Romancing The Beard
What women are attracted to
Though to some it may seem weird
Is a man who has a curl-i-que
That we’ve come to call a beard
They seem to love what’s hair-ly
On the chin and down below
That hair they find so rarely
Is that hair that they can’t grow
They love that tickly feeling
When caressing bearded men
Those beards just send them reeling
For those men they have a yen
These ladies have this craving
For men with chin filled bristles
These men who do no shaving
Who have these chin filled frizzles
A beard can really dazzle
When covering a jawline
With it’s sexy kind of frazzle
It can dazzle any fraulein
poem by Stanley Cooper
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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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There was a man
There was a man with a golden crop.
Started to see, the growth he had did stop;
Over a few months he noticed as he did look,
A cricket pitch, was now he saw it over took.
There was a lady of almost 60, and in a mood,
She looked in the mirror, found her chin growing a brood;
She tried to pull each new hair till it came out,
But a few weeks later, two no three, new ones came about.
These two met for a cuppa, and a sweet,
And spoke of their problems on their seat;
She said to him why is it to me, such a bother,
I'll soon need to shave, I'm not a guy I'm a mother.
He agreed, and started to laugh, at the situation,
That he also had a problem, a hair complication;
Then she said why do you laugh, it's no joke you know,
But; soon saw why he thought it was fun, said o blow.
He said dear girl, as we get older, I'm losing my locks,
But you sweet ladies start growing a beard so why the knocks?
From the younger generation, that we see everywhere,
After all one day it'll happen to them as well, and see if we care.
poem by Margaret Haig
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The King’s Beard
There lived a king with beard so long
And scalp with scarcely hair!
He used a comb and sang a song
And groomed it with great care.
The king was proud of his long beard
That made him look so wise!
The queen, his wife knew he looked weird
And cursed him for its size!
The queen was therefore always sad;
His lip got hid by hair!
But one day, she was rather glad;
She told him, she couldn’t bear!
One day, the king slept while he read
A book that was folklore!
He had a dream asleep in bed;
“His beard had grown some more! ”
A burning candle-stick fell down
And lit the curtain-blind;
His beard had caught the fire sown!
The king was off his mind!
His nose smelt smoke: he woke in fright;
His beard was all aflame!
He shaved the stubs of hair by night
And took on him all blame!
The next day when the people saw
The king, they couldn’t believe
Their eyes and gazed at him with awe!
“Could eyes of dawn deceive? ”
poem by John Celes
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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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My individual handsome God
I like to smile as you
But it's a cry
And I try to cry like you
Oh! It's a smile
And your curly gray beard
I love to grow on my pointed chin
But not that particular color.
At last I realized
You are a God!
And I am a Man.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Jerry The Limerick
He has grown, in the clinic, a beard
but the stubbles are rough and much feared
by the soft, peachy skin
of both cheeks and her chin,
she considers his hairyness weird.
So she sharpened that Wilkinson blade
pulled the love of her life to the shade,
and proceeded to shave
from the face of this brave
man the hair, but she left him his beard.
He had grown, near each ear in just days
a small bushel of hair, like some gays,
and he blamed the selection
of the drugs for injection
it was Medicine's modern day ways.
After resting the night at his home
she had run out of white shaving foam,
which she meant to employ
to cut braids off this boy
but instead he had asked for a comb.
Well, I promised to keep up to date
all you poets about Jerry's fate.
If you saw his new looks
you would close your e-books
and this forum would start a debate.
I should also be honest and mention
that the nurse who kept Jerr' in detention,
put two rings in his nose
and a ruby-red rose
in his navel, with evil intention!
Do not shoot me, the messenger, please!
It is Jerry, who's also obese
as he stole all the pies
from the trays of the guys
who were bedridden due to bad knees.
All in all they were happy to see
that his kidneys again let him pee.
And they showed him the door
to the street level floor
thus at last our Jerry is free.
Discussions are well underway,
as sweet Alison showed some dismay.
Now the plan is to post
for the upcoming roast
on this forum his current portrait.
And as soon as the photo is taken
we shall tie up this silly old bacon
like a proper Martini
or Italian linguini
he'll be stirred with a vengeance, not shaken.
In the end he will be once again
just a poet who deserves a cool ten
and to some as a teacher
or a Scotch drinking creature
and a member of clean-shaven men.
poem by Herbert Nehrlich
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Who Is She?
She put on her makeup,
lipstick and blush.
She did up her hair
with comb and brush.
She looked in the mirror
and what did she see?
Someone all made up,
not someone who was she.
For she was a plain gal,
always had been.
She was covering up freckles
and a scar on her chin.
She made up her mind
to become who she was.
Threw away the cosmetics
like a plain gal does.
She undid her hair
and let it flow free.
Looked in the mirror.
What did she see?
Someone who definitely
couldn't be she.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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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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Was it the sun that broke my dream
Was it the sun that broke my dream
or was't the dazzle of thy hair
caught where our olden meadows seem
themselves again and yet more fair?
Ah, sun that woke me, limpid stream,
then in spring-mornings' rapture of air!
Was it the sun that broke my dream
or was 't the dazzle of thy hair?
And didst not thou beside me gleam,
brought hither by a tender care
at least my slumbering grief to share?
Are only the cold seas supreme?
Was it the sun that broke my dream?
poem by Christopher John Brennan
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Will The Real David Harris Please Stand Up
Will the real David Harris please stand up?
I say that not in vain,
but because I am not, sure which face I wear.
I could be the man with a full beard
and looks like D H Lawrence,
or maybe the man with a slight goatee
who looks as if he has escaped
from a chain gang somewhere,
I am not really sure.
I could be the man
with the moustache and chin beard
we have often seen on old paperback books,
or I could be the man
with the Clark Gable looks.
Then again I could be the man
who is clean-shaven with a playboy look
whom people call Walter.
Therefore when you meet me
who will be the real me?
4 March 2009
poem by David Harris
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Head First
I was dancing down the sidewalk
Just some slam dunk
That you might jive
And I wondered then
About his old girlfriend
Was she still around - still alive
Its been years
Since my gears have been turning
Since I asked her same dice dance
How the flames of my poor heart been burning
If its hate then this must be romance
(chorus)
Head first, baby
How the good time feelin lingers
Oh, you can be alright
On the wrong side of the street
Im so hungry for love
Ive been lickin off all my fingers
Oh yeah, you got to learn to
Take the bitter with the sweet
Yeah, I feel just like getting in trouble
By the hair on her chinny-chin-chin
And I love to get down on the stubble
With my teeth it will taste like your grin
(repeat chorus)
song performed by by Aerosmith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Evadne
I first tasted under Apollo's lips,
love and love sweetness,
I, Evadne;
my hair is made of crisp violets
or hyacinth which the wind combs back
across some rock shelf;
I, Evadne,
was made of the god of light.
His hair was crisp to my mouth,
as the flower of the crocus,
across my cheek,
cool as the silver-cress
on Erotos bank;
between my chin and throat,
his mouth slipped over and over.
Still between my arm and shoulder,
I feel the brush of his hair,
and my hands keep the gold they took,
as they wandered over and over,
that great arm-full of yellow flowers.
poem by Hilda Doolittle
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Fifteen
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 re-bounces,
touch it again,
and be silent
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The God Called Poetry
Now I begin to know at last,
These nights when I sit down to rhyme,
The form and measure of that vast
God we call Poetry, he who stoops
And leaps me through his paper hoops
A little higher every time.
Tempts me to think I'll grow a proper
Singing cricket or grass-hopper
Making prodigious jumps in air
While shaken crowds about me stare
Aghast, and I sing, growing bolder
To fly up on my master's shoulder
Rustling the thick strands of his hair.
He is older than the seas,
Older than the plains and hills,
And older than the light that spills
From the sun's hot wheel on these.
He wakes the gale that tears your trees,
He sings to you from window sills.
At you he roars, or he will coo,
He shouts and screams when hell is hot,
Riding on the shell and shot.
He smites you down, he succours you,
And where you seek him, he is not.
To-day I see he has two heads
Like Janus--calm, benignant, this;
That, grim and scowling: his beard spreads
From chin to chin' this god has power
Immeasurable at every hour:
He first taught lovers how to kiss,
He brings down sunshine after shower,
Thunder and hate are his also,
He is YES and he is NO.
The black beard spoke and said to me,
'Human frailty though you be,
Yet shout and crack your whip, be harsh!
They'll obey you in the end:
Hill and field, river and marsh
Shall obey you, hop and skip
At the terrour of your whip,
To your gales of anger bend.'
The pale beard spoke and said in turn
'True: a prize goes to the stern,
But sing and laugh and easily run
Through the wide airs of my plain,
Bathe in my waters, drink my sun,
And draw my creatures with soft song;
They shall follow you along
Graciously with no doubt or pain.'
Then speaking from his double head
The glorious fearful monster said
'I am YES and I am NO,
Black as pitch and white as snow,
Love me, hate me, reconcile
Hate with love, perfect with vile,
So equal justice shall be done
And life shared between moon and sun.
Nature for you shall curse or smile:
A poet you shall be, my son.'
poem by Robert Graves
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The Face Of Guilt...
he looks at himself intently like
he were a stranger,
trying to find out how time, they say,
distorts the personal truths in each of us,
his face is square, used to be, but it looks like
a triangle now, tip extended like a boat on sail,
his lips from reddish cherry have turned into
gray, heavy clouds,
his beard has grown into a forest attracting
monkeys and birds, and so is his hair unwed to chaos
before but lives with such a confused mistress,
his eyelids droop heavy with problems,
his eyelashes do not have the waves of the pacific,
his chin the arrow before has become the
bow,
he looks at his eyes with veins like craters of the moon,
and asks: why did he ever do such a mess?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Place
I’ve been searching a place,
The place for my face
Where it seeks solace…
I love the way,
You graze my face
With the stubble of your chin
On unshaven days...
The contours of my lips
Tracing your throat
Those steady warm breaths
Caressing my face…
Yet I keep going down
To seek another place
And find more respite
In your loving embrace
So while you lie down
I nest on your chest
Sucking in peace…
I take some rest
Yet the lover in me
Remains unsatiated…
So I go further down
On a voyage of discovery
To find the ideal place –
A place for my face.
Lo and Behold!
I find it at last…
No – it was not to be
Your chin, your throat,
Nor your chest…
Yet, I find a home
For my face…
A nice, new haven
Soft and mushy,
Warm and slushy…
Searching and seeking,
I quench my thirst
Sipping you gently,
I satiate myself
And lying down there,
With the feel of your skin,
The touch of your bristles,
The smell of your sweat…
I snuggle off to sleep,
Comforted and cosy
In your heavenly place…
Indeed – It is a lovable place
To be deemed fit as:
The Place for my Face.
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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A Portrait Of 1783
Your hair and chin are like the hair
And chin Burne-Jones's ladies wear;
You were unfashionably fair
In '83;
And sad you were when girls are gay,
You read a book about Le vrai
Merite de l'homme, alone in May.
What CAN it be,
Le vrai merite de l'homme? Not gold,
Not titles that are bought and sold,
Not wit that flashes and is cold,
But Virtue merely!
Instructed by Jean-Jacques Rousseau
(And Jean-Jacques, surely, ought to know),
You bade the crowd of foplings go,
You glanced severely,
Dreaming beneath the spreading shade
Of 'that vast hat the Graces made;'
So Rouget sang--while yet he played
With courtly rhyme,
And hymned great Doisi's red perruque,
And Nice's eyes, and Zulme's look,
And dead canaries, ere he shook
The sultry time
With strains like thunder. Loud and low
Methinks I hear the murmur grow,
The tramp of men that come and go
With fire and sword.
They war against the quick and dead,
Their flying feet are dashed with red,
As theirs the vintaging that tread
Before the Lord.
O head unfashionably fair,
What end was thine, for all thy care?
We only see thee dreaming there:
We cannot see
The breaking of thy vision, when
The Rights of Man were lords of men,
When virtue won her own again
In '93.
poem by Andrew Lang
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His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, and the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.
quote by Clement Clarke Moore
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Be Sexy Effortlessly
Being sexy is not revealing parts.
Being sexy is highlighting features.
Highlight hair, ears, neck, upper back,
Arms or legs but one or two at a time.
There's a fine line between being sexy
And being cheap, which a woman must note.
For a toned body, no need of windows.
For defying hair, no need of hair-do.
For evenness of the skin, no cosmetics;
For hygiene body, no need of perfume.
On a pair of high heels one is sexy
With breasts forward and buttocks upward.
To look sexy, woman must feel sexy.
In feeling sexy, she gains confidence
About her sexual prowess and command.
Be sexy effortlessly and feed man's eyes.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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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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