En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Rihana

I am coming back
with the girl who lured
the city with her song

I grabbed her
As she oozed down
from the disco party
And just like her painted hairs
I yearned to be free
while rooted in her..

the strands of her hair used to
dance with all the rogue winds..

I have to steal
the menstrual blood of spring
to redden her lips
that were charred
by the kiss of summer

There is only a single room
in the thatched house
when I returned with the girl
who lured the city with her song

Sitting on its steps
that are plastered dry with cow dung
May be I will blacken her hair
with medicated oil.
During noontimes,
while I comb
and count her hairs one by one,
I will put to death
the lice I find there
and will claim that her body
was solely my own home

While thus crossing boredom
once, when I find a grey hair
from her head
Maybe I will pluck them all out
without her knowing it
When she comes to know of it
Maybe she will paint
those strands of her hair,
But never will she attempt
to lure the cities again.

poem by Sujeesh nm92
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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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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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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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The Dolls Braided Her Hair

She wove ribbons in her hair,
the gold strands mixing with the red.
It help her naivety,
her innocence until she met Kindergarten
who tore the ribbons from her hair
and threw them to the wind.
He carried distant memories
even further from her.
She lost everything to the wind,
trading it for logic and friends.
They cut her hair and threw some into story books,
burning them before her eyes.
Her dolls cried alone in her room
as they huddled together,
braiding the hair that had been cut from her head.
It made a crown of red and gold strands.
She ignored the crown and it disintegrated.
Years later when her own daughter was
talking to the dolls,
they told her about the crown.
She cried, and they braided her hair,
weaving it with ribbons.

poem by Andrea Stuckey
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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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Shinning gem's

so special is your hair
without
a seconds and
a countless of gesture, your
fingers wish
to touch

your glooming
hair
in your head
looking back the comb
that splashes the
thinned
shinning hair, as it flashes

all the oily
smooth curly strands, where
between its
length
the little tiny lies wish
to reach
the bottom
views of the beautiful
hair

my bosom friend
love to settle
her magnificent glows of gems
I kept it a
blinks for a while, tempted
to smell

wondering what
would it be, yet!
so fulfilling
to
blow the wind
dazzling to reach the
alluring hair

of my beloved
friend, the only precious
gems she
possess until, the beautiful
angelic hair lost it’s
fragrance of
existence, a glimpse of
dust mesmerize

the memories of the YOU

poem by Antonio Liao
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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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My Mothers Hair

One of your hairs fell out last night:
A piece of your life was gone without a sound.
I know a difficult day is coming,
My heart, pierced, utters a quiet cry.

Let my childhood smile again in the sun
And turn me into an innocent little head louse
So I can crawl through the jungle of your hair
And sing a song of darkness in its fragrance.

Under your fingernail-roof Ill sleep in my house;
In my black dream Ill water your black trees.
Ill pick black fruits, and hair-jungle bees
Will bring me black poems to be opened.

How will I live, without your hair?
How will I breathe, without its fragrance?
How will I survive, when I am discovered
By ghosts of wooden combs combing your hair?

Let me wear shows made of dawn-flowers
And crawl without a sound into your sleep.
Ill take the place of the hair that's gone
And sing of hair-clouds flying from night to day.

poem by Ovwigho Joseph Ovedje
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Randy Scouse Git

She's a wonderful lady
And she's mine, all mine
And there doesn't seem a way
That she won't come and lose my mind
It's too easy humming songs
To a girl in a yellow dress
It's been a long time since the party
And the room is in a mess
The four kings of EMI are sitting stately on the floor
There are birds out on the sidewalk
And a valet at the door
He reminds me of a penguin
With few and plastered hair
There's talcum powder on the letter
And the birthday boy is there
Why don't you cut your hair?
Why don't you live up there?
Why don't you do what I do,
See what I feel when I care?
Now they've darkened all the windows
And the seats are naugahide
I've been waiting for an hour
I can't find a place to hide
The being known as wondergirl
Is speaking, I believe
It's not easy trying to tell her
That I shortly have to leave
Why don't you be like me?
Why don't you stop and see?
Why don't you hate who I hate,
Kill who I kill to be free?
[Intrumental]
Why don't you cut your hair?
Why don't you live up there?
Why dodn't you do what I do,
See what I feel when I care?
Why don't you be like me? (She's a wonderful lady)
Why don't you stop and see? (And she's mine, all mine)
Why don't you hate who I hate, (And there doesn't seem a way)
Kill who I kill to be free? (That she won't come and lose my mind)
Why don't you cut your hair? (It's too easy humming songs)
Why don't you live up there? (To a girl in a yellow dress)
Why don't you do what I do, (It's been a long time since the party)
See what I feel when I care? (And the room is in a mess

song performed by by Monkees
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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angry

' why are you so angry, ' the girl with the red hair asked me.
'why are YOU so angry, girl with the red hair'
'That's not important were here to talk about you.'
'Could you quit calling me that? '
'NO'
'I wasn't asking'
'But I was telling ya, girl with the red hair'
'lets get back to your anger'
'But i thought we were talking about your anger, so what makes you angry, ms'
'what makes you.angry, girl with the red hair? '
'you calling me that name what name, Girl with the red hair? '
'yes'
'why does it make you angry, girl with the red hair? '
'because all my life people have picked on me because of my RED HAIR.'
'O, well sorry to hear that'
'yeah'
'Well now that we atlked about your anger lets talk about mine...'

poem by Ke'Love Moss
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Hairy Woes

(This not a poem. One day I thought whether I could write about hair problems and this is what I could come up with. Have a good hair day.)

Oh all the balding men of the world! Neither split your hair nor let your hair down; instead, get up to fight against hair experts and hair industries because, you have nothing to loss except hairs, which you are already losing anyway.

The scientific study published in, 'International Journal of Fake Studies', has proven beyond doubt that, all kinds of hairs and particularly black hairs, absorb sun light and thus indirectly contribute to the global warming whereas, shining bald pates reflect sun light back into the atmosphere, thus help to make earth’s climate cool. So taking these facts in account, bald persons should be given the tax rebate in form of carbon credits whereas, high taxation should be levied on persons with hair for leaving carbon footprints behind.

It is true my friend, that you are paying the tax as well as losing your hair, but try to imagine a plight of less fortunate ones, who neither earn enough money to pay the tax nor have enough hair to loss.

'Son! Why do you worry about your hair problems; get me mustards seeds from the home, that doesn't have hair problems', thus spake enlightened sage, hearing which young man became calm.

The biggest cause of hair fall, dandruff and other hair related problems is existence of hair.

No person with hair on his head, can solve all your hair problems, neither can the person without hair.

As, not all the armies of the world, can stop the idea whose time has come so, not all the hair experts can stem the progress of baldness, whose time has come.

Only two things are universal, hair problems and human stupidity, but I have doubt about former, thus spake Einstein of hair science.

Not all the trichologists, dermatologists and hair experts together, armed with shampoos, hair oils, hair dyes and herbal ointments can cure all the hair ailments, as long as hairs are there.

As long as hairs are there, there are going to be hair problems, similarly as long as shrinks are there, there are going to be mental problems.

The hair industry expands their business by perpetuating the two myths, first is there are more hair at unwanted place and other is, there are less hair at desired place.

Hair here, hair there, hair everywhere similarly: problem here, problem there, problem everywhere.

He fell in love with her hair and married the whole girl, soon he was without hair.

In early part of his life man losses his hair to earn money then he uses same money to gain hair back.

Don't bask in a glory of the hair, you used to have in past, instead tell me, do you have gorgeous hair now?

There is some truth in a myth that the bald men are fortunate; to begin with, they don't have to spend their fortune on comb, hair products, hair cuts and last but not least girls.

There are more blondes on streets of India than women of the rest of the world put together; thanks to Garnier. Take Care.

White hair is nothing but a flag hoisted by a tired life, signaling armistice with hostile time, which eventually leads to surrender to the death.

Blessed are the monks who shave their hair themselves, a symbol of a vanity of the world, because nature is going to destroy that vanity eventually anyhow.

Oh Sinner! Vain is your attempt to hide your sins, for sins will shine in your life as bald pate shines through the sparse tufts of hair.

It is irony that the monks who do not care for their hair often have beautiful and luxuriant hair.

Trees are nothing but hair of Gaia, the earth; if you destroy, them then earth too would take her revenge by creating conditions, that won't allow the hair to stay on your crown.

More often than not, one owns heir are responsible for one owns hair fall.

If you cannot prevent hair fall, enjoy it.

15/01/2011
Dr Hitesh C Sheth

poem by Hitesh Sheth
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I love my hair

I love my hair
I always toss it around in the air
As if without a care!

I love my hair
Once I caught the super hair bug
Caught it whilst I slept on an old rug
The super lice were playing scratch, scratch, and scratch
While my fingernails were playing catch, catch and catch
Finally my hair was shaven as there was no cure, no other drug
I wore my head on my shoulder for a while with a distasteful shrug
Hiding underneath a cap with obvious bald patches that seemed to match

I love my hair
Long, golden plaited and brown
Enough to move heads around in town
People just want to come near
And stare! Stare at me! Who is that alien from elsewhere?

My hair is beautifully plaited in strands
This kind of hair fashion is high in demand
So many different styles to experiment with and expand
Today a woman needs to look good, do you understand?

I talk to my hair with oils
I say today I need you to curl
And when I style you,
Stay in place, do not spoil!

I wash my hair twice a day
Maybe when I am old, it would go grey
But for now the beauty is here to stay
I hope so, I definitely pray!

Beware all, take care
I love my hair, I love my hair
Don’t touch! But you can stare
You can stare at how I wear
My beautiful hair!
Try and out-do me if you dare!

I love my hair
I like to show it off
Around me do not sneeze or cough
Or with you I can be horribly tough
Around me do not sneeze or cough
If you don’t want to know the meaning of rough
I mean it, this isn’t a bluff!
I love my hair!

Copyright 2006 - Sylvia Chidi

poem by Sylvia Chidi
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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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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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Rany Scouse Git

By micky dolenz
Shes a wonderful lady
And shes mine all mine
And there doesnt seem a way
That she wont come and lose my mind.
Its too easy humming songs
To a girl in yellow dress
Its been a long time since the party
And the room is in a mess.
The four kings of e.m.i.
Are sitting stately on the floor
There are birds out on the sidewalk
And a valet at the door.
He reminds me of a penguin
With few and plastered hair,
Theres talcum powder on the letter
And the birthday boy is there.
Why dont you cut your hair?
Why dont you live up there?
Why dont you do what I do,
See what I feel when I care?
Now theyve darkened all the windows
And the seats are naugh-a-hyde.
Ive been waiting for an hour,
I cant find a place to hide.
The being known as wonder girl
Is speaking I believe.
Its not easy tryin to tell her
That I shortly have to leave.
Why dont you be like me?
Why dont you stop and see?
Why dont you hate who I hate,
Kill who I kill to be free.
[progressive scat vocals]
Why dont you cut your hair?
Why dont you live up there?
Why dont you do what I do,
See what I feel when I care?
Why dont you be like me?
Why dont you stop and see?
Why dont you hate who I hate,
Kill who I kill to be free.

song performed by by Monkees
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Make Me Beautiful

Girl, I need my hair 'did'
I'll be over at 5
You are late
you kow I needed you
to put this Lace Front in
Did you bring glue and scissors
and Don't be messing up my hair
I spent alot of money
to make me Beautiful

Girl, I need my hair twisted
you know like Dreds
I need it done now,
how long do you think it will be
I don't have all day
and I'm hungry too
Girl,
let me go get some Chinese food
while you working on my hair.

Girl, I need you to come with me
to the hair store
How many wigs you gonna try on,
I want a long pony tail
down my back, with no curls
and I need some gel,
some hair pins too.
I put my perm in so hook me up
you hear!

Girl, its me, what you doing
I need to borrow a wig for tonight
I got a date and I 'need' to look good
I want my Do to look beautiful like
yours,
But Tonight,
Make Me Beautiful, like Beyonce

My nails, my nails
got to have them done too
let me see the colors
designs you have

I'm planning on looking good like her tonight
got me one of those push up bras
and that girdle that, make you 3 sizes smaller
I am going out tonight,
I'm gonna find me a man
and I just want you to,
Make Me Beautiful,
Girl, it's gonna be on! .

(Written By LadyAdrienne)

poem by Adrienne Clark Strachn
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Being in Love in 1974.(poem)

Being in love
was like being ill
and that day
after Judy'd left

to go to Florence
for a week
you went to the big city
to take your mind off her

but she lingered there
wherever you went
every brunette
with long hair

was her
and when you sat
in the Royal Opera House
to watch a ballet

she was there
down in the front
at least it seemed so
until the girl looked around

and had a different
face and eyes
and sitting
in that coffee house

by Piccadilly Circus
you sensed her absence
and drank coffee
after coffee

the blues eating
at you
wanting her there
beside you

imagining maybe
she'd not gone off
after all and that
at any minute

she'd seek you out
by some kind of
lover's radar
but she never showed

and no other girl passing
was her
and you thought
of the time

a few weeks back
when after she'd
gone off home
from work

you had taken
a single hair
from her white
work coat

and twisted it
between fingers
and kept it
between pages

of Solzhenitsyn's
Gulag Archipelago
seeing it
and moving it

each time
you read more
of the labour camps
and death and snow

and tundra
and she off in Florence
with friends
and you left behind

depressed
and love blind.

poem by Terry Collett
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Being In Love In 1974.

Being in love
was like being ill
and that day
after Judy'd left

to go to Florence
for a week
you went to the big city
to take your mind off her

but she lingered there
wherever you went
every brunette
with long hair

was her
and when you sat
in the Royal Opera House
to watch a ballet

she was there
down in the front
at least it seemed so
until the girl looked around

and had a different
face and eyes
and sitting
in that coffee house

by Piccadilly Circus
you sensed her absence
and drank coffee
after coffee

the blues eating
at you
wanting her there
beside you

imagining maybe
she'd not gone off
after all and that
at any minute

she'd seek you out
by some kind of
lover's radar
but she never showed

and no other girl passing
was her
and you thought
of the time

a few weeks back
when after she'd
gone off home
from work

you had taken
a single hair
from her white
work coat

and twisted it
between fingers
and kept it
between pages

of Solzhenitsyn's
Gulag Archipelago
seeing it
and moving it

each time
you read more
of the labour camps
and death and snow

and tundra
and she off in Florence
with friends
and you left behind

depressed
and love blind.

poem by Terry Collett
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The Coquette

Girl, oh girl,
I can see you
in the wintry morning
as you go out
hurrying
with the copper bracelets’ sound
your hair surmounts your tiny head,
your hair,
coarse like horse’s mane
black hairs cutting the air
as you look in the mirror
for the last time
before you lе а ve.
Girl, I can see you
with the lipstick,
idolizing your mouth,
full shiny mouth,
your high heels tempt the stairs
as you descend,
Girl, I know you,
your plain body, tiny legs, slim,
trembling
with the muscles of your arms
as you lock the door;
What have you done
and they don’t know?
Your curly red hair from the youth
you’ve straightened it smooth
and dyed black,
Girl, does your body hurt when nude?
What have you done?
I could never see
your plasticine drops flow,
why did you go to the wolfs
when night fell:
teary drops tear the flesh
your tiny breasts
were mesmerized
with the green amulet
swinging
from one breast to other
we see each other strangely;
How queer,
I can see you in the night
girl you crawl, the saffron shawl
slithers your body as your stomach
swells with pain
“To hell with the wolfs“
and in the room of old wolf
always reeks malodorous.
Girl I can see you
bending,
your knees rubbing the floor
your coarse palms
sending the bulletins of shame
to be published,
hush girl, I can see
your blackened and regretful
running down your toes: tears.
I can see you go
as someone locks the door
from where you went in the night
I can see you howling,
green with forest coldness
green were your eyes
reddened with plasticine
and you, what were you?
Why girl you are,
in the wintry night
as you come back home,
just another
plasticine doll.

poem by Afrodita Nikolova
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La Gitana

Your hair was full of roses in the dewfall as we danced,
The sorceress enchanting and the paladin entranced,
In the starlight as we wove us in a web of silk and steel
Immemorial as the marble in the halls of Boabdil,
In the pleasuance of the roses with the fountains and the yews
Where the snowy Sierra soothed us with the breezes and the dews!
In the starlight as we trembled from a laugh to a caress,
And the God came warm upon us in our pagan allegresse.
Was the Baile de la Bona too seductive? Did you feel
Through the silence and the softness all the tension of the steel?
For your hair was full of roses, and my flesh was full of thorns,
And the midnight came upon us worth a million crazy morns.
Ah! my Gipsy, my Gitana, my Saliya! were you fain
For the dance to turn to earnest? - O the sunny land of Spain!
My Gitana, my Saliya! more delicious than a dove!
With your hair aflame with roses and your lips alight with love!
Shall I see you, shall I kiss you once again? I wander far
From the sunny land of summer to the icy Polar Star.
I shall find you, I shall have you! I am coming back again
From the filth and fog to seek you in the sunny land of Spain.
I shall find you, my Gitana, my Saliya! as of old
With your hair aflame with roses and your body gay with gold.
I shall find you, I shall have you, in the summer and the south
With our passion in your body and our love upon your mouth -
With our wonder and our worship be the world aflame anew!
My Gitana, my Saliya! I am coming back to you!

poem by Aleister Crowley
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