once they did when he glistened
Now they wait gently endlessly
Now they debate quietly mercilessly
'Delay the pay, ' they say
'Decrease the play, ' they say
Can't you see his hair has turned all grey?
Soon! Soon he shall only wither away!
Copyright 2006 - Sylvia Chidi
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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Mysterious Girl
There is a girl
With long black hair
With her big grey eyes
People can’t help but stare
Her beauty leaves a trace
Every time she walks by
She’s filled with magnificence
Such splendor you cannot deny
With her tall and fit body
She can blow fire off
As she walks past a crowd
Others can’t help but scoff
Her loveliness is admired by everyone
But her charm is envious by most women
By the way she dresses and walks
Her features are adored and gleamin’
Everything about her is stunning
She’s every girl and woman’s wanna be
Yet people did not know
That that girl with long black hair
And big grey eyes
Is me...
poem by Marria Attar
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Hair today gone tomorrow
Some people have got a lot of hair
whilst others have hardly any at all
many have a thick looking mop
for a lot it's just a bright shiny ball.
It's there to cover a persons head
shades of black, brown, blonde, and grey,
some of it stays firmly in place
but in the wind a wig can be blown away.
Women like to try different styles
they can become a redhead overnight
but always say their hair looks nice
that's if you don't want to start a fight.
As you get older it starts to change colour
your dark locks can even turn white
that's when a lot of folk start to dye it
but for some reason it never looks right.
So if your hair is starting to fall out
or you've got not one hair on top
just think of all the money you'll save
with no more trips to your local barber shop!
poem by Kevin Halls
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Grey Windows...
grey windows, grey buildings,
grey streets, grey skies...
grey figures staring,
grey deals are done!
manipulate gas prices,
manipulate food...
manipulate the economy,
manipulate the election.
right and wrong,
never thought of.
hungry mouths and desperation.
win the war,
never raise a gun,
bodies strewn everywhere!
money makes gods,
without conscience or morals.
human lives just tokens,
that buy trinkets for demons!
flag draped caskets,
the stink of money overwhelms.
while patriots dig graves,
for their mothers and sisters.
right and wrong,
never thought of.
hungry mouths and desperation.
pick a President,
who'll stand silent,
as birds of prey pick the bodies!
grey windows...
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Iris
Not how you would be thought of, your color
Being grey, silky, like a second skin, your hair
Flecked with it. Now, hearing your way of saying
Iridescent while I read your poem, three years
After your death, I am compelled to check
You out in Ovid, Lamprière, Bulfin, then
A book of flowers, where I discover you
On marshy ground, not grey exactly—in fact
A pretty blue-grey, a quiet type, with a green cowl
To shelter the thoughtful inclined head.
Not at all the bright-winged messenger
Who’d drown the world if Juno put you up to it,
But a quiet sylph, who could color her message
With a sly tilt of the head, those grey eyes steady,
Lips pursed, making a pretence of kissing.
You could supply so many ambiguities—
Gradations and streaks and tones of grey and blue—
That for twenty years I saw your story told
Where the sky lay on the wintry hills, weighed down
With tears Mnemosyne allows for you:
Flower, messenger, poet.
poem by James Phillip McAuley
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